by Terri Kraus
“Barth, it’s Oliver. You brought your dog.”
Barth was near to falling, his nonretractable leash wound around one leg and a parking meter. “Stupid mutt. Does this with every dog. Like he’s a doormat or something. Get up, Rascal. It’s okay.”
Rascal finally got the message and wheezed over to one side, his short, stubby legs scrabbling to gain purchase on the ground. With a mighty galumph, he rolled onto his belly and stood up, appearing as if he considered it an event of monumental and satisfying proportions.
Oliver pulled out a chair. “Will you join us for coffee?” he asked, surprising himself, since he was not the sort of person who was all that chummy even with old friends.
Barth succeeded in untangling himself, snorting as he did. “I guess. But no caffeine for me. Too late. These people have anything without caffeine, do you think?”
Oliver assured him that they did. “I’ll watch Rascal for you. He seems to be okay now.”
Barth repeated “Stupid mutt” one more time, then headed inside. Rascal looked up at Oliver, sat down with a wheeze, and then shifted his limpid, watery stare between Robert, whom he recognized as a dog, and Oliver, who smelled like he had food with him.
Barth returned with a cardboard cup and sat down heavily in the chair. “At this time of night, my knees let me know they’ve had it. Getting old is a … well, getting old is never as pleasant as those blasted AARP magazines make it out to be. They never ask me how it feels to turn seventy. If they did, I’d tell ’em the truth. Not like those fancy Hollywood types who can afford to have people do everything for ’em.”
Oliver sat quietly, listening.
“Meant to tell you that I apologize for being crabby about your business the other day. You have to work. I know that. And if the building … I mean, if you’re okay with the building not being a church anymore, then who am I to tell you what to do? I’m just an old pastor. I can be pretty old-fashioned and thickheaded. I know God ain’t … isn’t only in religious buildings. He’s inside each one of us. Or He should be. Or He wants to be.”
Barth sipped at his cup. Oliver smelled cinnamon.
“You a Christian, Oliver? You believe? I didn’t get around to asking.”
Oliver nodded. “I am, Barth. I guess I’ve always been one, but I understand what it means. Forgiven. Redeemed. Following Christ.”
“Yep. That’s good. Since I don’t do pastoring anymore, I have to remind myself to be … up front about it. Ask folks. If they say they don’t know, why then, I’ve got an opening.”
Oliver broke the scone in half. “You want some, Barth? Too much for one person.”
Barth waved it off while drinking. “Give some to the dogs. They’ll enjoy it a sight more than I will, I bet. Something about watching how much a dog loves food gives a fellow encouragement.”
Oliver broke pieces off the scone and tried to give both Rascal and Robert an equal share. Robert was well behaved as he accepted his piece, but Rascal snorked and shoveled at the food as if he had not been fed in weeks—yet the dog’s ample belly proved that false in an instant.
A few cars whirred past as they sat. A clutch of pedestrians, well into their cups, jostled along, laughing and slurring. Both dogs looked up and followed the crowd intently, Rascal sampling the air like a machine.
“Old habits,” Barth explained. “At one time, Rascal was a great bird dog. Bassets don’t usually make for good bird dogs, but Rascal was. I didn’t hunt, even back then, but we both liked watching pheasants clear out of a patch of grassland, their wings clattering in the air, those squawks following them as they flew off. Old Rascal would stand there, looking back at me, with a grin of accomplishment on his face. He never figured out that a dog should chase them. And once he heard a gunshot, he dropped to the ground, shaking like a bunny. Had to carry him home.”
Rascal turned around as Barth talked about him, almost adding a rueful nod at the end of the story as if to say it was all true.
“Barth, what sort of pastor were you? Back when you were pastoring,” Oliver asked.
“A good one.” Barth laughed. “Well, maybe decent is a better word. I was okay. If you mean what denomination—it was an independent church. It didn’t grow that much. But then, Kane is a small town, not many people to draw on, and once they get settled in a church, not much moving takes place. Not like here in Pittsburgh. People pick up and move all the time. In all of Kane County, there were maybe a dozen churches, so there was no place you could go where they didn’t know you.”
