Aftermath

by LeVar Burton

  María had left Puerto Rico five years ago, moving in with relatives in Orlando, Florida. She was now on her way to spend time with a cousin who lived in Indiana.

  “You’re traveling by yourself?” Leon asked.

  “Not by myself,” she answered. “Edrick is with me.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “You mean where is my husband?” she said, getting to the point “He is dead. So my son and I travel alone.”

  Red shook his head. “That’s not such a good idea. It can be pretty dangerous for a woman by herself.”

  “I can take care of myself.” María smiled. To prove her point she opened her bag and pulled out a pistol.

  “Put that thing away,” Red said, looking around nervously. “Don’t ever show people what you’re carrying. It could get you killed.”

  María put the pistol back in her bag and helped herself to a second doughnut. Edrick already had three.

  “Maybe I can find a job in Indiana,” she said hopefully. “My cousin said she would help me look. I’m a good cook, and I can clean too. Maybe I can get a job cleaning people’s houses; that’s what I did in Orlando.”

  “Are things bad in Orlando too?” Leon asked. He thought about the home he once had in Cocoa Beach. He had loved to jog along the beach at nighttime, feeling the salt air on his skin. Those had been good times, but they hadn’t lasted.

  María nodded. “Things are bad everywhere. Orlando too. The tourists don’t come anymore, so most of the hotels and restaurants have closed. There isn’t any work. No money. And the gangs are very bad, almost as bad as the ones in Puerto Rico. It’s no longer safe to go out at night. Many people have died.”

  “What about Disney World?” Red asked, an expression close to horror on his face. “They haven’t closed Disney World. Have they?”

  “It is gone too,” she replied.

  Leon was shocked by the news. Although he was never a big fan of the theme park, finding it overpriced and over-crowded, he and Vanessa had taken their daughter there for her third birthday. They had even posed for a picture with Mickey Mouse. He couldn’t imagine Disney World closing. It was an American institution, a symbol of hope and happiness. But maybe hope and happiness were also things of the past.

  There was a lull in the conversation. Red turned to Leon. “What about you? What’s your story?”

  “Who said I had a story?” Leon asked evasively.

  “It’s written all over your face. And don’t hand me any crap about visiting relatives. I want the truth.”

  He locked eyes with Red. There was something about the openness in the man’s face that made Leon want to trust him. More than anything, he wanted to tell someone about what was happening to him, about the voice. Red was a former Earthie, a member of an organization that based their beliefs partly on the occult and mysticism. Maybe he would know what the voice was and could offer advice on what to do about it.

  Leon opened his mouth to reply, started to take a chance on trusting a complete stranger, but then the moment passed and he changed his mind. What was haunting him was for him alone to deal with. His problem and no one else’s.

  “You’re wrong,” he said, grabbing his knapsack. “I don’t have a story.”

  Leon stood up and turned his back on Red and the others. Making his way to the opposite end of the boxcar, he sat down by himself against the wall. By himself, alone, the way he had been for so many years.

  Chapter 17

  Night had fallen. The wind blowing across the Mississippi River was cold and damp. Amy shivered from the chill and tried to nestle down deeper into the pile of coal, but the little black rocks were hard and poked her in all the wrong places. Sleep was impossible, so she sat and watched the lights from the nameless little towns that drifted past, listening to the sounds of the river slapping against the shore. Some of the lights were street lamps. Others were the soft glows that came from inside homes, filtering through curtains out into the darkness. Pale amber lights that spoke of cozy living rooms where people gathered to talk, and kitchens filled with warm, comforting smells, like apple pie, fresh-baked cookies and pizza.

  Amy longed to press her nose against the cool glass windows of the homes she passed, just to see who was on the inside and what they were having for dinner. Maybe the owners would invite her in and give her a cup of warm tea, with lemon, or a bowl of soup. Chicken noodle was her favorite. Her stomach rumbled and she frowned. Best not to think of food when there was nothing to eat except coal. But she couldn’t help it; she was hungry and her thoughts kept returning to food.

