Yesterday's Embers

by Deborah Raney

She smoothed the skirt of her black crepe dress and tried to focus her thoughts on maneuvering the car, working not to let them stray to the funeral service she’d come from. But when the first hearse turned onto the cemetery’s gravel drive in front of her, she lost it. Her sobs came like dry heaves, producing no tears, and for once she was glad to be in the car alone.

  The line of cars came almost to a standstill as the second hearse crept through the gates.

  The twin black Lincolns pulled to the side of the gravel lane, parking one behind the other near the plots where two fresh graves scarred the prairie. The drivers emerged from the hearses, walked in unison to the rear of their cars, and opened the curtained back doors. Mickey looked away. She couldn’t view those two caskets again.

  When it came her turn to drive over the culvert under the high arch of the iron gates, she wanted desperately to keep on driving. To head west and never turn back. But Pete Truesdell stood in her way, directing traffic into the fenced-in graveyard. Mickey almost didn’t recognize Pete. He sported a rumpled navy double-breasted suit instead of his usual coveralls. How he could see through the tears welling in his eyes, Mickey didn’t know.

  Her heart broke for the old man. She wondered if he was related to the family somehow. Seemed like everybody in Clayburn was related to at least one other family in town. Everybody but the Valdezes.

  Pete waved the car in front of her through the gates and halted her with his other hand.

  Maybe if she stayed in the car until the procession left the cemetery. She didn’t want to walk across the uneven sod. Didn’t want to risk the DeVore kids seeing her…risk breaking down in front of them. What would she say? What could anybody say to make what had happened be all right?

  She didn’t know much about carbon monoxide poisoning, but she’d heard that Kaye and Rachel had simply drifted off to sleep, never knowing they would wake up in heaven. She wondered if Doug DeVore found any solace in that knowledge. Maybe it was a small comfort that his wife and daughter had left this earth together.

  But on Thanksgiving Day? What was God thinking?

  She’d never really gotten to know Kaye DeVore that well. They’d exchanged pleasantries whenever Kaye dropped the kids off at the daycare on her way to her job at the high school, but usually Doug was the one who delivered the children and picked them up at night when he got off work at Trevor Ashlock’s print shop in town.

  The DeVore kids were usually the last to get picked up, especially during harvest when Doug worked overtime to keep his farm going. But Mickey had never minded staying late. It wasn’t like she had a family of her own waiting for her at home. And she loved those kids.

  Especially Rachel. Sweet, angel-faced Rachel, whose eyes always seemed to hold a wisdom beyond her years. Mickey had practically mourned when Rachel started kindergarten and was only at the daycare for an hour or two after school. Now she forced herself to look at the tiny white coffin the pallbearers lifted from the second hearse. She could not make it real that the sunny six-year-old was gone.

  Through the gates she watched Doug climb from a black town car. One at a time, he helped his children out behind him. Carrying the baby in one arm, he tried to stretch his free arm around the other four kids, as if he could shelter them from what had happened. How he could even stand up under the weight of such tragedy was more than Mickey could imagine. And yet, for one shameful, irrational moment, she envied his grief, and would have traded places with him if it meant she’d known a love worth grieving over, or been entrusted with a child of her own flesh and blood. She shook away the thoughts, disturbed by how long she’d let herself entertain them.

  She dreaded facing Doug the next time he brought the kids to the daycare center. Maybe they wouldn’t come back. She’d heard that Kaye’s mother had cancelled her plans to winter in Florida like she usually did. Harriet Thomas would remain in Kansas and help Doug out, at least for a while. Wren Johannsen had been helping with the kids and house, too, when she could take time away from running Wren’s Nest, the little bed-and-breakfast on Main Street. Wren was like a second grandma to the kids. Thank goodness for that. Six kids had to be—

  Mickey shuddered and corrected herself. Only five now. That had to be a handful for anyone. The DeVores had gone on vacation in the middle of April last year, and with their kids out for a week, the workload was lighter, but the daycare center had been deathly quiet.

  Deathly. Even though she was alone in the car, Mickey cringed at her choice of words.

