From Ashes to Honor

by Loree Lough

  “Are you denying that Cora is a good woman?”

  “Of course not. I love her like a sister.” He shuddered, grimaced as if he’d inhaled a nose full of skunk spray. “A sister,” he repeated, “which is exactly why I could never—”

  “Never say never,” she warned, one finger ticking like a metronome.

  He grabbed the finger and gave it a gentle yank, forcing her closer. Then he kissed it. Kissed the inside of her wrist, her shoulder and neck, and her cheek. Pressing his palms to her cheeks, he touched the tip of his nose to hers. She licked her lips, thinking that if he aimed to kiss her, well, she’d let him.That way, she’d have it to remember him by as she sniffled over the plot of an old black and white romance, clinging to a fuzzy afghan and a bowl of buttered popcorn.

  “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? What you were doing all. Day. Long?”

  “I wasn’t doing—”

  “Yes, you were … ,” he said again, one side of his mouth lifting in a sexy grin. “Yente.”

  Mercy tried to look away, to step out of the protective circle of his arms, but Austin held tight.

  “Dumb idea, but sweet.” He chuckled. “My only regret is that I wasn’t there to watch the gears turn as that amazing brain of yours came up with this whole crazy plot.” He smiled, shook his head and exhaled a big sigh. “I don’t want Cora, you goofy li’l nut,” he ground out. “The only woman I want—the only one I’ve ever wanted—is you.”

  Well, she thought as his lips found hers, looks like you’ll have this kiss to remember him by after all.

  That is … if she ever developed the courage to let this wonderful, honorable, beautiful man go.

  37

  I sure hope those ropes hold,” Griff said, dusting his hands.

  “They should.” Austin tested the knots securing the Callahans’ boat to the pier. “We’ve got ‘er double-tied.”

  “Yeah, but it isn’t every day a cat four hurricane blows into the bay.”

  “Aw, the weather people are wrong more than they’re right.Just covering their butts,” Austin said, “so they won’t get sued if Earl does make it this far.”

  “Happened with Agnes. And Floyd. And Isabel—”

  “I could name two for every one of those that was suppo

  sed to blow us to smithereens—and didn’t.” He started for his own boat. “You gonna help me get my craft battened down, or we gonna stand here all day talkin’ hurricanes?”

  “You’re welcome to stay at my place. Just in case.”

  Austin laughed. “I’ll be fine, right here.”

  “OK, so I’ll help you tie ‘er down. And then I’m going straight to Sheppard Pratt to book you a padded cell.”

  “Why don’t you call Bud and Flora, instead? Tell ‘em not to worry.”

  “You better do it. I’m not that good of an actor. How much longer will they be in Wisconsin, anyway?”

  “I didn’t ask, they didn’t say.”

  “Well, it’s good they went.” He snickered. “I could think of a hundred places I’d rather be than Milwaukee, but,” he shrugged, “it’s their money.”

  The men finished securing One Regret, then Griff said, “Better run. I’m supposed to serve supper at ‘Helping Hands’, and it’s a good half-hour drive from here to McElderry Street.”

  Austin wished his friend would leave stuff like that to younger, more able-bodied men. But he’d learned through experience that saying so would only waste his breath and Griff’s time. “Well, be careful down there, y’hear?”

  “Not to worry, Finley m’friend.” He aimed a thumb toward the menacing gray sky as the clang of the halyard threatened to drown out his assurances. “I’ve got the Almighty watchin’ over me.”

  With every step of his flip-flopped feet, Griff chanted “Father, protect him, Father, protect him.”

  Austin had always been stubborn, but lately, he’d given new meaning to the word. What was he thinking, hanging around when a powerful storm was inching up the East coast? He’d insured that old bucket of bolts to the hilt, so why take the chance that Earl might work up an appetite for green-andyellow tugboats?

  He chased two cats and a pigeon away from his van—a rusting old clunker that still wore a blanket of colorful flower stickers. A gust of wind whipped into the front seat, flapping the hem of his fringed jeans and ballooning the peace symbol in the center of his tie-died T-shirt. Squinting as his gray ponytail slapped his left cheek, he smirked. “What’s the matter, haven’t you ever seen an aging hippy before?”