Oliver sipped at his coffee, never liking to sip the hot liquid through that tiny opening in the cup’s lid. But if he left it off, he ran the risk of a bug drowning in the milky foam.
“Getting back to the church building,” Barth continued, “if you’re a true Christian, Oliver, then you also must know that we are the church. In the New Testament, the Greek word ekklesia appears over a hundred times—and never meant a place. It always meant a group of people who followed Christ, who said He would build His church, and the gates of hell could not prevail against it. In those days, they didn’t have buildings to worship in. They met in homes, or outside. They didn’t have all the fancy trappings and fancy denominations—all that came later. And look how Christianity spread in the first century without all that. That’s what happens when the Holy Spirit comes down. Don’t get me started.”
“Barth, can I ask you a question? Sort of a church-and-pastor kind of question?”
“Ask away. Be good to keep my theology sharp, right?”
“I’ve got a chance to hire three brothers to work on the old church with me. Hard workers, pleasant, good carpenters.”
“So far, Oliver, I don’t see any theology in this one. You’re not doing a good job of stumping me.”
“Not at the hard part yet,” he replied and handed each dog another thumb-sized chunk of scone. So far, Oliver had not tasted it himself.
“Two of the brothers have a criminal record. Served time in jail. Since then, they’ve been law-abiding and all that. My question is: Should I hire them? Being ex-criminals and all?”
Barth leaned back and stroked his chin. “A lot of different ways I could answer this. Stay away from bad influences. Avoid fools. Surround yourself with like-minded people.”
Oliver listened closely. “So … I shouldn’t hire them?”
Barth bristled. “No. That’s not my answer. Do they deserve a second chance? Will they do a good job? Are they a danger to anyone?”
Rascal wheezed a bit and lifted his front legs on Oliver’s knee, staring up at him, snuffling the air, trying to determine if there was any more of whatever it was he had been eating. Oliver tore the last remaining piece of scone in two and gave one to him. Rascal inhaled the tidbit.
“Get down, you mutt,” Barth softly barked out. “You’ve had enough.”
Oliver tossed the last bit to Robert, who hardly moved his head and snagged the piece in midair, gulping it down.
“You know, when God wanted to use a man, didn’t matter what he was—only what he had inside and what he might become. He picked Paul. Most bosses would see his résumé and toss it out. But God saw something inside. That’s the hard part, Oliver. Do you see something inside these men? Something good, or honorable, or a willingness—something that’s beginning to change? If that is there, go ahead and hire them. Who knows what kind of influence you may have in their lives? Ellen, my wife, used to quote an old Swedish proverb: ‘Love me when I least deserve it, because that is when I really need it.’ And remember—God is the God of second chances. And we need to be that way too.”
Oliver let his relief show on his face. “Thanks. That’s the advice I needed.”
Barth grinned. “It’s not like you’re marrying these fellows. It’s only a job, right?”
Oliver nodded. At that moment, he realized that the secon
d question he was letting form in his thoughts might best be left unasked, at least for now.
Samantha climbed the stairs to her bedroom slowly, as if not wanting to call an end to the evening. Once she reached her bedroom, her date would officially be over.
She tossed her sweater into a corner of her closet and dropped her blouse and slacks on top of it, grabbing at a nightgown. She knew Mally would scold her about the pile in the morning, a familiar yet comforting admonition.
Dropping onto her bed, she pushed the gathering of decorative pillows and shams into a deep pile and lay back against them. She grabbed her cell phone and scrolled through the numbers once, then again.
There’s no one to talk to about this.
She stood up, grabbed her robe, and slipped down the hall, the back staircase, the long hall toward the kitchen, the three steps, and then the short hallway that led to Mally’s quarters—a large bedroom, bathroom, and cozy sitting area. Samantha seldom entered this part of the house. Her father had scolded her once, as a young teenager, for bothering Mally at night.
