Light of Logan

by Regina Smeltzer

  Representative Dennis Welch approached. “You ready for the vote?”

  Stewart tipped his chin upward in the fashion familiar to southern men.

  An aide, juggling a stack of binders, broke between the two men. “Sorry, sorry,” she mumbled as she pressed forward, the scent of a floral cologne lingering in her wake.

  Inside the chamber, Stewart walked down the right aisle. Filtered air sucked the moisture from his face. Conversations streamed, the words indistinct by sheer numbers and the cavernous space. However, one voice broke free, and Stewart cringed.

  Young and tall, Joseph Ackerman puffed out his broad chest. “As you know, this bill has been called landmark legislation because we have chosen to take a stand against inequity. We”—he indicated those around him—“have carved our place in history.”

  Stewart Gleason grimaced. The smug first-termer had leaped to power because of his name, not by his accomplishments. Some of the congressmen hung on the young man’s words, as though the greenhorn’s opinion was more valid than anyone else’s. It all came down to social power. Joseph Ackerman came from wealth, and he made sure everyone knew it. His family could buy South Carolina if they wanted. They already owned Georgia.

  Todd Myers, representative from Darlington County, slid into the seat beside Stewart. He pulled a folder from his briefcase and tossed the green file onto the table. “Did you see the crows outside? Man, they’re everywhere. Huge boogers. Must be a hundred of them on the lawn.”

  Stewart had seen the crows, and they gave him the willies because the birds didn’t act like crows. Crows made noise, they ate anything they could get their beaks on, and they definitely did not sit in the grass and stare silently. Something was wrong with those birds.

  ~*~

  Ruth scooted closer to the railing; Representative Gleason looked just as he did at the public meetings at the library. She never actually attended, but he always seemed sincere as she passed by. The congressman sat with his back straight. Such confidence! Ruth beamed with pride. She would never be able to stand in front of people as he did, sharing thoughts and swaying opinions. Thinking about it made her shudder.

  A few straggling legislators entered the chamber. Some joined small groups engaged in conversation while others strode with determination directly to their assigned seats, dropping expensive-looking briefcases to the floor with as much regard as she gave her lunch sack.

  While Ruth tried to absorb all the activity below, her gaze kept returning to a group of legislators who seemed spellbound by the man in the center. Chins were rubbed and heads bobbed up and down, but no one interrupted the speaker. Shifting for a better view, she still couldn’t see who held their attention. Her pulse quickened as she thought of what it would be like to command such respect. The group broke apart and as she stared, the man in the center looked up into the gallery.

  Ruth gasped. She pushed herself back into the seat, hoping to melt into the wood and metal framework. As his glance met hers, sourness burned the back of her throat. She had known that eventually she would see him again, but not like this: not serving as a member of the South Carolina House of Representatives.

  Below, the gavel sounded, and the man took his seat but not before Ruth saw the smirk. Even from the distance, he looked directly at her and winked. Her surprise turned to rage. Thankfully, anger bound her to the chair because she wanted to stand and scream at him in front of his friends, to ruin his life as his selfishness had ruined hers. Her clenched jaws hurt and she tried to pry her teeth apart. As she stared at his broad shoulders and flaxen hair, she blinked. For just a breath of a second, he had looked very much like a crow.

  Why was he here? His family lived in Georgia, not South Carolina. She breathed in and out, trying to control her raging emotions, the landmark vote forgotten as her mind whisked back almost four years.

  His family house in Atlanta looked like a castle made of towering white brick, manicured lawns, and orderly flowerbeds. Ruth’s mother cleaned house for the Ackermans three days a week. Ruth had hitched a ride to the rich side of town with her boyfriend, Morgan, when he set out to test-drive a car brought into his dad’s garage for repairs.

  “This is where you want dropped off?” Morgan asked. His eyes bugged. “Who do you know who lives here?” His remark wasn’t sarcastic, just realistic. The tired apartment Ruth and her mom rented was a world away from the Ackermans’ three-floor mammoth.

