“I felt that way, too,” Andrea said. “I still feel that way.”
Nobody talked after that for a full five minutes. Each sat in the silent labyrinth of his or her private thoughts. Each was miles away from the darkened living room in the cold house at the bottom of an impossible abyss.
FOURTEEN
They talked for over an hour, with no other reason but to get better acquainted. That they might be destined to spend the rest of their lives as a unit was at the back of each person’s mind, Andrea supposed. If they were going to become a “family” then they needed to know more about one another.
Andrea related anecdotes about her life with her aunt, uncle and cousin, while Keith made them laugh, telling a hilarious tale about a prank he and his friends had played when they were boys. Then Father Joe reminded Eleazar of their first meeting and the subsequent unique duet at the ecumenical picnic. This whetted everyone’s curiosity, and they demanded to hear the story.
The various Christian churches in the area had sponsored a picnic the previous summer to encourage openness and cooperation in the community, and to emphasize what the churches had in common.
“Oh, yeah,” Keith nodded, “I stopped by for an hour. I remember the food was great, and there were quite a few games and raffles going on. People seemed to be having a great time.”
Father Joe grinned and winked up at the old Baptist preacher. “Remember the two-legged race, Eleazar?”
The dark-skinned man cringed. “Son, that is a mighty wicked thing you are doing, bringing that incident up in front of these nice young people.”
The Catholic priest laughed then winced. “Ouch. Eleazar, don’t make me laugh too much. I’m an injured man.” He shifted in his seat, grinned—a hint of mischief in his brown eyes. “We Catholics have a saying, ‘Confession is good for the soul.’ So, I’m confessing.”
“Humph! That is not just a Catholic saying, my boy. Tell the story, if you must. I am but a humble man.”
Father Joe smiled beatifically and said in an innocent voice, “I-I haven’t the strength. Why don’t you tell it?”
Eleazar glared at him in mock condemnation, then grinned. Looking at the interested faces around him, he highlighted the events leading up to the three-legged race. “The powers that be deigned that I, a humble Baptist minister, well into my seventies, should be partnered with this over six-foot tall, somewhere in his thirties, Catholic priest in what they brazenly called a three-legged race. Beside us was a team made up of a beloved elder in my church and the Methodist minister from Clarksville. On the other side, we had a robust Episcopalian and the fellow from Community Church of God. Well, the whistle blew and all blazes broke out. Joseph and I made such a clumsy, erratic duo that soon the other contestants gave us a wide berth and we—just the two of us—became the highlight of the entire unholy spectacle. We tripped over each other’s feet so many times that the fellow in charge debated whether calling in the paramedics, just in case.”
“Yeah,” Father Joe cut in, “and my bishop, who happened to be there, was in mortal fear that the ecumenical movement would be thrown back into the Dark Ages. To him, it appeared that the Baptists and the Catholics would have to go to war just to make things right.”
“Mmm hmm!” Eleazar hummed emphatically. “It was as obscene a display of un-cooperation, un-ecumenism, ever recorded. We were the entertainment of the year.”
“Well, we made people laugh, anyway,” the priest chuckled. “The crowd was unified to that extent.”
“Bless us, sweet Jesus! I shall never forget it.” Eleazar threw up his hands as though at a revival meeting, making his little audience laugh. For a brief interlude, darkness and fear and pain were forgotten.
That “night” they got some sleep—but not much. Twice, Andrea got up to give Father Joe more aspirin. His hands were giving him a rough time, and she worried that they were getting infected. Eleazar unwrapped the hands once, but said there was little more that could be done. He sprayed an antiseptic on the burns and then bandaged the hands in clean gauze. They had no more bandages or antiseptics. They were also running out of aspirin.
The old pastor then made a cursory inspection of the priest’s chest and abdomen. When he touched certain places, Father Joe winced or cried out. The old pastor looked grave. Andrea sensed he was more worried about the priest than he let on.
“I suppose Keith and I should go back to the Martins’ to see what medicines they might have,” Andrea’s murmured.
