Forgotten Spirits

by Barbara Deese

They walked back to the garage, where Matt slammed the empty gas can on the work bench. He pulled the main door closed and they both stood inside, away from the icy sting of blowing snow. “Unfortunately, I have a pretty good idea what it’s about. We got a load of brainwashing growing up. Dear old Pastor Paul,” he said with a sneer, “did a number on every kid in that church, including his own son.”

  “Did he touch you?” Vinnie had asked Foxy the same question years ago.

  “No. He never touched us. It wasn’t like that.” Matt’s answer was the same as his sister’s had been. “What he did was to teach us love was treacherous. He didn’t say it in those exact words, but there was all that judgment and crap about how God might love you in spite of your unworthiness, but if you broke certain rules, he’d see that you wound up in hell. And you had to be suspicious of anyone saying they love you, because the Tempter could take any shape, even that of the person you loved.”

  He was right about one thing, Vinnie thought. Love could be treacherous.

  “For a while I thought I was more virtuous than the other guys because I didn’t talk about girls the way they did. There was a girl two grades ahead of me. Her name was Betty. Everyone called her Betty Boobs after she let a bunch of us take a look at ’em. We had to pay her fifty cents apiece, and I couldn’t figure out why anyone would waste their money on that. It took me a while to figure out it wasn’t virtue on my part.”

  “Must’ve been rough growing up gay, especially in that town.”

  His laugh was hard-edged. “Especially when your minister tells you God doesn’t hate you. He just hates everything you are. Figure that out.”

  Vinnie grunted. “How long did it take you to figure out it was a load of crap?”

  “Still working on it.” Matt slapped him on the back. “When Patrick moved out in September I had to work through the shame all over again.”

  “I thought Foxy said he had to move for a business opportunity. You guys broke up?”

  Matt shrugged. “Ya, he got fed up with me. He wanted to turn this place into a big fancy resort, and I’m content to keep it the way it is, you know, casual, just making enough money to pay the bills and have a little down time for myself. So he took off. Left me with all the bills to pay and all the cabins to maintain. That’s how I wound up letting the phone get shut off.”

  Exiting through the side door, they walked the twenty yards to the lodge. Snow swirled at their feet and wind rattled the siding of the garage. Vinnie felt fingers of ice blow down the neck of his partially open jacket.

  Matt was yelling over the wind now. “In another hour or so, this is gonna get nasty, so you better go now. And don’t stay out long, just a couple turns around the lake. It’s way too easy to get turned around when the snow is coming down and the wind is blowing away your tracks. Foxy knows what she’s doing, so follow her lead and don’t take risks.”

  “I don’t mind a little risk-taking.”

  Matt punched him in the arm. “I just spent the last few hours worrying about you two on the road. I’m not kidding, okay?”

  He nodded, already resenting Matt’s attitude. He figured his brother-in-law knew about his gambling addiction. Now he wondered what else Foxy had told him that made him go on and on about safety rules. He could drive a car and a motorcycle and a speedboat. How different could this be?

  Inside, they found Foxy with her legs flung over the arm of a big leather chair. Sitting on the cedar plank coffee table nearby was a package of Oreos and a bag of dill pickle potato chips, both open. Her hand stopped midair, and a look of guilt froze her features. “What?’ she said, popping a cookie in her mouth.

  The two men raised their eyebrows at each other, “Didn’t take you long to find my stash,” Matt teased.

  “You gonna report her to the health food police?” Vinnie asked.

  She threw an Oreo at them, which Molly Pat deftly intercepted.

  “How’d she do that? She was clear on the other side of the room,” Vinnie said.

  Foxy laughed. “She’s sneaky that way.”

  Matt explained to her about Vinnie wanting to drive a snowmobile. “I told him you’d teach him.”

  “Right now?” She looked at the fireplace, the cozy pine paneling, and then at her slippered feet.

  “Not for very long. If we get snowed in, those machines’ll be the only transportation we’ll have for a while. I’d feel better knowing we can all operate a snowmobile if we have to get somewhere.”