  When the tugboat stopped at Louisiana, Missouri, to unload two barges, Amy decided to jump ship. She was far enough away from St. Louis to feel reasonably safe that the policeman wouldn’t get her. No sense in going any farther. One town looked the same as the next; they were all cold and inhospitable to a little girl on her own.

  She waited until the tugboat tied up to the docks, then jumped from the lead barge onto the wooden pier. Not wanting to be seen by the tugboat’s pilot, or any security guards that might be working the waterfront, she ran along the pier and disappeared into the shadows.

  From the docks, she followed a narrow graveled lane leading into town. She expected the town to be a picturesque little village, but Louisiana had also been hit hard by the New Madrid earthquake. Many of the buildings suffered structural damage; some toppled completely. Many more had been destroyed in fires caused by ruptured gas lines. There had been sporadic cleanup efforts, but with little money to go around it would be a long time before all the damage was repaired.

  It was quite late when she reached the center of the town’s business district. The streets were deserted and ghostly quiet. In St. Louis she would never dream of being on the streets so late at night. It was far too dangerous. She wasn’t sure if Louisiana was any safer. At least in St. Louis she knew what areas to avoid and where to find a place to sleep. But here she was in completely alien surroundings.

  Although the thought of food was still heavy on her mind, Amy decided it would be too dangerous to try to find a meal this late at night. She had no idea where the restaurants were, or which Dumpsters had the best pickings. She knew from experience that some Dumpsters were considered the personal property of those living closest to them. She had heard tales of people getting killed for rooting through someone else’s trash bin. No, it would be far safer to wait until the morning before she searched for food.

  Ignoring her rumbling stomach, she began looking for a safe place to sleep. Not an easy job. Some of the buildings that looked deserted, and fairly rat-free, appeared to be in danger of falling down. They had been heavily damaged in the earthquake and one good kick would probably send them tumbling the rest of the way to the ground. The tiny park in the center of town was not a good choice either. There were plenty of trees, but no bushes to crawl beneath for safety. The concrete benches that sat in the open were also out of the question, as was the tiny wooden gazebo.

  She was starting to feel a little frustrated when she spotted a small, white-frame church at the end of the street. Unlike the buildings on either side of it, the church appeared to have survived the earthquake with little damage, which was itself a miracle. Even better, the lights were on in the building. Someone was inside.

  Amy had never gone in much for religion. It was hard to have faith when you were homeless and on your own. Still, she believed in God and said her prayers every night, even though she knew God was much too busy to bother with the problems of one little girl, especially a girl that didn’t always tell the truth and had to steal occasionally in order to buy food. At least she hadn’t killed the man who had tried to rape her, so God couldn’t be mad at her about that. Or could He?

  She hadn’t killed the man, but she had tried to kill him, which was just as bad. Maybe God was mad at her. If so, then He might not help her find her mother. Amy thought about it for a minute and decided she ought to apologize for what she did, just to be on the safe si
de.

  Crossing the street, she walked up the sidewalk to the front door of the church. She expected the church to be looked, for nobody left their doors unlocked anymore—not even churches—but was surprised when the knob turned easily in her hand.

  Amy opened the door and stepped across the threshold, experiencing the same creepy feeling that always came over her when she entered a church. It always felt like someone was watching her, someone who could never be seen. She guessed all churches were like that; it probably had something to do with the way they were built.

  The church wasn’t very big as churches went, no more than twenty rows of pews on each side of the center aisle. Beyond the pews, weathered sheets of plywood covered windows that might have once held stained glass.

  But even though the church was small, it still had the same atmosphere of mystery and calm that the big churches had, and the same smells of polished wood, candles and incense.

  She started to ease the door closed, but the wind yanked it out of her hand and it slammed with a bang. The sound echoed like a giant heartbeat through the building, making the silence that followed much more noticeable. Amy held her breath, expecting someone to yell at her for making so much noise, maybe even order her to get out, but no one did. From the looks of things, she was quite alone.

