An older man made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Always more of them crows around on church day, so it seems.”
The door opened again and a well-dressed woman entered. Her spiked heels clicked on the wood floor as she walked into the living room.
“Beth Ann!” Wilma called to the woman.
“Hey, friend!”
“I’d offer you a seat, but…” she scrunched her shoulders together. The two women chatted, one sitting, the other standing.
Strange, this unfathomable desire to be with church people. Here, surrounded by those who shared a faith in a God Ruth didn’t understand, the fear of her secret felt less intense. She tried not to think about her mistake but to simply move from day to day. That’s what she did best—blindly push ahead. Since meeting Nate, something in her had awakened.
Jeb Hawthorn, the Road Man, as she’d thought of him since the day he dug out her pine trees on the swamp road, strolled into the room clutching his Bible and the hand of a skinny little boy about five. “Hey, folks. Nice sunny mornin’ God’s given us.”
Ruth caught his eye, and they smiled the familiar acknowledgement of friends. Her seed of contentment grew another root.
“There’s my pretty wanderer,” Jeb said to Ruth. “Glad you aren’t confused by having to change locations every week. Got to love the mayor and his definition of a church.”
Before Ruth could reply, Nate interjected, “I keep her informed.” Nate began to stand but Jeb waved him down.
“Stay put. Otherwise, you might lose your spot.” Jeb gazed around the room. “We got us a crowd today.”
A burly man and a petite woman entered. His booming voice sounded above the chatter in the room. “What happened to the front of the house?”
“I didn’t hear a thing,” Mr. Sparks said, throwing his hands up. “Clarence told me about it when he got here this morning. They cut the azaleas, too.”
The burly man, introduced as Mark Fisher, laughed. “Wore my old clothes today just in case we had a re-match with the tomatoes.” He snickered and a glint shone in his eyes. “Thought about bringing a box of my own; you know, give me a chance to return fire.”
“Oh, Mark, stop it,” the petite woman said.
He grinned at his wife and winked. “I brought something else.” He pulled out a disposable plastic poncho.
“Honestly. Do I have to check your pockets when we leave the house like I did our son?”
The Fishers blended into the mix of the room.
When the pastor of the week, Thomas Crowley, minister of Grace Trinity Lutheran, stepped behind the card table, the room quieted. “Good morning to all of you.”
Ruth’s eyes widened, surprised at the deep baritone voice from the short, stout man.
The pastor scanned the room, his gaze settling on the hostess. “Velma, I think we have another guest. I heard the kitchen door.”
Velma glanced at her husband. “You didn’t lock the door?” She hurried toward the kitchen and soon returned. “The door wasn’t latched. I closed it, and,” she said with a glare toward her husband, “I locked it.”
As Pastor Crowley began reading the scripture, Nate turned and lifted his Bible toward Ruth. His rough fingers moved gently over the thin pages, making scratching sounds on the paper as he traced each word.
The pastor read from I Kings 18.
To Ruth, the story sounded like a fable. A prophet named Elijah poured water over a meat sacrifice and prayed for God to consume it. Fire fell from the sky and all that remained of the meat was a pile of ashes. Even the rocks burned from the heat of God’s fire. Then fire destroyed the idol, Baal.
Ruth didn’t know the Bible contained stories like this. She thought the Bible held lists of rules, like the Ten Commandments, and the consequences of not following them.
Elijah sounded like a cool man who really trusted God. She believed in God, she was sure of that now, just not a God who took the time to notice her. Now that she knew God didn’t actually make an appearance at church either, she didn’t see much use in prayer. And yet, Elijah knew something about God that she didn’t know. Another question for Mr. Charlie.
An offering was collected in a round metal plate. The pastor nodded to several of the men, including Nate, to take the money to the kitchen for an official count. Nate had explained that the churches had made some sort of arrangement for the offerings in order to pay utilities on the various buildings and meet the obligation of the pastors’ salaries.
“Thank you all for coming.” Pastor Crowley concluded. “Anyone who can stay, I’m sure the Sparks would appreciate help scrubbing the paint off the bricks in the front of the house.”