The old minister nodded. “Yes. I am afraid you are going to have to do just that. Joseph will need clean bandages again. It is the only thing I know to help ward off infection. But, as you can see, we have no more gauze. And he will need some more painkillers.”
Keith, who’d been speaking in low tones to Carrie, perked up at this last statement. “I’ll go,” he said. He had to tighten his hold on the young woman’s shoulder as she struggled to object. “No, Carrie. You know I have to. I’ll be all right. I came back this last time, didn’t I?”
“Why does it always have to be you? Why can’t Andrea go by herself? There’s nothing heavy to carry. Even Eleazar could make it. Couldn’t he? He made it all the way here, didn’t he?” Carrie’s voice was shrill.
Andrea wondered about the emotional woman’s obsession with her neighbor. Had she transposed her love for her missing husband onto this man? The whole thing gave Andrea a bad taste. Carrie was ill. She realized that; had heard about how neurotic some pregnant women got. Hormones or something. But this was over the top. By the odd look on Keith’s face, Andrea guessed her behavior embarrassed him, too.
Only the black minister remained tranquil and unaffected by Carrie’s selfish outburst. Eleazar rose and beckoned Keith to the other side of the room. “Do not be upset with her, Keith,” the old man whispered. “She is not herself, you know. Pregnant women at the best of times have difficulty with over-active emotions that run amuck. She has already been through more than a young mother-to-be should have to.”
“She’s been nothing but a petulant, spoiled brat this whole freakin’ time,” Keith hissed. “I’ve tried to be patient with her. I’m not even her husband, for crying out loud. When you come right down to it, I barely know her. I was friends with Rob. Not Carrie. Before this nightmare, I maybe spoke with her half a dozen times. I’ve about had it with her. God knows we’re all scared. Why can’t she rise to the occasion like Andrea?”
“Hmm,” Eleazar hummed thoughtfully. “Matthew 5:38-40.”
“What?”
“And Romans 5:3.”
“Bible passages again? You enjoy this game of yours, don’t you, old man?”
Eleazar shrugged. “It is my job.”
“Right. Well, I appreciate your concern, but it’s getting pretty damned annoying hearing you spout Bible verses every freaking minute. Okay? I appreciate the fact that you feel you have to do it since it’s your job, but right now I’ve got a job to do.” He turned on his heel and motioned to Andrea. “Andrea, I’m going to your neighbors for supplies. But first, I’m going out to bring in those buckets. Do you think you could shine the light—at least from the porch?”
Andrea jumped up. “I can, but what if there are more things out there?”
“Well, I’ll just have to take the chance that there aren’t. You don’t have to do it, Andrea, if you’re scared.” Keith sighed.
“No, no, I can—I mean, I am scared, and you should be, too.” She swallowed. “But you can’t carry two heavy buckets and hold a flashlight at the same time. And two is safer out there than one. So, I’ll do it.”
“Fine.” He glanced over at Eleazar, who was trying to soothe Carrie. She was working herself into another state of hysteria, and it was taking the old pastor’s full attention to calm her. “We’ll be back as soon as we can. Take care of her, Eleazar.” He raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “Man! I wish I had some kind of weapon.”
Eleazar nodded. “You just need faith,” he said simply. He looked at
Andrea, who stood mute in the deep shadows. “Child, say a prayer.”
Andrea shook her head. “You do the praying.”
“I will,” the old man said in a low voice.
Andrea thought Keith would explode, but he reined in his anger. Enunciating his words, he faced the minister. “Please. I appreciate your predilection for religion, but we don’t have the time nor the patience to hear you prattle on and on about it. I need something concrete.” He ran both hands through his hair. “I mean, I know praying in the Old Testament made food mysteriously appear in the nick of time but, well, pardon me if I don’t think that’ll happen now. I—we—need to actually work to get supplies. Get it?”
From his prone position on the couch, Father Joe lifted a bandaged hand. “Keith.”
Keith turned toward the priest, his anger dissolving. “Yes, Father Joe?”
“Listen to Pastor Thomas. He’s right on target.”
