by Terri Kraus
Miss Cohen refused all efforts at outreach. Contact all teachers to keep watch. May be in denial. We want no repetition of what occurred last year.
Samantha knew what had happened last year. A fellow classmate had committed suicide after his older brother had been killed in a car accident. It was the talk of the school for weeks and weeks.
“Thank you, Miss Rosenberg,” Samantha said as she slipped out the door.
It won’t happen to me. It won’t happen to me. I am nothing like her. Nothing like her at all.
She turned the corner and headed to the restroom, where she would wait until it was time for French class.
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Five years ago
Tolliver Barnett let the crowds churn around him, a great wash of humanity all bent on celebrating. Bent and twisted, he thought. He grinned as faces passed before him—leering, joyful, drunk, some only semiconscious, desperate, hopeful, yearning. Tolliver could see it all in their faces, as if each were transparent, their souls and hearts and longings visible to him alone.
It’s a gift, he thought as he smiled back at the ebb and flow of people.
It was New Year’s Eve, and he was in downtown Pittsburgh. He had been invited to one of the more prestigious parties—a swank gala affair, hosted by the friend of a friend who happened to be some ranking officer in a national real-estate firm.
Tolliver had no connection to anyone here, but he enjoyed parties. He enjoyed seeking out the wounded.
No … not the wounded, really. But those women in need. You can tell who they are. The ones who laugh too loud. The ones who try too hard to please or impress. The ones who drink too much. You can see it in their eyes.
The party, held in the ornately decorated grand ballroom of the historic William Penn Hotel, overlooking downtown Pittsburgh, grew louder and more frenzied the closer the hour drew to midnight.
A woman he had never met latched onto his arm.
She’s one of the wounded—one of the drinkers.
“Enjoying yourself?” she said, her words a bit too loud even for a boisterous party.
“I am,” Tolliver responded.
The blonde, attractive in a sharp, angular way and on the brink of being labeled “mature,” eyed Tolliver intently. “Are you a realtor?”
Tolliver laughed. “No. Just friends with someone who is friends with one of them. You folks have poor security, letting someone like me in.”
The woman screeched out a laugh. “I could tell you weren’t one of those realtors. You’re much too cute.”
Tolliver simply smiled in return.
The woman pointed to the large clock hung over the bar. It was clicking down—only minutes until the magic hour.
“You mind if I bring in the new year with you?” she asked, almost stroking his arm.
“I would be honored,” Tolliver replied. He knew how to handle himself in these situations.
The clock struck twelve, and horns and shouts and squeals erupted. The woman grabbed his neck and pulled him down to herself, latching onto his lips like a lamprey. He kept his eyes open. In the corner he noticed an older couple, obviously married, quietly holding hands. They exchanged a nearly chaste kiss, looking into each other’s eyes with reverence, love … and admiration.
In that moment, Tolliver hated the couple, hated their so-called happiness, hated the brazen flaunting of their blissful togetherness. They were taunting him, his past, and probably his future. He hated all they represented.
Tolliver angrily shut his eyes and returned the lamprey’s kiss with one of his own, knowing exactly how this night would play itself out.
Caldwell, Ohio
Five years ago
Henry Pratt parked his car almost in the shadow of a great expanse of stone wall of the Noble Correctional Institute. He hated this place, had hated it every time he visited it. He despised the hard chiseled walls and the gate’s echoed slam of metal on metal. He loathed the cold glister of razor wire that adorned the top of the wall.
But today was different. It would be the last visit. Never again would he be drawn to the darkness inside the massive walls.
He made his way to the entrance and waited. He looked at his watch: nearly noon. He could hear the rumbled announcements inside the walls, like a distant thunderstorm, and was just barely able to make out the words.
He waited longer. A few men with wide smiles passed him as he stood on one side of the walkway, each man trailing a mother, or a girlfriend, or a wife. There were no other men waiting with Henry. There were seldom men in the visiting area, either.
Men hold grudges more than women, I guess. And what father wants to see his son in this place?
Henry saw him as he exited the double doors—his youngest brother, Steven, walking slowly toward him, carrying only a paper sack. Henry did not move toward him but waited until his brother came within an arm’s reach, then stuck out his hand. Steven did not accept the hand but embraced his brother with a ferocity that scared him.
When Steven dropped his arms, he drew a deep breath, then another, and another. “Air smells different out here. Cleaner, for sure.”
Henry stood silently as his brother breathed fresh air for the first time in years, then asked, “You all set to head home?”
“I am, Henry. I am so ready.”
Neither man moved.
“You’re never coming back here, are you?” Henry asked, really more of a statement than a question. He had waited five years to say those words to his brother.
Steven shook his head. “With God as my witness, I’m never coming back here. That, I promise.”
Henry waited. “Gene’s at work. He wants us to hold off celebrating until he gets home.”
“I’ve been waiting five years,” Steven answered. “A few more hours won’t kill me, I suppose.”
