The Unlikely Savior (The Unlikely Savior Trilogy)

by T. S. Seley Elliott

  She also determined that her hands-free device was a deadly device; she would call James back from Wendover...parked in Wendover. Her last thought before plugging in her MP3 and the escape it offered, was the irony that it was her brother’s call that had nearly sent her off the road. Big high five to Sigmund Freud; her family continued to be a perilous influence.

  ________________________________________________________________________

  Byron returned to his room mid-afternoon, tossing his over-stuffed satchel onto the bed along with his keys. He paused with a quick quizzical smile when he spotted small pieces of hard candy on the formless pillows, Hotel Ritz style, apparently left by the housekeeping staff. It was a lovely demonstration of the old adage of “putting lipstick on a pig.” He had to hand it to the maid; it added something to the otherwise dismal room, although “class” was not the first thing that came to mind.

  He powered up his computer to see if he had mail from Margie, then, like a bug drawn to the light, he pulled out all of his notes from the straining bag, and, most importantly, he retrieved Johnnie Carter’s recent photo. Holding it far enough to see with his sixty-plus eyes, he carefully lay back onto the treacherous terrain of the mattress and inspected every aspect of the image.

  After he’d filled his eyes once more, and wrapped his brain around the reality of what he held; he lightly deposited the photo onto his chest and dropped his arms to his sides, mentally cataloging the day’s earlier events.

  After Jason’s departure, Byron had clumsily released the paperwork into a scatter pattern on the floor in his rush to free the photo from the envelope. Staring into the face and clear, confident eyes, he’d sunk onto the corner of the bed. After years of gazing at a much younger version of this very face, it was like viewing the results of age generation technology….the kind used by law enforcement to create more accurate likenesses of children who had been long missing. But there was no crafty science at work here. This was the whimsical little girl, all grown up.

  He’d sat very still, willing himself into a near state of meditation in order to corral the wild horses pummeling his mind, heart, and apparently, lungs. It would have been easy to completely screw up by just grabbing the phone to call Johnnie Carter right then. Or to postpone his meeting with Homer Reeder so he could pour over the stack of papers which provided an actual time-line of the mystery woman’s life. Those documents and the growing data in his notes contained his equivalent of a map to the Holy Grail. Indiana Jones had gone through much greater lengths to obtain his treasures, but Byron was certain his trove was no less valuable.

  In final analysis, he’d calculated that he must heed Jason’s thinly guised warning that an unthinking reach out to Johnnie would blow up in his face, and besides, he still needed to proceed with thoughtful caution and research his sources. Reluctantly and uncharacteristically, he’d resisted temptation and headed out to meet the backbone of America, Homer Reeder. What a meeting it had been.

  Now pulling himself up before the not-a-Seeley mattress crippled him, he massaged his fingers through his defiant locks, finding one of the pieces of pillow-candy nestled near the crown of his head. With little reaction other than to remove the wrapper, Byron popped the candy into his mouth, wishing he’d waged a bet on his expectations of Homer Reeder. Homer had been a round, stout man, clearly of the “meat and potatoes” camp. Not to disappoint, the farmer was decked out in dark blue Osh-Kosh overalls over a pressed plaid shirt. The farmer’s face, indeed, bore no whiskers and while his pick-up truck did not have a “USA” sticker, its bumper sported the next best thing, a red, white and blue “I support the troops” banner.

  After pumping Byron’s arm nearly off its hinges, the old boy took no prisoners as he’d launched into his personal rendition of the fateful auto collision with the two airmen. Byron had kindly stopped the farmer’s story after the part where he was “out like a light,” asking Mr. Reeder if he cared to actually go into the restaurant; they’d still been standing in the parking lot. The man was so happy to find a willing ear, he’d apparently forgotten that they’d met for lunch. Byron had herded the fellow toward the entrance; he instinctively liked this man and would have bought his lunch and listened to his story, even if he’d just met him on the street.