  She started at the tap on the hood of her car and looked up to see Pete motioning her through the gates. She put the car in gear and inched over the bumpy culvert. There was no turning back now. She followed the car in front of her and parked behind it next to the fence bordering the east side of the cemetery.

  A tall white tombstone in the distance caught her eye, and a startling thought nudged her. The last time she’d been here for a funeral had also been the funeral of a mother and child. Trevor Ashlock’s wife, Amy, and their little boy. It would be five years come summer.

  As if conjured by her thoughts, Trevor’s green pickup pulled in beside her. Mickey watched in her side mirror as he parked, then helped his young wife climb out of the passenger side. Meg walked with the gait of an obviously pregnant woman, and Trevor put a hand at the small of her back, guiding her over the uneven sod toward the funeral tent.

  Mickey looked away. Seeing Trevor still brought a wave of sadness. Because of his profound loss, yes. But more selfishly, for her own loss. She’d fallen hard for him after Amy’s death—and had entertained hopes that he might feel the same about her. That she might be able to ease his grief. But he was too deep in grief to even notice her.

  Then Meg Anders had moved to town and almost before Mickey knew what happened, Trevor was married. He and Meg seemed very much in love, and Mickey didn’t begrudge either of them an ounce of that happiness. But it didn’t mean she was immune to a pang of envy whenever she saw them together.

  This day had to be doubly difficult for Trevor. It must be a comfort to Doug having Trevor here—someone who’d walked in his shoes and still somehow managed to get up the next morning—and the next and the next.

  Again, she had to wonder what God was thinking. Where was He when these tragedies struck? How could He stand by and let these terrible things happen to good men…the best men she knew, next to her brothers? None of it made sense. And the only One she knew to turn to for answers had stood by and let it all happen.

  Everyone else had gone home, back to their normal lives. Decent lives they failed to appreciate and griped about for no good reason. He knew, because he’d been just like them.

  Chapter Two

  Doug put the car in park and punched the garage door remote. It made a grinding noise as it settled onto the concrete floor. It seemed a terrible echo of the contraption that had lowered the caskets into the ground only an hour ago. “Go on in the house, kids. Now. And change out of your good clothes.”

  Sarah’s and Sadie’s faces crumpled. He hadn’t meant to bark the words, but he was too tired to apologize. Kayeleigh and Landon didn’t seem to notice, and Harley was half asleep in the car seat, sucking her thumb a mile a minute. He wondered how much of all this she’d picked up on.

  “Kayeleigh, get Harley, would you? Put her down for a nap if you can.”

  “She won’t sleep tonight if you put her down this late, Daddy.” Kayeleigh looked at him, as if waiting for an answer.

  When he didn’t say anything, she reached to unbuckle the baby.

  He didn’t have the strength to argue, or to hurry her along. What was there to hurry for anyway? The funeral was over. Everyone else had gone home, back to their normal lives. Decent lives they failed to appreciate and griped about for no good reason.

  He knew, because he’d been just like them. Taking for granted the blessing of a cup of coffee and the morning paper at the kitchen table. While in the bathroom down the hall, your wife stood under the shower for a few extra minutes, a
nd your kids slept that serene sleep that only children could.

  His kids would never sleep that way again. Two nights in a row, Landon had dragged his bedding downstairs at two in the morning, knocking on Doug’s half-closed door, whimpering that he heard somebody trying to break in.

  Doug slammed the door to the old Suburban and prodded the twins toward the house. Out of habit he started a head count. The twins were here…Kayeleigh had Harley, Landon was already in the house. That was five. Who was miss—?

  His knees nearly buckled as it hit him afresh. Rachel. His sweet girl was missing from the lineup. Forever. It was bad enough losing Kaye, but Rachel, too? How long would he look for that sixth, sweet blond head, feeling restless until all his little towheads were accounted for?

  But he hadn’t been able to keep them safe. For all his training as a volunteer firefighter and certified EMT, for all the talks he’d given at parent-teacher meetings about the dangers of carbon monoxide poisoning—none of it had saved Kaye and Rachel. He was the last man this should have happened to.