  With great reluctance, she gave up her junk food and the fireplace and led Vinnie to the closet where her brother stored the gear. By the time they were suited up, there was another half-inch of snow on the ground, and it was still coming, not so much down as sideways. Looking like giant insects, one orange and black, the other black and white, they clomped out the door, with Matt warning them to stay on the trails.

  * * *

  They were nearing the town of Tower when Robin’s gas gauge began showing orange. She glanced over at her companion, whose head had fallen back against the headrest with her mouth open. She was snoring loudly. “Gracie!” she said, more sharply than she’d intended.

  Grace sat up, startled, and wiped the corner of her mouth. “Sorry, I guess I nodded off for a minute.”

  “Could you keep an eye out for a filling station?”

  She seemed confused. “How long was I asleep? It’s dark outside.”

  “You were asleep only about ten or fifteen minutes. It’s dark because the storm’s getting worse.” She fought the temptation to fixate on the moving patches and diagonal strips of white, which were not only distracting, but disorienting. “I’m having trouble driving and watching for signs at the same time.”

  “You want me to look for a sign?” Grace was waking up now. “If God sends us a sign, it’ll probably be something like, “Don’t do it!’”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Anything you’re thinking of. Just don’t.”

  “I’m getting low on gas. Help me look for a station, okay?” she asked again.

  “You bet.” Grace stared ahead trying to read the few road signs, but every one of them was plastered with snow. She leaned to look at the gas gauge. “How far can you drive once the light goes on?”

  Robin sighed heavily. “I’m not sure. I’ve never run out of gas. If we don’t do something stupid, like missing our turn, we should make it okay, but with this headwind we’ve been gobbling up gas.”

  They passed the Soudan mine without sighting a place to stop. Looking at the small map on her phone, Grace said they’d be in the next town in minutes. “How about if I try calling Matt’s number again.” She poked buttons and came up with the same result they’d gotten all day. “Nope. Still down.”

  They drove through Tower, and still there was no place to stop for gas. They passed only five vehicles in the next few miles, and three of them were in the ditch. The snow came straight at them now, a vortex of white. Adding to the hypnotic effect, the windshield wipers whooshed back and forth rhythmically. Robin tried the headlights on normal and high beam, but rather than make her vision better, all it did was blind her as the light reflected back from the falling snow. If for no other reason, she needed to warn oncoming cars of their presence, and so she settled on fog lights.

  “Um, maybe we should slow down.”

  Robin would have guessed her speed to be at least forty miles an hour, yet the speedometer hung between fifteen and twenty. She knew it was an illusion, but she couldn’t convince herself she wasn’t speeding. They could have been sitting at a dead stop and still would have had the sense of motion. She bit down on her lip. “Make sure my phone is charged in case we need to call for help,” she instructed Grace.

  She nodded and complied. Filling her cheeks up with air, Grace exhaled like she was blowing out birthday candles. “I’m glad you’
re driving. This is getting bad, isn’t it?”

  “Yup.” Robin tried not to think of Brad’s reaction if he discovered she wasn’t over at Foxy’s apartment for a relaxing visit. She’d been kicking herself for last hour. Not only had she told a half-lie to Brad, but she was risking her safety and Grace’s, and for what? To tell Foxy about Sierra’s secret? That whoever killed Sierra might be after Foxy? Well, if he was out to get Foxy, he’d have to be driving through this mess too. Fat chance.

  After a while they hit a stretch where the snow let up a little and they were able to pick up speed—all the way up to thirty-two miles an hour. Finally, with Grace following their route on her phone, she said, “In a mile or so we’re going to turn left. I’ll watch for the road. Whoa, slow down, there’s something happening up ahead.” Something large came toward them with flashing red lights.

  As the tow truck passed them, Grace saw its cargo and said, “Oh, that did not look good. Whoever was driving that pickup truck must be in pretty bad shape.”