  Homer had already summed up the accident in 30 seconds or so, probably about the length of time of the actual crash. Although he paused his eager recollections long enough for the two to enter the tiny Chinese-American restaurant and order their Chinese (Byron) and American (Homer) entrees, he wasted no time resuming his tale of a lifetime. His recount of the accident’s aftermath was a bit more verbose; it appeared to be a near-holy occurrence to the old man. Byron also noted, in retrospect, Airman Barker may have done well as a staff writer if he chose to stray from photography; his account of Mr. Reeder’s story was almost exact.

  “I was a goner, for sure, my friend.” Homer had said in a conspiring tone, “I was hazy, and I had parts a-hurtin that I din’t even know I had. I wouldn’t swear I heard the blood flowin, but I know’d it was goin’ in rivers. To be true, I think either my ticker or my breather was fixin’ to stop when I seen the light.”

  He interrupted his own story to assure Byron that he never before believed the after-life business that supposedly happened when someone almost died. And that although he’d grown up in the church, he’d strayed badly as an adult, to the disdain of his wife, Stella, who attended the Second Baptist in town like clockwork. Byron had no idea there was a church that ranked after the “First Baptist,” and had made a mental note to look that one up out of personal curiosity. He also didn’t feel it was necessary to point out to the man that his experience was typically referred to as “near-death,” not “after-life.”

  When Byron tuned back in, Homer was recounting the moment his belief system had forever changed.

  “But there I was. The pain was gone and all I seen was a light. Brightes’ light I ever saw. An’ I was floatin’ up like one of them balloons you accident’ly let go of, and I felt happy. Jus’ happy. Plain and simple. An’ peace? It was ever so peaceful.”

  He’d placed his hand over his heart and closed his eyes on the last point, appearing to relive the experience as he spoke. Then his bright eyes popped open. His hands shot over their plates, then swept back toward his body just as quickly as he continued.

  “I came back fast… like being sucked through a vacuum. I was back on the ground.” His palms slapped the table simultaneously, and he looked at Byron thoughtfully.

  “Preacher says it just wasn’t my time. That God has a plan for me,” accenting the last point by planting a worn finger on the middle metal button on the left side of the bib of his overalls; dead over his heart. He’d pressed the “Osh Kosh” button, Byron noted, wondering if there was cosmic interpretation buried in this scene.

  “Anyway, the pain was back, for sure, but I din’t feel like I was dyin’, you know? My life wadn’t leaking out, and even though I was bloody all over, I still don’t right know where it come from, cause there wadn’t no open skin. And before you say it, a bloody nose couldn’t’ve done that much...not without my brains included.”

  Byron had kept a poker face, but the images of Jason’s photos played like a slide show behind his intrigued expression. He was pretty sure he knew where the blood had come from; Jason’s story and the digital shots certainly supported the supposition…but he wasn’t about to open a new can of worms with this man. Besides, Homer obviously didn’t need any more evidence to believe he’d been saved, in more ways than one.

  He finished his story with the description of an angelic, however military, image of a woman standing over him…and him, unable to speak or rise. He was likely weak from shock, although he attributed it to still “getting his life back.”

  He finished his story of how, in his stupor, he had to lay and silently watch her walk away into the desert sage, like a vision. He did point out that she’d looked like she held something, cradled in her arms, al
though he never ascertained what it was. But who was he to question God’s ways? He was, after all, a mere man.

  “But her? She was more. She was like an angel, but she was human. By my estimation, that makes her more like a savior.”

  Byron, again, had more information than this good man. A bag back in the room held an ordinary stone and weathered piece of two-by-two, which had probably been part of a fence in an earlier day, maybe another decade. Jason had passed these items on, along with the photos, grimly pointing out the brown stains and splatters which had chipped from the rock, but seeped into the grain of the wood before drying. Byron saw no value in sharing this with Homer. But he did want to add to his and the farmer’s knowledge base that day; he reached into his worn leather bag.