  The cats darted under a nearby car and the bird flew away.

  “Guess not.” He chuckled. “Your loss.”

  The drive to Eastern Avenue was quicker and easier than he’d expected. Maybe, he thought, because intelligent human beings had holed up inside their homes, safe from the impending storm. Unfortunately, the homeless only had a handful of soup kitchens and shelters to wait it out, and Griff was only too happy to do his part to make the waiting more bearable.

  If not for a grizzled old preacher, he’d be among them. A couple dozen times he’d been tempted to conduct a poll to find out exactly how many of the men and women who lived on the streets were there because 9/11 had turned their worlds upside down … and they hadn’t met up with a living, breathing guardian angel who’d helped right their lives.

  He wheeled into the gravel lot behind the crumbling old church and pocketed his keys without locking up. If somebody wanted to crawl into the van to get out of the wind and rain, so be it.

  “Yo, Griff!” called the big-bellied man behind the counter.“You’s late. Again!”

  Technically, he’d arrived early, since supper wouldn’t be served for another hour yet. “Take a hike, Sherman, you old codger.”

  “They’s ‘maters in the sink fo’ you to wash up an’ slice. An’ when you’s done wiff dem, dump some pickles in a bowl.”

  “Who died and made you boss?” Griff said, untying the man’s apron.

  “You know well as I does that the gub’nor give me this job after I kep’ his boy from gettin’ mowed down by a school bus.”

  Yes, Griff knew. So did everyone here. The story made national news when Sherman put his own life on the line to save the governor’s son. After a week in the hospital and another month in a cast, the state’s highest official made a mission of seeing to it that this big-hearted man would never have to worry about food or shelter again.

  “Dunno why these fools come in here so many hours ‘fore we serve up the meal,” Sherman said from the corner of his mouth. “It’s like an oven in here, and them big ol’ fans don’t do nothin’ but blow hot air around.”

  “We’re all the family most of them have. The heat is a small price to pay for feeling as though they belong.”

  In the wintertime, the subject changed from heat to cold, the only alteration in the dialog he and Sherman exchanged daily. And, as on every other day, they talked sports scores and politics. They prayed for the Orioles. Prayed that their elected officials would remember they’d each been blessed with a conscience.Today, Hurricane Earl made it into the conversation, and they prayed for the safety and well-being of every city along the eastern seaboard.

  It was Sherman’s turn to light the burners that would keep hot foods hot, and dump ice into the bins that would hold cold dishes. Griff, meanwhile, made sure the salt and pepper shakers were filled to the brim, then stuffed napkin-lined baskets with plastic flatware.

  Nearly every chair at every table was filled, and even though they hadn’t put out the meat and potatoes yet, a scraggly line had formed along the cinderblock wall. “Don’t mean to compare ‘em to critters,” Sherman said, “but dey remind me of a dawg I had once’t. I knew when foul weather was afoot without listenin’ to the weather report, ‘cause he’d develop a powerful hunger that no ‘mount of food could satisfy.” He nodded toward the tired-eyed, shuffling men whose shoulders slumped under the weight of every shirt and coat they owned.“Breaks my heart, Griff, yes it do
.”

  Griff nodded. He’d thought the same thing from time to time. “All we can do is keep praying for them, friend. Praying and making sure they get at least one good meal in their bellies every day.”

  “Lawd, that is the truth, for—”

  Shouting and shoving interrupted Sherman’s sentence.“Hey, won’t be none o’ dat in here,” he shouted, lumbering toward the scuffle. “Y’all behave proper or you won’t get fed.”

  “He cut in front of me in line,” said a gaptoothed old man.

  “You’re a liar,” said the man behind him. “That, or you’re blind, and didn’t I was here first.”

  They went back and forth that way for another moment, and then the shoving started up again.

  “Now y’all listen, the both of y’all,” Sherman bellowed, and grabbed the second man’s shirt. “I done tol’ you once’t we don’t allow none of this here. Now, you come with me to the back of the line.”

  “Get your fat greasy hands off me,” he snarled.