  But nobody ever thought it could happen to them. You never thought it would be your wife, your child they were carrying away in the ambulance. And then a hearse.

  How would he bear it? He couldn’t imagine going back to work, back to any kind of normalcy.

  But he had no choice. He had to think about the kids. He was grateful for his job at the print shop, glad to have paying work to return to. Still, he’d begged off his volunteer EMT and firefighting duties indefinitely. Right now he didn’t trust his own judgment—even though Blaine Deaver, the fire chief, assured him there wasn’t anything he could have done to prevent what had happened to Kaye and Rachel.

  At the end of winter last year, Kaye had called a chimney sweep from Salina to come and clean out the fireplace and flue, but apparently with several freezes and the spring thaw since then, crumbling mortar and bricks had blocked the flue again.

  “Daddy?” Sadie and Sarah sang out in unison, their voices identical even if the girls were not. “What’re we havin’ for supper?”

  It seemed like they’d left the funeral dinner only minutes ago, but a glance at his watch told him little bellies would be hungry again. An odd sense of panic enveloped him.

  He was doing well to get the coffee maker going in the morning. Kaye always teased him that if it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t know how to boil water. Sadly, boiling water was as far as he’d gone in Kaye’s school of culinary skills. How was he going to fill his kids’ bellies tonight, let alone tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow after that?

  He opened the door to the din of utter silence. For four days the house had swarmed with family and friends. This was the first time he’d been alone, just him and the kids, since he’d come home to find—

  He wouldn’t let his brain finish the sentence. He groped for the switch on the kitchen wall and flipped on the lights. The sight of countertops littered with cake stands and pie tins and plates full of cookies came as a strange relief. On one end of the counter, a stack of empty dishes Kaye’s mom had labeled for return reminded him that the refrigerator was still packed tight with casseroles that neighbors and church friends had brought in. He didn’t have an appetite for any of it, but his kids needed to eat. And he was grateful someone had provided.

  Somehow he got all the kids out of their coats and dress clothes and into jeans and T-shirts. He scooped spoonfuls of some cheese-laden casserole onto plates and put the first one in the microwave. “How long should I nuke this, Kayeleigh?”

  His oldest daughter looked at him like he’d grown another head. “For real? You don’t know?”

  “A minute, you think?” He punched the quick-minute button like he’d seen Kaye do whenever he’d worked late in the field or got called out on an ambulance run and she had to reheat his supper. He watched the digital numbers count the seconds off, wanting only to crawl in bed and pull the covers up over his head.

  Behind him, he heard Kayeleigh sniffing. Please don’t let her cry, Lord. Please.

  He couldn’t look at her but kept punching the quick-minute button until steam came off the lump of food in the middle. He heated one plate after another, thankful for the mindless task.

  “This one’s cold, Daddy.”

  Coming out of his fog, he saw Sarah beside him, jostling a plate in her pudgy hands. “This is still cold,” she said again, sliding the plate to the back of a counter she could barely see over. He opened the microwave, and the empty turntable came to a halt. He slid the plate in, trying to force his thoughts to the present.

  At the table Kayeleigh sat in front of Harley’s highchair doing the airplane-spoon thing, trying to get the baby to eat. So like Kaye.

  He put a hand on Sarah’s head. “Okay, honey. Go sit down. It’ll only take a minute.”

  He finished heating the food, set a plate in front of Kayeleigh, and also one at his place. Then he sat down, feeling queasy just looking at the food. Careful not to meet any of his kids’ eyes, he stabbed a glutinous glob of casserole with his fork.

  “Aren’t we gonna say the blessing, Daddy?”

  He looked up. Sadie’s doleful blue eyes, so like her mother’s, bored into his.

  The blessing. The irony pierced like a sword. With effort he bowed his head. He sensed the kids following his lead. “Heavenly Father, bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies. In the name of Christ our Lord…”

  It was the rote prayer his own father had prayed. He didn’t know where he’d pulled it up from, but he lifted his head to see the kids gaping at him as if he’d prayed in Chinese.