  “My mom cleans for them. Thought I’d surprise her. She hates the bus ride home, and I saved a trip on my pass today, thanks to you.” She got out of the car and waved good-bye.

  He roared the engine in response. Even though his dad owned a garage, Morgan’s financial situation wasn’t that much better than hers. Any profit his dad made went back into the struggling business. But Morgan treated her well, and she envisioned a future with him. Morgan represented strength. He knew exactly what he wanted to do while she still floundered. It was May. Their senior year of high school was almost over. Because his dad needed him at the garage, Morgan planned to attend the community college.

  She would bypass college and find a full-time job, maybe clerical, since she could type more words-per-minute than anyone else in the school. Not her dream, but then, this was life.

  The day was hot, and sweat coated her face. The neighborhood seemed strangely quiet, and after a minute of contemplation, she realized the difference. This part of town lacked the smelly busses and exhaust-spewing semis that traversed her streets. A bird twittered, and she smiled, even though she couldn’t spot the gleeful noisemaker among the young trees.

  As she stood on the sidewalk staring up at the house, the front door opened, revealing the most handsome man she had ever seen. Her knees melted.

  He’d been dressed in shorts and a polo shirt and held himself with an air that said money. His short, blond hair had been swept perfectly to one side. His chin was square and lifted just enough that his opinion of himself was instantly clear. “You need something?” he asked, a friendly smile curving perfect lips.

  Embarrassment flushed her face as she tried to find her tongue now lost in her gaping mouth. “I’m waiting for my mom. Sorry if I bothered you.” There was no law against standing on the sidewalk, yet she felt a need to acknowledge her place.

  “Your mom?” He leaned against the doorframe, his tanned skin highlighted against the white trim.

  “She’s cleaning your house.” Please don’t let me die of heart failure.

  He pushed the door open wider. “Come on in; no need to stand outside in the heat.”

  She’d stumbled backward. Her foot rolled on the edge of the sidewalk and she landed in grass softer than the mattress on her bed. Mortified, she jumped up. “Really, I’ll just wait here.”

  “I insist.” Was there humor playing on his face?

  She found herself not only in the house, but on the back porch with iced tea in a real glass, as though she were a princess. But his house had not been a castle and what happened within had not been a dream come true.

  And the source of her nightmare now stood on the House of Representatives’ floor.

  ~*~

  Stewart Gleason gathered his folders.

  The vote was over. The solemn chamber erupted into a cacophony of shuffling feet, jangling keys, and pleasant voices. Representatives shook hands with colleagues they wouldn’t miss during the off-season. As a body, the representatives moved toward the door at the back of the chamber, eager to escape from elected responsibilities until the next session. Always, there would be a next. Life was nothing more than a cycle of behavior, people running round and round like a hamster on a wheel, feeling pompous for the activity, but simply repeating history, over and over.

  “Thought you might need a cup of coffee before you head back to Logan,” Dennis Welch said.

  “Sure.” Stewart lacked the energy to say no. He counted Dennis among his friends, and right now, friends were in short supply.

  The State House Coffee Shop was deserted
, a rarity during sessions. Tile floors, streaked with black scuffs, would be buffed to a tough gloss before congress reconvened. A pink plastic carnation in a milk-glass vase sat on each of the thirty-or-so empty tables. The decoration was probably someone’s attempt to infuse softness into a space where conversations swirled harsh and bitter.

  The scent of hot grease and burnt meat lingered. The grill along the back wall guarded against anything healthy. One vending machine displayed stale-looking sandwiches behind glass doors while another held chips and candy, ready for the desperate. Stewart brought apples to Columbia with him, bags full, that he shared with anyone who needed a healthy break. Tonight, there would be no late-night workers rushing in for an apple from Stewart or sustenance from the Coffee Shop. The building breathed a heavy silence.

  The two congressmen filled their cups from the large coffeemaker that held hot brew after-hours. They chose a table that flanked the hallway windows, a popular spot during the busy days.