“I hate to suggest this,” a middle-aged gentleman said before the people began to head for rags and buckets, “I know we’ve gone from two weeks at one place to one week, but maybe we should keep our worship location a secret altogether. Look what happened today.”
“But how will new people know where to go?” Betsy remained sitting on the floor beside Chet, who had his casted leg stretched out in front of him. “We’ve been posting the locations on social media—”
“And we have our printed schedules,” a gray-haired woman said, waving a well-folded sheet of paper in the air.
“What if we post a note on the church doors telling people to contact one of the members?” Mr. Sparks asked.
“Then anyone can find out where we are.” Chet rubbed his chin. “How about we pick up any new people who want to come?”
“It’s so devious.” Mrs. Sparks shook her head, her frown deepening. “I hate that we have to resort to hiding.” She looked out the front window of her house. “What do they get out of taunting us?”
Old Miss Hannah sat queen-like on the overstuffed wing-backed chair across from the window. An old cameo brooch was pinned to the neck of her light blue dress. Thin gray hair was twisted in a bun at the base of her head. The scent of roses emanated from her. “How long before these hoodlums become violent?” The folds of skin under her chin quivered as she talked. “I mean, more than throwing tomatoes. What if they start shooting at us? I have an old shot gun the mister kept for stray dogs.”
“I like your spirit, Miss Hannah!” Mark Fisher exclaimed.
Pastor Crowley’s hands jerked up. Crinkles formed around his eyes. “I don’t think we need to pull out guns, Miss Hannah, but it’s a good idea to be on guard.”
Lydia Miller waved for attention. “What about our children?”
“I really don’t—”
Movement in the doorway behind Pastor Crowley caught Ruth’s attention. The man almost looked like a shadow. He was tall, dressed in black, with a ski mask covering his face. The figure tossed a burning cylindrical object into the room.
The pressure from the explosion shoved against Ruth’s eardrums. For a few minutes, the ringing muffled the screams.
“Are you all right?” Nate’s voice sounded hollow as he shook her by the shoulders.
Ruth nodded, unable to force words from her throat.
Wilma Reynolds lay slumped across Ruth’s lap.
Nate turned his attention to the injured woman.
The marble-based lamps were broken on the floor; books that graced the mantel had flown across the room. Both of the wing-backed chairs lay on their backs. Fragments of the coffee table were scattered throughout the room, a large section covered the top of one of the chairs.
Lydia Miller lay against the side of Jeb Hawthorn. He stood, shook bits of wood and plaster from his hair, and helped Lydia to her feet.
Betsy picked her way toward Ruth. “Are you all right?” She clutched Ruth’s arm.
Mrs. Fisher silently leaned against the wall, her right arm cradled in her left, her face ashen.
The windows had exploded and glass crunched into the carpet and the hardwood beneath. In the background came the cries of children, followed by Mrs. Sparks’ soothing voice.
Ruth glanced around for some way to help. At first, her foggy brain didn’t mak
e the connection. She thought of the Wizard of Oz, of the house, the witch…motionless legs stuck out from under a large section of the coffee table. She pulled in a gasp. “Nate! Help!” Ruth ran across the room, kicking past splintered wood and bits of fabric. “Miss Hannah!”
Nate reached the woman first and threw the wood off the old woman.
She didn’t move. Red soaked the collar of her blue dress. Blood dripped from beneath the folds of her neck.
“I need help here!” Nate’s tense voice carried over the noise.
Jeb Hawthorn ran to start CPR.
Nate yelled, “Someone call 9-1-1.”
Ruth watched in stunned silence.
Chet clutched Chip in his arms.
A teenage girl tried to herd the kids back into one of the bedrooms.
The room grew silent as the church members became aware of the attempt going on to save a life. Betsy took Chip and left the room. Chet replaced Jeb at chest compressions. Nate continued to breathe air into Miss Hannah’s lungs. The sounds of crying filtered through the room like background music.
Pastor Crowley began to pray. “God, please wrap protective arms around our sister Hannah. Protect her until help can come. We know You love her, and we love her, too...
People clung to each other and closed their eyes. Mrs. Fisher took Ruth’s hand and rubbed her thumb back and forth across Ruth’s skin.