  He pushed the five by seven inch photo of a young woman in an Air Force uniform across the table. He received his answer immediately, while Homer got an answer of his own.

  “So that’s her in this life. God as my witness, she saved me. She brought me back!” Tears sprung up in the old man’s eyes, and now his sentiment was a little less evangelical and utterly genuine as his voice dropped an octave.

  “Look at her there. Just look.” The man said in a near-whisper. He paused, then said quietly, “She’s an unlikely savior, don’t you think?” A tear dropped from the edge of his eye, and slowly followed the arc of his round cheek, finally dropping onto the table next to the photo.

  Byron was moved by the sound of the whispered words, and more so by the man’s ensuing silence. He gathered the picture and sincerely thanked Homer Reeder for his time.

  Now in the quiet of his room, he again stared at the photo. While he certainly agreed with Homer’s unique choice of words, he was beginning to guess this advent wasn’t as unlikely as most would imagine. Yet he had no idea that the precise assessment and wording was less unique than he would imagine.

  When she stopped in the Salt Lake City vicinity for lunch, Johnnie found a grassy spot near a truck stop for Betsy to do her business and stretch her bones. Unless faced with no other option, she’d decided to save the large critter the indignity of a leash during their nature-call stops. She figured the appendage-challenged girl was hardly a flight risk, although she had no idea how fast she’d go if fully opened up. Worst case scenario, in Johnnie’s mind, was someone of authority (what authority, she didn’t quite know) could tell her to honor a leash law, and she would apologetically comply. She would, however, shamelessly play the “crippled dog” card, out of Betsy’s earshot, of course.

  While the dog hobbled about, holding her water till she’d inspected every blade of scraggly grass for its suitability, Johnnie decided to check her voice mail before calling her brother back. She got two messages for the price of one, she realized as she listened. Sandy must have called when she was out of range for a signal.

  She kept one wary eye out in case her loose companion was being staked out by the “pet police” as she listened to James’ message, then Sandy’s.

  Her brother’s message was enthusiastic, as always, but also quite direct. He first thanked her for the most entertaining communication he’d received that day, noting the add-ons were almost as good as the actual message. She uttered a few more colorful add-ons to herself, as she listened with a sheepish smile. He then, with no hesitation, suggested that they needed to talk sooner than later, and that she should call him immediately as well as adjust her travel plans to make it to his place by the next evening. One of his many offices and his primary residence were in Omaha, which just happened to be on her way east. She was embarrassed that she hadn’t thought of visiting him in the first place, although she had a distinct feeling that his suggestion had less to do with a visit than to fulfill some other motive. Huh, she thought. It was a fair enough plan; she moved on to the “next unheard message.”

  “Hey Johnnie, Sandy.” There was no mistaking his deep, rich voice. Just hearing the huge man’s sound made her smile, and she let that feeling be okay.

  “You weren’t kidding about sending me out in the middle of no-freakin’-where, huh? Anyway, she – Lisa - said the dog is all yours, something about you two being a match from the start. She said she ‘surely appreciated’ it. I don’t really get the next part, but she told me to tell you that it was the very least she could do for all you’ve done for her…mentioned some gifts? Anyway, she wanted to show me what she was talking about, but to tell you the truth, I didn’t want to go in. A guy like me has to be careful about stuff like that. Nosy neighbors, mad husbands and what not. Anyway….”

  He was quiet, suddenly sounding a bit awkward.

  “Well, anyway, Girl, there it is… don’t be a stranger.” And he was gone. She saved that message too, wanting to listen once more when she didn’t have a large, slobbering dog staring her down in apparent demand for water.

  As she fetched a gallon jug and Betsy’s dish from the back of the truck, she was slightly troubled that Lisa had figured out she had left the things in the trailer. On a lighter note, she marveled that she’d failed to connect the dots to Lisa and Ollie’s last name. Although probably the least compelling weird thing to toy with her brain these days, the latter of the two thoughts certainly rated as one of “those things that make you go, hmmmmm…”

  Margie had, indeed, sent Byron an e-mail, asking that he call. This piqued his curiosity and even concerned him because she rarely levied such a request. It wasn’t that she didn’t care, he was sure. It was because she was very busy caring for her mother and she knew her husband was self-sufficient and not in the least bit needy.