And they walked, side by side, into the brilliant sunshine of an Ohio afternoon, in early summer, with only a hint of rain to come in the air.
Kane County, Pennsylvania
Five years ago
Bartholomew “Barth” Mills inspected each one of his tires, making sure all had the proper pressure and inflation, checking for nails and nicks in the rims. Everything looked good. He had checked the oil the night before, after loading the last of his belongings into the trailer. All he owned didn’t amount to enough to hire a moving company; his possessions fit into his battered old Jeep and a rented U-Haul he’d hitched onto the back. On this morning, Rascal, his dog, sat in the front seat, his tongue lolling out. The window was open; a slight mountain breeze flittered down the valley.
Barth checked the trailer hitch once again, making sure the chains were secure and that the wires running to the taillights were well taped.
He stood in the gravel driveway of the parsonage, the place he and his wife, Ellen—God rest her soul—had called home for nearly two decades. The last two years had been less than pleasant, much less than pleasant, and Barth almost looked forward to leaving … to starting over again, to living once more in the neighborhood where he was born and raised.
Almost.
He had retired from the church two months prior and had received his first check from his retirement funds. It was not a large amount, but then again, he had simpler needs now—just him and the dog.
He walked slowly to the wooden front doors of the church. When he was pastor, the doors were never locked. Now they were only unlocked when the new pastor decided to grace the building with his presence—which didn’t seem to be all that often. Barth tried his best not to feel bitter.
He peered through a pane of glass to the inside: just a dozen pews in depth, a small pulpit, and a wonderful, beveled window in the shape of a cross behind it. When he’d preached on certain days of the year, light had poured through that window and li
t him up like he was some sort of Christmas tree—a tree standing up for Christ, he’d told himself. Even now, as he looked through the window once more, he could feel that warm light on his shoulder. He could feel the sunshine of better days.
I’ll miss that, he thought. I’ll miss that window. I’ll miss this sacred space.
Today’s weather promised to be overcast; maybe later there would be a thick mist or a rain shower. That sort of damp cold bothered his bones, and he wondered once again why he wasn’t heading farther south than Pittsburgh as his final destination.
He touched the wood of the door with the tip of his finger, as if the building might say its good-byes. But he didn’t feel anything other than the dry rasp of a door in need of fresh stain.
He climbed into the Jeep, slipped in the key, and the engine turned over. The little red man on the dash beeped and beeped until he fastened his seat belt—a practice he had never taken to and would never get accustomed to performing.
He pulled out of the driveway, carefully backing out onto Route 6, though traffic was seldom heavy at any time of day.
“Well, Rascal, say good-bye.”
Rascal snuffled and wheezed in the brisk air as he leaned out the window.
“Now get inside, boy. Too cold to have an open window.”
The dog obeyed and, within a few miles, was fast asleep, snoring as he napped, curled up tight against the seat.
Twenty miles down the road, Barth came to a stop sign. He stepped on the brake, looked, then continued. A troubling thought entered his consciousness—one that had been there for weeks and months … one he kept pushing away and denying.
Good Lord, what am I going to do now?
The thought clamored about for another twenty miles of empty highway.
Lord, take me home … or give me a reason to stay.
Rascal kicked his leg, evidently dreaming of rabbits or squirrels, two of his most hated animals.
Other than this blasted dog, that is. Give me a reason beyond Rascal. Please, Lord.
CHAPTER ONE
Shadyside
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Early spring, present day
OLIVER CHECKED HIS WATCH. He squinted and positioned his wrist nearer to the glow of the truck’s speedometer.
5:45 a.m. Too early.
Oliver knew it was much too early to be wandering around in a strange neighborhood, but heavy Pittsburgh traffic—even the threat of heavy traffic—gave him the willies. Leaving his home later in the morning meant heavy traffic, probably normal for everyone, but not normal for Oliver. Navigating his pickup through dense packs of automobiles was far removed from Oliver’s comfort zone.
Too early.
He might risk the drive into Pittsburgh from Jeannette for a funeral or a wedding, or maybe a Steelers football game (if someone gave him free tickets), but not much else. Why risk life, limb, and sanity?
So today, Oliver had attempted to beat the traffic and the stress. He had gotten up at 4:30, not that much earlier than his normal wake-up time, had picked up a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee at the store a mile from his house, and had driven in the shimmery dark down Route 30. Traffic was light as he entered the flickering fluorescent-lit Squirrel Hill tunnel. Then, following his GPS, which he’d begun to rely on but did not always trust, he’d crept along a baffling series of residential streets until he arrived at his destination. The voice from the GPS unit seemed more chipper than he remembered in announcing his successful journey.
“Destination ahead. You have reached your destination.”
He pulled to the curb, scanning for street signs.
Cities have all sorts of laws about where you can and can’t park and when, he remembered. And I’m not about to get a ticket just giving someone a free estimate.
He looked about again, turning sideways in the seat.
I can’t just sit in the truck. That might look like I’m—what do they call it?—casing the place. I am, sort of—but not in that way.