“Sure. Okay. Fine.” He lifted both hands. “Sorry for being testy, Pastor.”
“I understand, son.” Eleazar smiled.
Father Joe grinned. “That’s great. Thanks, Keith.”
“Right.”
The priest lifted one bandage hand. “One more thing.”
“What, Father?”
“When you do your hunting and gathering, see if they have any chocolate, will you?”
Keith’s anger evaporated and a grin spread across his face. “We’ll see what we can do.”
“Thanks. God bless you.”
“Okay. We’re going now. We can’t waste any more time.”
The black minister waved them away. “God be with you. Come back to us. We will be waiting. And praying.” He winked.
FIFTEEN
Andrea followed Keith through the kitchen, out the back door and into the ever-present night. It took them only a few minutes to re-fill the buckets and haul them up to the kitchen. Then they headed down the driveway, intent on getting to the neighbor’s house and back as soon as possible.
Both carrying a flashlight, they walked in silence up the driveway to the main road. “Doesn’t it seem darker to you?” Andrea murmured. “I think the shadows have deepened—if that’s possible. The trees look taller, too. They’re hugging the road—like-like sentinels, guarding the gates of some evil realm.”
“You should be a writer,” Keith chuckled.
“Right. I think I’ve read, maybe, five books in my entire life.”
“You’re kidding. I love to read. Have to have a book going or I go nuts.”
“Really? What do you read?”
“Well, aside from engineering magazines and whatnot, I read a lot of fiction. Been reading all Tony Hillerman’s stuff.”
“Never heard of him.”
“I’ll have to tell you about some of his stories. You’d like Joe Leaphorn and Jim Chee.”
“Native Americans?”
“You got it.” Keith stopped walking and aimed his light toward the fence on their left. “That Kellermann’s pasture? I think you mentioned it before.”
“Yes. They have cattle and grow corn. Used to be a nice place.”
“Andrea, I wish I could wave a magic wand and make all this go away.”
Andrea snickered. “I wish you could, too.” She directed her light up the road; let it pick out individual bushes and tree trunks. “Gosh, everything looks so weird. Let’s get this over with. I feel like bugs are crawling up and down my back.”
“Yeah. Not to mention the encounter Father Joe had. Jeez. I’d probably die of fright if one of the things actually jumped on top of me. Didn’t he say he could smell its breath? God, what a thought!”
“Thanks for bringing that up. Now I really have the creepy-crawlies.”
“Sorry. Guess we should start praying. Seems to work for our two clergy fellows back home.”
“Right.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence. Andrea’s stomach had begun to roil and she was afraid she was going to be sick again. The Martin’s house still sat, submerged in its pool of darkness, as forlorn as it’d been the previous trips. Their cars hadn’t moved; the windows remained sightless. An obvious void of anything resembling flesh and blood permeated the air. The back door, however, was ajar. Andrea skidded to a stop and groped for Keith’s arm.
Jabbing a forefinger at the open door, she radiated acute apprehension. “Look,” she hissed. “It’s open. We closed it.”
Keith nodded and, without another word, crept up the back steps to the porch and faced the yawning door. Pausing at the threshold for a heartbeat, he peered in. While Andrea stood back a few feet and waited with bated breath, Keith stepped into the black hole of the kitchen. In less than a minute, he was back outside.
“The place has been ransacked,” he whispered. “It’s a mess.”
“Who could’ve done it? One of the things?”
“I don’t think so. Looks more methodical than just random destruction.”
“Oh, great. I hope they didn’t take what we need. Unless, of course, they needed it, to.”
“You’re too charitable. We helped ourselves a while back, but we didn’t vandalize the place. C’mon, let’s see if we can find what we need.”
Keith reentered the house with Andrea close on his heels. She led the way to the bathroom by the master bedroom, noting that chairs in the living room had been overturned, table drawers yanked out, and miscellaneous stuff strewn about in wild abandon. It made her angry to think that Donna Martin’s treasured belongings had been treated in this way. But then she remembered that Donna was beyond caring about such trivial things.