  Feeling more and more like a trespasser, she approached the altar to the left of the doorway. Several candles burned in their holders, which meant someone had been in the church recently. Taking a long wooden match from a silver holder, she lit one of the white candles. She was supposed to drop a donation in the tiny wooden box on the side of the altar, but she had no money and hoped no one would notice. Once the candle was lit, she proceeded down the center aisle to the main altar at the front of the church.

  Amy knew she should have slid into one of the empty pews to talk with God, but she felt her sins were serious enough to warrant going all the way to the front. She stopped and kneeled at the tiny wooden railing, which served to separate the priest from his congregation. For a moment, she pretended it was a Sunday afternoon and she was about to take Communion. She could almost see the kindly-faced priest, every strand of his white hair perfectly combed, smiling down at her as he placed the thin, tasteless wafer on her tongue. The image didn’t last. Amy didn’t have any good clothes, so she had never attended a real church service. She knew only what others told her about them. Bowing her head, she prayed.

  “Dear God, please help me find my mother. I know she’s out there, somewhere. The people at the shelter said she was taken to a hospital after the earthquake, so I know she’s still alive. She just has to be alive. Please help me find her so we can be a family again. Please.”

  Amy took a deep breath and continued. “And please, God, forgive me for what I did to that man in St. Louis. I wasn’t trying to kill him. Honest. I just wanted him to stop what he was doing to me. I didn’t want to die like Sissy Roberts. Please don’t be mad at me; I’m truly sorry for what I did. Amen.”

  A hand touched Amy’s shoulder. She jumped. Spinning around, she found a heavyset, gray-haired black woman standing behind her. The lady wore a faded blue dress and an old pair of black shoes, but she didn’t look homeless. She just looked poor.

  “No need to be sorry, sugar,” the lady said, offering Amy a slight smile. “From what I just heard, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “But I tried to kill a man,” Amy said.

  “Big difference between tried and done. Sounds like he had it coming anyway. Imagine a grown man trying to hurt a little girl.” Her smile faded as she studied Amy. “You okay, sweetheart? You need Sister Rose to take you to a dootor?”

  “I’m okay.” Amy nodded. “He didn’t hurt me.”

  Sister Rose looked unconvinced. “Well, he must have scared you something bad to be in here this late. Where do you live? I’ll take you home.”

  Amy looked at the floor. “I live in St. Louis, least I used to.”

  Sister Rose clicked her tongue. “Why, child, St. Louis is a long way from here. You’ll just have to come home with me.”

  Amy raised her head. “But—”

  “No buts about it. You’re coming home with me. Looks like you could use a good night’s sleep, and I won’t have it on my conscious to have you go sleeping in the streets. Lord knows, I wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink all night worrying about you. While we’re at it, I’m gonna put some home cooking in you. You’re as skinny as an alley cat” She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “Smells like you could use some soap and water too. What you been doing, rolling in the mud?”

  “It’s coal,” Amy answered.

  Rose smiled. “You got a name, or do I have to make one up for you?”

  “My name’s Amy Ladue.”

  “Okay, Amy Ladue. You get your things, ’cause you’re coming home with me.”

  Amy looked around. “I don’t have any things.”

  “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

  Amy didn’t move. “Are you really a sister? Is this your church?”

  The old woman laughed. “No, darling. This isn’t my church: it belongs to God. Father Carmichael is the priest here, if that’s what you mean.”

  Amy nodded.

  “I’m a member of the congregation, been a member for fifty years, that’s why everyone calls me Sister Rose. I come in at night to clean and do the little things that need to be done. Even got my own set of keys.” She held up a crowded key ring for Amy to see. “Now, are you coming, with me, or do I have to lock you in here for the night?”

  Amy couldn’t imagine being locked up in a church all night. “I guess I’m coming with you.”

  “Good.” Sister Rose beamed. Amy got up and followed the plump little woman around while she finished locking up the church. She even helped her blow out the candles before they left. Sister Rose said she couldn’t leave them burning because they might start a fire. Closing and locking the front door, they walked down the sidewalk and turned left at the street.