  One of the many things that had worked with the seemingly odd couple was their mutual respect, coupled with mutual independence. He often wondered what may have changed if they’d been able to have children-- a subject they simply did not address, thus his musings always remained silent. Children do change a marriage, he knew…but he thought those changes would have suited Margie more than the adjustments she’d had to make when the verdict became clear that they were unable to conceive. He also believed, privately, that her extreme efforts in caring for her mother were more maternally based, rather than just the actions of a loving daughter. She was, for all practical purposes, now the mom.

  He called her immediately, already feeling guilty that the e-mail had sat unanswered for most of the day; while he’d chased one angel, he’d kept another waiting.

  She surprised him by answering her cell phone on the first ring. Because she was almost always at her mother’s home and busy, he normally had to leave a message.

  “Hi Honey, I hope this wasn’t an inconvenience.” Her statement, not meant to trigger guilt, did exactly that. Maybe this was because it was so sincere, but would have been justified if otherwise.

  “Margie, I’m well aware of the fact that I am an inconvenience!” One of the things she loved about this flamboyant man was his self-deprecating humor. Even on the rare occasions she was unhappy with him, he always beat himself up more than she could. But the balance had, in truth, become more delicate over the last year as their separation extended -- as well as her emotional and physical stress. Although he was bursting with news of his expedition, his spidy-sense told him to put his news aside and focus on his bride. “I’m sorry I didn’t see your e-mail this morning… Are you alright?”

  Margie issued a soft laugh. That was a loaded question – and one she hadn’t answered honestly in months. But she had no use for people who complained about their self-appointed lot in life; complaining was counter-productive.

  “Byron, Mom’s got pneumonia…” And she quickly added, before he could speak, “…it’s not critical, I don’t think, but of course she’s in the hospital.”

  She laughed self-consciously, “That’s why I was able to answer the phone right off. I’m sitting here in the house. They sent me home to get some rest. And I guess I forgot how…” He was sure he heard her voice catch.

  “Baby, you’re exhausted. I’m coming home.” A man incapable of inaction, which probably
explained much about his hand-to-hair fetish, he actually began moving about the room to pack as he talked.

  “Byron, that’s not why I asked you to call… I guess I just wanted to let you know. And to talk. Because. Because I could.” Her voice had become very low and halting.

  Most married men recognize the strain of their wife’s voice when she tried not to cry. Byron was grateful Margie wasn’t a drama queen or a woman who cried easily, but sometimes he wished she wasn’t quite so damn strong. And he made a decision on the spot as she cleared her throat and asked, “How’s the angel tracking going? Is it her?” She sounded like a parent asking a child if they saw the gifts from Santa; they loved their child’s innocence, even fed into it, but also didn’t share the belief. This tone was not unfamiliar or remotely offensive to Byron. He was accustomed to marching to his own drum, hell, his own band. Besides, their differences kept him grounded.

  “Tell you what,” he said, as he unconsciously stacked his belongings to be re-packed. “I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  “Byron, I don’t want you stopping because of me.” He knew she meant what she said, but he also knew that sometimes it’s okay for a husband to act on what he thinks is best for his wife. Even a fiercely independent wife. Even Margie.

  “Hey…I’m kind of at point when I need to regroup anyway. I probably should have told you, but I’m quitting the Constellation and striking out solo. So … I think it’s a great time to come there, spend a week or so with my Sweetie, and remind you what it’s like to have a real man!”

  He followed this with an absurdly suggestive chuckle. The lively lines in his face simultaneously contracted upward as he heard her laughter… and he was equally heartened by her very Margie-like reply,

  “I’d love to see you, Dear, but who would be the ‘real man’ you’d had in mind? Is he coming along?”