“You let her be after hours,” he warned. “She needs her time away from us. And if she gets too much like family, then I can’t be her employer. You understand?”
Samantha didn’t, but she obeyed, most of the time. And so tonight she ignored what her father said years ago, because she needed someone to talk to, and her father was of no use with questions about men and women—especially if the woman was his only daughter.
Samantha tapped softly.
“Dat be you, Miss Sam? I hear you comin’ in before. Come on in, child.”
Mally was still fully dressed. The TV was turned to a Spanish soap opera.
“I didn’t know you speak Spanish,” Samantha said.
“Oh, child, I don’. I pick out words sometimes. I likes to guess at what dey be sayin’. More fun than dose dancin’ shows. Dey be a foolish waste of time.”
Samantha let herself fall onto the loveseat opposite where Mally sat.
“You be out with de new man? De one from de church?”
Samantha nodded.
“He not come in? You not ask him in? He dat bad?”
As Samantha shook her head, she realized how well acquainted Mally was with Samantha’s history in dating. All too often Samantha let her dates become overnight guests, well before they had earned that privilege—at least according to Samantha’s preset rules on dating and intimacy. Mally had grumbled to Samantha many times in the past that she let her desires get in the way of her brain.
“You not be dinkin’ with your head, child, but wid somethin’ else altogether,” she often said.
“No,” Samantha answered, “he’s a really sweet man. I invited him in, and he said no. And you know what, Mally? I was happy he said no. I don’t know why I was happy, because he’s really cute and treats me … well, like a lady. Like he really respects me, likes me for me. I just feel … safe with him.”
Mally moved from her chair to sit beside Samantha on the couch. “It be de proper way, Miss Sam. A real gentlemen, he don’ be goin’ fast because he can. Take his time. Dat be de right ding.”
“You think? It’s not because he finds me disgusting, is it? Or he’s gay?”
“Child, you have de most crazy thoughts. He sound like a gentleman, dat be all. A gentleman gets to know a lady. You got time. He got time. Plenty a time, Miss Sam.”
Samantha took a thickness of her hair and twisted and twirled it in her fingers.
“So, what dis fellow like? You need to bring him to Mally so I can get to what he be made of.”
“I will, Mally. He’s as tall as me. Almost. Maybe a half inch shorter. He has blond hair, short, but not too short … no annoying buzz cut. He has a kind face and gray eyes. Nice hands, too—especially for a contractor.”
“He be dressed nice?”
“Nothing fancy, Mally. Khakis. Blue shirt.” Samantha giggled. “I think he was wearing Old Spice aftershave.”
“Dat be bad?”
Samantha held open her palms. “I don’t know. It’s the stuff I used to buy for Daddy at Chanukah … when my mother was alive.…”
And as soon as the words were out, Samantha knew what would happen. If she didn’t talk about it, the pain wouldn’t be there. If the name wasn’t mentioned, her loss wouldn’t seem as great. But there it was, and for that moment, Samantha felt alone and lost and adrift. There was a catch in her throat and a tear in each eye.
When she turned to Mally and held out her arms, Mally tenderly embraced her, stroking her hair and whispering, “All be okay, child. I know you miss her. It be hard, Miss Sam. It be hard on all of us left back home.”
Sam let herself cry—not because she missed her mother, but because she didn’t miss her at all. That absence of feeling scared her and made her feel so very guilty—just like her mother’s curse scared her and made her feel bad.
Taller entered his dark apartment and didn’t turn on a single lamp. The light from the streetlamp at the end of the block was enough illumination to navigate. He placed his keys in the cobalt bowl, then readjusted the bowl’s position an inch to the left.