  Stewart sipped and grimaced. The coffee had evaporated into a thick sludge. Even so, it was hot; steam swirled from its surface and the cup offered warmth to his hands.

  Dennis cleared his throat. “I know you aren’t happy about the vote.”

  Stewart glanced around him: white Formica tabletops and chairs with red vinyl seats. Normally, a heavyset woman sat on the stool behind the cash register, her kinky hair escaping the green hairnet as she scanned customers’ food items and collected the money due. She was gone now.

  The steam from his coffee rose and disappeared. He breathed in and out, calming his nerves while arranging his thoughts. “It passed,” Stewart finally said. “I hoped it wouldn’t.”

  “It may not be as bad as you think. Projections show—”

  “It’s immoral to bankrupt churches.” The caustic words came before he knew he would say them. Rancid coffee and pent-up anger ignited in his stomach, and he reached into his pocket for an antacid. The legislators were idiots. No, not idiots, just smart people looking to fix a system that couldn’t be fixed. Thanks to Joseph Ackerman, they had latched onto the one thing that would generate revenue for the struggling state. How long had it taken the man to figure it out? Ackerman didn’t seem all that sharp; he must have had help.

  “The state is in a bad way,” Dennis said. “We struggle every year to keep the budget in the black. If we had money, the vote never would have happened.” His eyes lit with energy. “You know as well as I do that our small towns are dying.”

  How many times had Dennis given his “cities are dying; we are here to save them” speech? His words sounded rehearsed.

  Four children ran up the hall, their laughter and footsteps echoing in the tomblike silence. Were they a part of a lingering school group? Where was the teacher?

  Dennis nodded toward the hall. “The average classroom in South Carolina has thirty-five students like those two, up from twenty-four just five years ago. Teachers can’t provide the attention they used to. Our kids are falling behind; State Proficiency Tests prove it. Scores in math and science have dropped in spite of the new curriculum.”

  Dennis took a swallow of coffee and shoved the cup toward the center of the table. “Nasty stuff.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re worried about our kids? Let’s give them an education that will jump-start their futures.” Dennis leaned back in his chair and a faint smile shaped his lips. “You can’t disagree with that.”

  “I disagree with the source of the money.”

  Stewart wanted to shake the smug look from his friend’s face, wishing for the time not-so-long-ago when manly disagreements were settled by a good brawl. Some legislature probably voted a fist-to-the-jaw as unacceptable. “Non-profits have always been exempt from paying real estate taxes,” Stewart said. “Now, after today’s vote, they have to pay, and they have to meet the first six months’ debt in thirty days. Churches don’t have that kind of money.”

  Dennis rested his forearms on the table. “Each municipality has the choice to implement the tax. Besides, we both know churches tuck money away for a rainy day.”

  Stewart leaned back in his chair. “Do you go to church?” His words barely rose above a whisper.

  “I am a member of—”

  “But how often do you actually go? Every Sunday? Once a month? On Easter and Christmas? Do you serve on a committee like the budget or missions?”

  Dennis’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your point?”

  “Do you tithe?”

  Dennis pushed himself from the table. “Come on, Stewart. Look at the numbers. In a recent poll, 93% of South Carolina’s adults claimed to be a member of a Christian church. We have almost four million adults in the state, so that gives an average of, what, nine hundred thousand, wage-earners who are church members? The churches have money.”

  “In my church,” Stewart said, “we have a membership of about 500. On an average Sunday morning, the attendance is around 180. Of those who come regularly, about a third tithe. The others toss a dollar in the plate—maybe. On a good year, we collect eighty percent of our projected budget.”

  “Maybe you need a new minister.”

  “It’s not the minister. He preaches the Word. Look at the statistics, Dennis, and you’ll find attendance down in the churches nationally and financial giving right along with it. That huge savings you alluded to, it doesn’t exist; and if it did, the money was spent long ago.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “Churches won’t be able to pay this tax.”