  Griff stepped between them. “C’mon now. There’s no need for—”

  The man pulled a pistol from his coat pocket. Griff saw the flash of silver, followed by a deafening explosion and a flare of bright yellow-orange. For a split second, the only sound in the room was the quiet whir-squeak-squeak-whir of the big oscillating fan in the corner. Then chairs squealed across the linoleum as the diners shouted and shoved and scrambled for the door.

  Sherman hit the floor, and Griff knelt beside him as a bloodstain grew across the front of his white apron. He whipped out his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. He’d barely barked out the soup kitchen’s name and address before a second shot sounded.

  “H-he done got you, t-too,” Sherman stammered, pointing a bloody finger at Griff’s chest. “Guess I … guess I weren’t wrong, callin’ some of ‘em animals.” Then his head lolled to the side, and he fell silent.

  It took a second to sink in: He’d taken a bullet, point blank to the chest. The fact that he felt nothing—not fear or pain or anger—told Griff this was it, the day he’d meet Jesus in person.

  Still on his knees, Griff sputtered, “Put the gun away, son, before somebody else gets hurt.”

  He heard the clatter of metal, then watched the gun spin in a slow circle before coming to a stop. Sirens wailed in the distance, and he became aware that two men had pinned the gunman to the floor as a dozen others hovered above him.

  “You be OK, Griff,” said a gravelly voice he didn’t recognize.

  He nodded. Yes, he would, because any minute now, he’d be free of the misery that had been his world since 9/11, misery that had only deepened when he lost his sweet wife.Sadness spread through him as his lifeblood puddle around his knees. Austin. When news of what had happened reached him, it would hit him hard. “Be with him, Lord, and keep him strong.”

  “What he sayin’?” said the voice he didn’t recognize.

  ” ‘Be strong’ or somethin’,” said another man.

  “Crazy talk,” said the first.

  “‘Cause he be dyin’,” said the second.

  A wave of dizziness wrapped around him, and he sensed, rather than felt, hands, several of them, easing him to the floor.

  “Don’t you dare die on me, you crazy old hippy.”

  He knew that voice. Of all the dumb luck! Why did it have to be Austin’s ambulance that answered his 9-1-1 call? This would have been hard enough on him, without seeing with his own eyes that—

  “I’m not kidding, Harvey. You snap out of it, you hear?”

  In all the years he’d known Austin, he’d never called him that. Griff recognized it for what it was: a last-ditch effort to hold his attention, keep him from slipping into unconsciousness.One of the oldest tricks in the book! He prayed for the strength to say something. Anything that would keep his good friend on the straight and narrow, because while Austin had come a long way, he wasn’t invincible; if there was an alcoholic out there who didn’t need a hand, now and then, sidestepping temptation, Griff hadn’t run across him.

  Would Austin find someone to help him remember what was important, make sure he never slid back into that black hole where Griff had found him, nearly dead and begging to die?

  Griff grabbed Austin’s hand and whispered the first responders’ prayer:

  “Father in Heaven, please make me strong when others are weak, brave when others are afraid, and vigilant when others are distracted by chaos—”

  Griff gave a grateful nod when Austin choked out the final words:

  “Provide comfort and companionship to my family when I must be away. Serve beside me and protect me as I seek to protect others. Amen.”

  Just a little more strength, Lord, just a little more … .

  “Now listen here, you thickheaded Irishman,” he wheezed, “if you screw up, I’ll come back down here and kick your butt.I mean it.”

  “I know you do.” Austin sniffed, then swallowed. “Now shut up, will you, so we can—”

  “No, you shut up.” Ignoring his friend’s shaky grin, Griff jabbed a finger into his chest. “I put a lot of time and effort into getting you back on the straight and narrow … .”

  “I know you did, and I’m grateful.”

  “Then I want your promise.”

  “Anything. You’ve got it.”

  “Stick to the program, no matter what, no matter who.”

  When Austin nodded, Griff closed his eyes and went home.

  All the way home.

  38

  Strange that in all the years they’d been friends, Griff had never mentioned how he’d like things done should the unthinkable happen.