He got out of the truck, jogged down the block, back to the front of his truck, then halfway up the block.
“No signs,” he said softly. “That’s odd. Should be some sort of parking sign.”
Oliver really disliked getting traffic tickets. He had received one speeding ticket in the last decade, but his parking violations occurred more frequently. Contractors sometimes had to double-park or park on sidewalks. He hated seeing a fluttering yellow slip, lying in wait with a bad day written all over it, snuggled under his windshield wiper.
“It must be okay to park here then,” he said out loud.
He walked slowly back toward his truck, tapped at the passenger-side window, and nearly pressed his face to the glass.
“Come on, Robert. Let’s get started on the estimate.”
Robert lifted his head and shook himself awake, blinking. He had slept through the entire trip. Not that the trip was that long, but he most often napped during any ride longer than ten minutes. He scrambled to his feet and stretched slowly and carefully.
Robert was Oliver’s dog. Most often Oliver and a fair number of his friends and coworkers would say “Robert the Dog” when speaking about Robert the Dog, as opposed to just “Robert,” because there were several other Roberts inhabiting Oliver’s circle of friends. No one wanted to confuse man and dog—least of all, Oliver. Oliver actually liked the sound of that three-word name and began to use “Robert the Dog” almost exclusively, except when they were alone, like this morning.
Robert the Dog clambered down from the seat to the floor of the truck and jumped out to the curb, sniffing the air, the grass, the truck, and finally, Oliver’s shoe. He might have been a pure-bred schnauzer but was the size of at least one and a half miniature schnauzers combined, though not as large as the giant variety, and his hair was mostly black. His head was almost the right schnauzer shape—not perfect to the breed, but close—so Oliver assumed a very small amount of some sort of nonschnauzer lineage had found its way into the good dog Robert.
Ever since Oliver had rescued Robert from the pound as a puppy, the two had gone everywhere and done everything together, including evaluating a new project … a possible new project. In construction, Oliver found, nothing was certain until the contract was signed—and even then, things could happen.
Oliver did not have to worry about Robert the Dog taking off, running into traffic, or barking at the wrong time. Robert had never done any of those things and, more than likely, would not start demonstrating inappropriate behaviors this early on a still-sunless Monday in Shadyside, just on the outskirts of Pittsburgh.
Oliver looked at the address again. He had listened to the phone message carefully three times to get the return phone number, the exact name of the potential client, and the address of the potential job correct. Now he stood on South Aiken Street and looked east.
“But this is a church,” he said to Robert the Dog.
Robert simply stared at the building, sniffing the cool morning air, as if he were not really interested.
“I mean … it’s a real church. I knew it was going to be a church, but not this kind of church.”
When Samantha Cohen had left her message five days ago, she had said her new acquisition, her latest renovation project, was a church building. She planned on transforming it, doing “wonderful things” with it. Oliver had imagined a small frame building, a church-like building that might be easily changed into a gallery or antique shop—but not a heavy, old historic church-to-the-very-rafters sort of building.
This is a real church—and will always look like a real church.
“Can you meet me Monday morning?” Miss Cohen had said, her voice deep and raspy, in a memorable, alluring, black-and-white Lauren Bacall–movie kind of way. “I really need to talk this project through. Alice and Frank Adams,
my friends in Butler, just raved about your work. Said you were brilliant with their displays and cabinets and all types of furnishings. I need brilliant. I’m willing to pay for brilliant. So Monday. Early. If you can make it. Leave me a return message. I’ll get it, even if I don’t call you back. I’m a little OC when it comes to checking messages.”
Oliver had left a return message: “Early Monday. Sevenish? I might be there before seven just to look around the outside, if that’s okay with you. I get up early.”
What he was now staring at in the early light, and what Robert was sniffing, was an historically significant church. No one could lay eyes on this building, even in the dark on a foggy night, and see anything other than a rock-solid church. This was a church with a capital C. It had massive stone arches; huge stained-glass windows that traversed the sides of the church; a rotunda that certainly must hold the altar. There was a covered entranceway (the port cochere, Oliver knew it was called) done in huge stone blocks and a high tower with a cross and carillon.
Just standing there, thinking about remodeling the old structure into something other than a place of worship, gave Oliver a case of spiritual heebie-jeebies.
“This is a church,” he repeated again.
He stood, wrapped in that early-morning silence that occurs even in big cities, like the soft, fragile, and short-in-duration crease in the day between the dark and its dark noises and the early-morning let’s-get-the-commute-going sort of noises. Oliver wondered if he should just get back in his truck, pretend that he had never made the mistake of answering the phone message from Samantha Cohen, and move on to the next job.
I’ll be tearing apart a church. God’s house, where people have worshipped for what must be over a century.
He wanted to sigh but did not.
My mother will die if she finds out.
Oliver wondered, for just one split of a split second, if he could keep this job secret. Not that he liked keeping secrets from his mother, but sometimes parents could not be trusted to handle sensitive news.