  Sarah broke the silence. “Why are you prayin’ like that?”

  Sadie’s crinkled brow matched her twin’s. “Does Mommy’s body get food in the ground?”

  “Sadie!” Kayeleigh hissed.

  Sadie ignored her big sister and cocked an eyebrow at him. “Does it, Daddy?”

  “What are you talking about, honey?”

  “What you prayed…’bout the food and ‘nurshment’ for our bodies. Is that what Mama’s body gets?”

  Maybe he’d been wrong to let the kids view Kaye’s and Rachel’s bodies. The twins especially had seemed obsessed with the topic since that night at the funeral home. He shoveled tasteless bites of casserole into his mouth, afraid he’d choke. “Eat your supper, girls. It’s almost time for bed.”

  Landon twisted in his chair and stared out at the pinkening sky beyond the bank of windows on the west wall. “It’s not even dark outside.”

  Doug looked past Landon out the window, at the line of trees in the distance, tracing the banks of the Smoky Hill River, and between the house and the river, acres of rolling farm ground his father had entrusted to him. Land he’d always hoped to someday pass on to Landon. With Kaye gone, it seemed a paltry promise to make his son.

  Kaye’s cheery red and white cherry-dotted curtains framed the view. She’d sewn those curtains right at this table on a little Singer sewing machine that had been her grandmother’s. He’d always meant to buy her a new one. One of those fancy machines that cost as much as a good riding lawn mower—and that Kaye declared would be worth every penny.

  “It’ll be dark soon.” Doug gestured with his fork. “Eat.”

  Kayeleigh scraped her chair back. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Sit down, Kayeleigh.” He stared her down.

  But she dipped her head and mumbled, “Can I be excused, please?” Without waiting for a reply, she pushed away from the table and rushed down the hallway to the room the girls shared.

  He let her go. He didn’t have the energy—or the will—to argue with her. Not tonight.

  Somehow he managed to clean up the kitchen a little bit and get the kids in bed. Even Kayeleigh was in bed—or in her room anyway—by eight thirty.

  Now the evening stretched out in front of him. The silence of the house echoed through his head, and he rubbed away the beginnings of a headache. He should have taken Kaye’s mom up on her offer to come and stay with the
m tonight, to be here for the kids. But that would have meant making Harriet sleep on the sofa—or giving up the bed that smelled like Kaye.

  Besides, they’d been surrounded by people for four days. He was ready to be alone. He huffed out a breath. What was he thinking? He would have done anything, given anything, to not be alone right now.

  At ten o’clock he locked up the house, checked on the kids one last time, and crawled under the covers. In the crib at the foot of his bed, Harley’s deep, even breathing brought a pang of envy. The baby couldn’t understand that Mommy was never coming back, but she’d seemed to accept the kids’ matter-of-fact explanation—“Mommy’s not here, Harley. She’s in heaven now”—as if they’d said, “Mommy went to the grocery store.”

  He wondered if his baby girl would carry any memories of Kaye and Rachel. His own earliest memories didn’t begin until he was about four, when his grandfather had moved in with them after Grandma died. He had hazy memories of Grandpa lying on his bed in this very spot, making a strangled, pitiful sound as he wept, not knowing Doug was listening at the door.

  He hadn’t understood the old man’s loss then. Now he pulled the covers up and rolled away from the empty side of the bed to face the wall.

  He wanted to weep the way his grandfather had. But the tears would not come.

  For the first time in a long time, Doug remembered what it was like to be an ordinary man having an ordinary day. It was a good feeling.

  Chapter Three

  Doug unlocked the back door to the print shop and let himself in. Flipping on the lights, he waited for his eyes to adjust, inhaling the smells of the pressroom…paper, ink, dust, and yesterday’s coffee.

  It was a relief to leave the kids with Kaye’s mom each morning and escape to the print shop. Today, like every Thursday, would be slow. The weekly Clayburn Courier was printed and mailed on Wednesdays, and the mad rush to get next week’s thin issue out didn’t start in earnest until Monday—at least for him.