  “Come on. The big income folks will bail them out.”

  “It won’t happen. And if, by chance, some good person does donate the money for the taxes this June, what happens in January, and the next June, and the year after that? The tax will erode the church’s effectiveness.” He tried to soften his expression, forcing his lips into a fight between scowl and anger.

  Dennis waved his hand in dismissal as he stood to leave. “Next session we’ll talk again. It’s going to work, buddy. It’s going to work.”

  Stewart sat alone in the silent coffee shop. The issue wasn’t about paying bills. The real issue was saving souls. Steward reached for the roll of antacids in his pocket, only to find the wrapper empty.

  ~*~

  The roots released with little effort from the sandy soil. Ruth gripped the dandelion just below the yellow flower, imagining Joe’s neck between her hands. The small vegetable garden usually served as therapy. She had been digging in the dirt for an hour, and the plot of tomatoes, peppers, lettuce and herbs stood camera-ready. But tension still squeezed her muscles. She rose and stretched her neck and back, feeling the tight kinks and aches that had started earlier in the day.

  Seeing Joe had shaken her more than she thought possible. After almost four years, she had expected his greeting to be more civil. But to smirk at her! His haughty attitude bit into her fragile pride. His glance into the gallery and his recognition of her with such surety had not been coincidental. He must have spotted her earlier, when she’d focused her attention elsewhere.

  As she picked soil from under her nails, she glanced around the backyard. Not much to look at, but it met her needs. Encircled on three sides by a rusty fence that wouldn’t keep out stray cats or strangers, none-the-less it gave a sense of boundaries. The metal shed in the far left housed the garden tools and yard-sale lawn mower she had accumulated after moving in. The ancient gas mower refused to start half the time. Not that she could ask her neighbors for help. Most of them turned surly faces toward her when she was out, or else they shied away, as though afraid she might identify them in a police lineup.

  The tomatoes were beginning to ripen, showing a blush of red across the green skin. In a week, she could pick the first of her crop. Already the cilantro stood tall and full. She plucked a leaf and popped it into her mouth. All the fixings for salsa, right here in her garden.

  As the sun dropped below the tip of the trees, the mosquitoes ventured from wherever they spent the heat of the day
. Swatting at the flying nuisances, she carried the rake and hoe to the shed and locked the sliding metal doors.

  As hard as she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking of Joe. The bad memories she had stored away in a cupboard of her mind had suddenly opened, one drawer at a time. But now the anticipated meeting was over, and she really could forget him. There was no reason she should ever see Joseph Ackerman again.

  3

  Friday, May 10

  Nate pounded the roofing nail gun across the line of shingles, securing the brown strips to the black tar paper and plywood beneath. Sweat dripped into his eyes as the breathless May air trapped heat as efficiently as a cocoon made of plastic wrap. And the days would only get worse. Summer in South Carolina amounted to heat and humidity in massive doses.

  Worse than the heat, more distracting than the sound of his friend Chet singing off-key from the other side of the roof, was the annoying memory of the woman’s face from three days ago. It was just a quick, last-minute trip to the courthouse; something he had managed dozens of times for the boss. Only this time he’d stumbled over a girl. Oh, he had moved on and finished the boss’s work, but the girl remained trapped in his thoughts.

  Wiping the sweat from his face, he sat back on his heels. Even though his portion of the roof in the back baked in the sun, a large oak shaded Chet’s front side of the house, and a mature magnolia, at least twenty-five feet tall, hugged the road.

  He silently blessed the owners of this Miller Street property for insisting the trees be saved. Most of the construction sites lately were in new, logged-out developments on the edge of town. What a waste of nature‒and what irony. He built houses for a living, yet he stressed over losing a few trees. Still, there had to be better ways of meeting the public’s demand than stripping the land bare.

  He lifted the tail of his t-shirt and dried the handle of the nail gun. He told the crew repeatedly that if the tool slipped in their hands, they’d as likely put a nail through their foot as through the roof. So far this season, there had been no accidents.