  Chapter 27

  Matthew had always enjoyed cooking, but without Patrick there to appreciate it, he’d reverted to bachelor mode—grabbing a burger in town or throwing a frozen pizza in the oven. But as soon as Foxy said she and Vinnie were coming, he’d had fun stocking up on food she would enjoy. Over the years, she’d gone from eating just about anything to various fad diets. When she moved to Colorado, she went completely vegan, but had soon relaxed her regimen to eating mostly organic, which did not, he was pretty sure, include dill pickle chips and Oreos. The food she preferred wasn’t always easy to find in the stores up here. Luckily, he had plenty of fish and venison in the freezer, and the new organic market and bistro in Ely provided what he couldn’t find at Zup’s.

  In the refrigerator were two packages of venison steaks, thawed. His plan was to fry them in butter at the last minute and serve them on heated plates with a red wine sauce and baby portabella mushrooms. He got out onions, a couple cloves of garlic and a knob of ginger for his favorite sweet potato bisque. He’d always hummed when he was happy, and he hummed now.

  Pausing with his chef’s knife poised over the onion, he cocked his head and listened, thinking he’d heard an engine, but it was too early for Foxy and Vinnie to be back. He looked out the window that faced the garage. Their snowmobiles were still gone. A drift had piled up between Foxy’s Saturn and the garage. He went back to work chopping the onion. He jumped, nicking his knuckle with the blade when the front door buzzer sounded. Dropping the knife on the cutting board, he hastily wrapped his thumb in a kitchen towel.

  In the brief time it took for him to bind up his hand, walk to the door and open it, he figured some wayfarer had gotten stuck in the storm and was looking for refuge. Opening the door, he said, “Come on in,” before he realized the person standing in front of him was no stranger. Even though the man’s muffler covered the lower part of his face, Matt knew this man, and he was about the last person he expected to see.

  The man held out his hand and greeted him by name.

  Stepping aside to let him in, Matt declined the proffered hand. “What brings you here?” He couldn’t make himself say the name. He’d long ago dropped the names Pastor Paul and Pastor Peter when talking to either the father or the son. It implied more warmth than he felt.

  “I’m sorry to drop in on you like this without calling. Did you know your phone is on the fritz?”

  “I’m aware.” Matt swallowed hard and blinked. “What brings you here?” He already regretted having let this man into his home.

  “I need a place to stay. They’re closing some of the roads south of here.”

  It had been four or five years since Matt had run into him, and he’d aged, even though his hair showed no signs of gray. Matt had been in kindergarten when Paul Niemi came to them, fresh-faced from the University in Duluth and ready to lead his small flock in the ways of the Lord. He’d begun as a lay preacher, which was what their small community could afford, and not unusual in this offshoot sect of Lutheranism. Long before he was ordained, he’d told the congregation to call him Pastor Paul.

  Matt couldn’t help but stare at this man who for years had evoked in him self-hatred and fear. It had taken time and persistence to grow beyond Paul Niemi’s sphere of influence, but he’d managed. And now, right in front of him stood this bogeyman of his youth looking strong and healthy. Christ, Matt thought, he has to be in his late sixties.

  “The driving is getting hazardous and I remembered you had a resort around here. I’ve just been in Ely, visiting an old parishioner of mine.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who’d you visit?” Matt asked. It was a direct challenge. He knew of no one from Pine Glen living in Ely.

  Pastor Niemi wrinkled his brow and said, “Now, Matthew, you know that kind of information is confidential, but you wouldn’t know him anyway. He was a member of my church in Minneapolis. My son Peter is the lead pastor at West Church now, you know.” From the way his chin tilted, Matt could see his pride in his son, Peter.

  “I heard.” When Paul Niemi had left the pulpit in Pine Glen, his son was finishing his last year in seminary. Everyone had assumed Peter would take over their little church, but instead, he’d accepted a position as pastor to two rural churches in southern Minnesota, where he shuttled back and forth until he negotiated a merger of the two struggling churches. With that achievement on his resume, he’d moved on to take over when his father left the pulpit as senior pastor at West Lutheran, a thriving church in the west suburbs of Minneapolis.