Walking into his bedroom, he took off his shoes, placing them in the empty spots on the shoe rack in the corner of the walk-in closet. He took off his still-clean shirt and placed it into the hamper. Removing an old sweatshirt from the top of his dresser, he slipped it on, then padded out, barefoot, into the kitchen. He stood in front of the sink, debating between tea and coffee, and decided on neither of them. Taking a new bottle of water from the middle shelf of the refrigerator, Taller walked slowly out into the living room and took a seat at the end of the high-backed sofa. He carefully cracked the seal of the bottle, making sure he didn’t spill any liquid on the sofa’s fabric, and drank deeply, nearly consuming half the bottle in that first long drink.
He screwed the cap back on and placed it on the coaster at the edge of the end table.
Why did I do that?
He leaned back and let his head loll on the back of the sofa, his eyes open and focused on the darkness above him.
It was too easy. She was too easy. It was all too easy. And I’m only going to hurt both of them—Ollie and Paula.
He closed his eyes and breathed in deep.
And it will simply kill my mother.
That’s when he found a look of pleasure on his face but quickly wiped it off. Sitting up, he picked up the bottle of water, moved the coaster back into its place, and marched into the bedroom, knowing full well that sleep would elude him this evening.
It will kill her.
He opened his eyes to the darkness.
And it will drive Ollie crazy.
Paula opened the door to her daughter’s bedroom only an inch to peer into the room. It was barely lit by a nightlight in the shape of a frog, casting a green color over the room. Bridget lay still, the blanket nearly off her tiny form. Paula slipped into the room as silently as she could, lifted the blanket, and settled it carefully over Bridget’s shoulders. For several minutes, Paula watched as her daughter’s chest rose and fell, rhythmically.
As Paula’s hands rested on the side rail, her grip tightened, harder and harder, as if she were hanging on to some dangerous thrill ride, with the passenger car careening down the tracks. With all the blind turns and dips and curves in her path, if she let go, she would be hurled out into space.
Why did I do that? Why did I let him do that?
She rubbed her hand under her nose, thinking that tears might accompany her thoughts. So far, they had not.
I like Taller. I always have. Why did he come over tonight? Why?
She looked down at her child. Bridget rustled a bit and kicked her legs, jostling the blanket from her shoulder again. Paula retrieved it and backed out of the room, not fully closing the door, knowing that th
e latch clicked loudly and might waken her child.
She stepped out into the darkened living room and walked over to the kitchen table. Picking up each of the four beer cans in succession, she shook them gently. They were all empty. She opened the refrigerator, sliding items about one way and then another. Disappointed, she closed the door. Walking over to the pantry, she switched on the light. Up on the top shelf, behind the sack of flour she never used, was an amber bottle, half full. Retrieving it, she poured two inches of the liquid into a plastic tumbler, added some cola from a two-liter bottle that was in the refrigerator door, and swirled the contents to mix them. She took one swallow, and then another, until the cup was almost empty before setting it on the counter.
Picking up the comforter that was spread out over the couch cushions, she walked it back to the laundry room and threw it toward the washing machine.
I’ll get to it tomorrow.
Once back in the kitchen, she swallowed the rest of the drink and pulled out a kitchen chair. She sat down heavily, pushed the empty pizza box out of the way, folded her arms on the table, and laid her head on her arms. Closing her eyes tightly, she tried to think of nothing—nothing except the darkness and the stillness of the night.
Rose waited at the back door, her key in the lock, until the garage door fully descended. Then she turned the key and slipped into the dark kitchen. The light on her stove, the kind of stove they don’t make any more, was more than enough light to see. Rose poured cold coffee into a pan, placed it on the gas burner, and turned the handle. The pilot light whoofed and the burner ignited. She could have used the microwave, a gift from Oliver several years earlier, but she didn’t want stray, leftover waves of energy scattering out when she opened the door. Their cumulative effect might cause some manner of brain injury.
She sat at the kitchen table and took an envelope out of her purse. She extracted a thickness of U.S. currency and fanned the bills out—nearly seven hundred dollars. She had not won the grand prize at bingo that night but had won one of the two semigrand prizes. She tapped the bills into a stack, carried them with her to the stove in one hand, poured the now-hot coffee into a cup with the other hand, and went back to the table. This time she counted the bills twice, just to be certain.