  Well, the unthinkable had happened, and with only dirtpoor cousins and elderly aunts left behind, the thorny duty fell onto Austin’s shoulders.

  Griff hailed from a long line of proud Irishmen who’d served the country as soldiers, sailors, cops, and firefighters, and every last one of them had asked for pipers who’d play Amazing Grace over their graves.

  Weeks after 9/11, while attending the funeral of a fellow first responder, the mournful music started up, and Griff leaned in to whisper “If I have to listen to just one more minute of nasal whining from those confounded bagpipes, I swear, I’ll jump into the coffin with the man!”

  That’s why there’d be no bagpipes for Harvey Griffen.But with nothing else to go on, the best he could do with the rest of it was to give his friend the kind of send-off like he’d want for himself: simple, quiet, and brief.

  So he pulled together a few trusted friends who attended an early-morning mass at St. Ambrose’s church, where for the past eight years Griff had served as usher, choir director, sermonwriter, deacon, and handyman. The parish priest—a frecklefaced fellow in his sixties—sniffled all through the service.“He’ll be missed,” the father said, “by all who knew him.”

  At the cemetery, standing shoulder to shoulder with the handful of men who’d known Griff best, Austin held his breath. It was the only way he knew to control his powerful urge to blubber like a baby. He knew better than to shed a tear, because if he could, Griff would throw open the lid of that plain brown coffin and slap him silly. “I sure hope there won’t be any weeping and wailing over my grave!” he’d say, right before launching into a homily about how he hoped to take over, leading the choir of angels.

  Austin grinned, picturing it, then swallowed the sob, aching in his throat. He didn’t have time for self-pitying malarkey.There were calls to make and papers to sign. Besides, there’d be plenty of time for tears, later. Tears and moaning and some fist-shaking at the heavens, because Austin didn’t know how he’d survive without his substitute brother. Ironic, he thought, that every other time he’d experienced a loss, Griff had been his go-to guy. Man, he was going to miss the guy! Both Griff and Austin were longstanding AA members, but when they weren’t working or volunteering or home recovering from both, the men loved hanging out at McDoogle’s Pub, where construction workers and big shot lawyers forgot, for a few hours anyway, where
they’d gone to school as they tipped a few as equals. All but Griff and Austin, that is. “Man doesn’t need to imbibe to enjoy things like that.” If Griff had said it once, he’d said it a hundred times.

  “Wish I could have afforded a pricier casket,” Austin said on the way to dinner in the Poplar Inn’s banquet room.

  “I didn’t know Griff very long and definitely didn’t know him very well,” Mercy said, “but I have a feeling he’d be very happy with what you did. Especially under the circumstances.”

  Circumstances, indeed, he thought, gritting his teeth.“Ironic, isn’t it, that he survived the Gulf War and 9/11, only to die dishing up dry meatloaf in a soup kitchen?”

  “I heard him say once that he was most content when serving others.”

  Translation: Griff had died happy. Or, at the very least, satisfied.

  “Thanks for driving,” he said. “My brain’s been kinda fuzzy this past couple of days.”

  “I’m happy to do it.”

  Maybe he’d get lucky, and she wouldn’t add “after all you did for me last fall.”

  She parked on the Wise Avenue side of the restaurant.“Looks like everybody you invited is here.”

  He nodded.

  “That’s good.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m hoping they’ll tell lots of Griff stories, that’s why.”

  He noticed that she had to halfrun to keep up with him.Not an easy feat, even before the attack. Austin slowed his pace. “Yeah. That’d be cool.”

  The room was bright and airy with plenty of long narrow tables arranged in U-fashion, just as he’d requested. That, too, had been a decision inspired by Griff. “Nothin’ more annoying than going to a shindig, only to try and make conversation with the back of somebody’s head.”

  The waitresses handed out Griff’s favorite meal—lasagna with extra sauce, salad, and garlic bread, served with sweet iced tea—and kept people busy and relatively quiet for the first half hour. It wasn’t until after apple pie ala mode and coffee that the tales began to spin. Laughter and tears and sighs of remembrance floated around the room, and through it all, Mercy stayed at his side.