  Matt gestured to the chairs by the fireplace. Niemi took off his gloves and hung his coat and muffler on a peg by the door. Selecting a straight-backed chair, he sat.

  “I would’ve thought you’d have retired by now.”

  Niemi lowered his head and studied his hands. “What would I do with all my time, now that Anna’s gone?”

  Matt shrugged. He remembered now that Anna Niemi had suffered from some fatal autoimmune disorder. “So they kicked you upstairs, huh? I heard you’re working for the synod now.”

  He nodded. “For almost six years now.”

  “Where’s your car?” Matt asked, realizing he hadn’t seen another vehicle.

  “Oh, I parked by the building over there.” He pointed in the direction of the closest cabin, which was hidden from view in a stand of pines. “Are there other guests here? I saw a car by the garage.”

  “Which is where normal people park,” Matt muttered under his breath. To his unwelcome visitor, he said, “It’s my sister’s. She’s up here for a few days.”

  Niemi smiled. “Frances? What a wonderful surprise.” It was that same disarming smile Matt remembered from childhood, when the young pastor had taught three bible classes each week, one for toddlers through grade school, one for the upper grades and one for adults. “It’ll be a reunion, then. Where is she?”

  “Snowmobiling.” He felt nervous. “She’ll be back soon.”

  “I know I’m imposing, but might you have another room for me?”

  There’s no room in the inn, Matt was tempted to tell him. Instead, he looked him over and reminded himself he no longer had reason to fear the larger-than-life Pastor Paul. “There’s one room upstairs. Can you manage stairs?”

  “Yes, I suppose I can now. If you’d asked me a month ago, I’d have had to say no. I had a hip replacement not that long ago, and honestly, after that first week or so, I’ve been getting along quite well. I think I’m doing well, don’t you?”

  Matt agreed that he was.

  “It’s remarkable what they do to get you mobile right away. They had me doing physical therapy and stairs as soon as possible when I was in rehab at the, well, now that I think of it, it’s the nursing home where your mother lives now. I had a choice of where I could do rehab and I suppose it was nostalgia that made me choose the place in Pine Glen. I had some nice chats with your mothe
r while I was there.”

  Matt raised his eyebrows.

  “Oh, I suppose she didn’t tell you. Her memory isn’t what it used to be, is it?”

  Matt shook his head.

  The older man asked Matt to get his valise from where he set it on the floor under the coat pegs. “My friend gave me a bottle of wine as a thank you for driving all the way up to visit him—in a blizzard, as it turns out. Would you like to have a glass?”

  Actually, I think I’ll have the whole bottle, Matt thought. “I didn’t realize you drink alcohol.”

  He faced his palms upward, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m not that rigid anymore. I know in the old days I preached against drink, and I believed that was what God wanted, but my views softened. My Minneapolis church was . . . is more liberal than our sect was.”

  He handed him the valise. “Oh, ya, I forgot. You had a sect change.” Matt laughed drily.

  Surprisingly, Pastor Niemi laughed too. “Very good. I’ll have to share that one with the bishop. But seriously, I discovered I could relax my views and still be faithful. After all, Jesus didn’t turn water into chamomile tea now, did he?”

  For a few seconds, Matt was speechless, caught between rage at this man who couldn’t practice what he preached, and a dark sense of victory that his former pastor was now willing to drink with someone he’d once referred to as a sodomite.

  Matt took the bottle into the kitchen to open. He returned with two round goblets of red wine, handing one to Niemi and setting the other one on the cedar plank coffee table.

  “Before you sit, could I trouble you for a glass of water? I need to take my pills.”

  “Not a problem.” Matt turned back to the kitchen.

  “And a couple crackers if you have them?” he called out.

  When Matt held out the little plate of crackers and cheese to him, he said, “Don’t you have to bless these before you take communion?”

  For the second time, Pastor Paul surprised him by laughing heartily.