  Sister Rose lived only about five blocks from the church, in what was probably the poorer section of town. Small clapboard houses lined each side of a narrow cobble-stone street. Even in the darkness, Amy could see that the houses were weathered and in need of a fresh coat of paint. But compared to the crumbling buildings she had left behind in St. Louis, the houses looked warm and inviting. Gingerbread houses.

  The thought stopped Amy dead in her tracks. What if they really were gingerbread houses and Sister Rose was actually a witch? She had read the story of Hansel and Gretel and knew what witches did to children. She didn’t want to be cooked in an oven and eaten. The thought passed as quickly as it came. Sister Rose couldn’t be a witch, because she had been in a church. Witches melted when they stepped inside a church. Everyone knew that.

  Noticing that Amy had stopped, Sister Rose turned to look at her. “You coming, or are you planning on standing out here in the cold all night?”

  Amy smiled, embarrassed over the thoughts she had been thinking, “I’m coming.”

  Sister Rose’s house was the last one at the end of the street. It was a simple wood structure, with a screened porch, surrounded by oak and elm trees. A sidewalk led up to the porch; above the porch door a light burned.

  “You have electricity?” Amy asked, surprised.

  “Electricity and running water too,” Rose answered. She opened the porch door and ushered Amy inside, then unlocked the front door to the house. When she opened the front door something big and brown, and incredibly fast, came running out. The big brown thing barked once and then jumped on Amy, knocking her flat.

  “No, Sammy. No!” Sister Rose yelled, trying to get hold of the dog’s collar. The dog ducked his owner’s attempt to grab him. Circling Amy, he jumped on her and covered her face with sloppy wet kisses. Frightened at first by the sudden attack, Amy quickly realized that the dog was just being overly affectionate. To keep Sammy from jumping on her, she hugged him around the neck.

  “I hop
e he didn’t hurt you,” Rose said, grabbing the dog’s collar. “He just loves children.” She pulled Sammy away long enough for Amy to get to her feet

  “You stay down,” Rose warned the dog in a harsh tone of voice. Sammy obeyed but was clearly unhappy about the command. He was even less happy when Rose ushered Amy into the house, leaving him alone on the porch.

  “I’m sorry, I should have warned you. Sammy doesn’t mean any harm; he just likes to love people in his own way.” Sister Rose closed and locked the door. They stood in a tiny kitchen: yellow walls with faded white cabinets, a noisy old refrigerator, a small sink and a gas stove. In the center of the room sat an oval table. Amy’s eyes were instantly drawn to the table and the loaves of homemade bread sitting on top of it. Fresh homemade bread. The over-powering fragrance filled the kitchen and invaded her nostrils, causing her mouth to water and making her stomach rumble. Sister Rose must have heard the rumbling.

  “Land’s sake, child. You must be starving. If your eyes got any bigger they’d fall out of your head.” She opened one of the cabinets and removed a plate. “Was that your stomach I heard, or did we just have ourselves another earthquake?’ She set the plate on the table, took out a knife and cut off several slices from one of the loaves. She removed a jar of homemade jelly from one of the other cabinets, setting it on the table next to the plate. “This oughta set you right.”

  Amy started for the table, but Rose held up her hand to stop her. “Wait. Manners first. Did you wash your hands?”

  She shook her head.

  “Bathroom’s down the hall on the left. Now scoot.”

  Amy left the kitchen and followed the hallway, passing the living room and two tiny bedrooms. She found the bathroom, but it took her a minute to figure out how to switch on the light. A single bulb was mounted above the mirrored medicine cabinet and she had to pull a string to turn it on.

  As Amy washed her hands, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Her auburn hair was tangled and streaked with coal dust and her face was almost black. Finished with her hands, she decided to wash her arms up to the elbows and get some of the dirt off her face. It was a big job, one that left a dirty ring in the sink. Amy scrubbed the ring the best she could, then dried her face, hands and arms. She turned off the light and went back into the kitchen. Sister Rose seemed genuinely surprised when she saw her.