They found a box of gauze in one of the bathroom cupboards, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a tube of some ointment good for burns. Keith disappeared into the bedroom and returned with an empty pillowcase. Catching on, Andrea began shoving other much-needed things into its voluminous interior.
“I suppose we can always cut up a sheet to make bandages,” Andrea said, chewing on her lower lip.
“Yes, we could. That’s a good idea. Or you could rip your slip or skirt or some damn thing like the females do in the movies.” His tone, a tad on the sarcastic side, made Andrea raise her eyebrows.
“Yeah?” Andrea forced a laugh. “Sure I could. Just like you can save the day, riding in with the cavalry.”
“I saw a closet out in the hall, filled with bedding, towels and stuff. Should I take a few of their sheets? I mean, with laundering virtually impossible, we need all the clean linens we can get.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Andrea shrugged. “I still feel creepy just taking their stuff. It’s like I’m stealing from our friends.”
“I’m sure your friends would want you to take anything you needed. They’d want you to survive.”
“You’re right.”
She added a few more things to the already-bulging pillowcase then made her way back to the kitchen, stepping over fallen lamps and discarded junk. Keith had hauled out a thick pile of cleans sheets and towels—nicely folded by Donna Martin and still smelling of her softener—and followed Andrea through the ransacked house.
“I wonder what they were looking for,” Keith mused aloud. “The stuff I think important, they didn’t take.”
“Yeah, maybe they were frightened away.”
“Hmm. Could be.”
“Look, there’s a big shopping bag beside the stove. Why don’t you put the sheets and stuff in that so you can carry them easier?”
“Good idea.” Keith picked up the thick plastic sack, adorned with a colorful picture of a Thanksgiving turkey, and stuffed it with linens. He hefted the heavy pillowcase in one hand and the bag in the other, comparing their individual weights. “Believe it or not, your pillowcase is heavier. I’ll carry it.” He grinned. “What’d you put in here?”
“Just everything I thought we might need. Who knows what’s going to happen tomorrow? Anyway, thanks.”
They left the house and secured the door even though it seemed a bit ridiculous. But Andrea s
till felt a haunting respect for her dead neighbors and wanted to do her best for what was left of their once gracious home.
With the flashlights’ feeble beams bobbing in front of them, the two trudged down the asphalt road—again in silence. There just wasn’t much to talk about anymore. And then a thought poked its way into Andrea’s mind. “Keith?” she asked, swathed in darkness, not looking at him.
“Yeah?”
Andrea had stopped walking. She shifted the shopping bag to her other hand, holding the flashlight under her chin, and flexed her stiff fingers.
Keith waited patiently until she had the flashlight back in the right hand and the shopping bag in the left. “What were you going to say?” he pressed.
“Nothing.”
“Yeah, it was something. What?”
Andrea coughed then looked at her companion. “I-I just wanted to tell you, thank you.” She winced. “I know I said it before, but, well, I want you to know I mean it. Thank you for everything.”
He shook his head. “Please. I haven’t done a blasted thing.”
“Yes. Yes, you have. And I want you to know how much I admire you. Didn’t want to say it back at the house. In front of the others. Sounds so lame…”
“Andrea.” Keith set the pillowcase on the ground. His eyes never leaving her face, he took three steps forward and reached out. Andrea dropped the shopping bag and rushed into his arms. Burying her face in the folds of his sweater, she mumbled, “Oh, Keith.” She lifted her face. “I-I think I’m falling in love with you.” Grimacing, she added, “Isn’t that the silliest thing you ever heard?”
“No.”
“No?” A smile spread across her face. “Why not?”
“Love is never silly.”
“No, I guess not.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be eighteen on April third, and you are—wait a minute. How old are you?”
He grinned. “I’m an old man, the south side of twenty-five.”
Andrea’s smile wavered. “Wow, twenty-four. Six years older. I’m nothing but a child and you, you’re a great big guy who’s living on his own, owns his own house, has a good-paying job. Sheesh! I’d say that’s being really silly. You’re probably laughing at me. Think I’m a total—”
The Fourth Trumpet Page 9