Numbness settled over Ruth. Needing to look away from the blood leaking onto the floor, the faces uttering hopeful prayer, she turned her head toward the front of the house. The window was gone. No one lurked in the yard, no rebels with masks stood watching. The responsible party most likely had fled soon after flinging the bomb.
At the sound of a siren, a collective sigh filled the room. Pastor Crowley guided the paramedics to Miss Hannah. Another squad arrived and then the police. The people were asked to move from the living room into the dining room and kitchen.
As Miss Hannah was wheeled out of the house with the paramedics still doing CPR, Nate buried his face in Ruth’s neck. They clung together.
“I never imagined that anyone in Logan would do something like this.” His words muffled as he pulled her even closer. “I just never thought.”
The police officer’s phone rang. He mumbled into the receiver then turned to the officer beside him. “Someone just broke into the Jewelry Box downtown.”
~*~
Darkness settled over Logan. It had been well into the afternoon before the police released them to go home.
Ruth wondered if Hannah was alive. Did Mr. and Mrs. Sparks regretted opening their home as a substitute church? The showplace living room was totally destroyed. If she had beautiful things like that…she looked around her own living room, dressed in homemade slipcovers and nailed-together furniture. She loved her home as much as Mrs. Sparks probably loved hers, and knowing how quickly it could all be gone…her chest tightened. It wasn’t the objects, as much as the work she’d put into them. The coffee table made of crates and a castoff cupboard door, the slipcovered chairs and the flowered curtains made by her hands and thus they became a part of her. She had not lived in a home filled with love in a long time. The destruction of her things would be paramount to a personal attack.
Pastor Crowley’s message crawled through her brain all day. God used fire. Sure, Elijah’s fire was from heaven, but still, it was fire that destroyed evil. The longer she thought about it, the more right it felt. Purged by fire.
She dug around in the kitchen drawer for a pack of matches. Then she moved to the bedroom. Searching beneath the mattress, she pulled out both envelopes: one given to her almost four years ago and aged to a soft cream, the second secured most recently, its sharp white color with a lingering scent of French fries.
The first envelope contained twelve one-hundred dollar bills. The second remained sealed. Her fingers brushed against the white paper of the newer envelope as though it were baby skin. Tears dripped down her face and for once, she gave freedom to her pain. Clutching both envelopes to her chest, she walked to the living room.
She imagined being someplace sacred with Elijah beside her. God would listen to Elijah; He would honor Elijah’s plea. With a long sigh, she shredded the empty cream-colored envelope and arranged the shreds of paper on the cold brick floor of the fireplace. Then, one at a time, she crinkled the bills and placed them on top. Her kindling was ready. Now for the sacrifice.
She turned the second envelope over in her hand. It would be so easy to open it. No one need know. Her fears could be put to rest, her imagination calmed. But then Joe would win, wouldn’t he? He knew she would look. That’s why he’d left the envelope on the table. She placed the history of her child on top of the kindling.
The tip of the match sparked. She stared at the flickering glow until it burned her fingers. She lit the second match and held the fire to a piece of the shredded envelope. It smoldered, and then flames licked toward the money. She stared as her baby’s blood money burned. When the hungry flames reached the second envelope, a deep sob heaved from deep within her. Her baby denied the second time. Lying on the rug she had woven from scraps and ingenuity, she watched the flames devour the temptation Joe provided.
The flames died and all that remained was gray ash that shifted as she breathed.
And her empty pain.
~*~
The yellow light from Ruth’s back stoop penetrated most of the yard. But in the rear by the broken chain-link fence that masqueraded as protection, the darkness deepened. The salsa garden, in the middle of the yard where it got the most sun, laid half exposed in the yellow light, half hidden in the shadows. Tomatoes tucked within twisted branches looked like eyes keeping watch.
Ruth carried a spade to the far-right corner of the yard. She pressed a small box decorated with fabric and ribbon to her chest. With shadows for company, she buried the box of ashes, patting down the soil when done. The disturbed ground was indistinguishable from the sand and weeds of the remainder of the yard.
She returned to the house and turned off the light, leaving her sin alone in the darkness.
19
Monday, June 24
“How dare you call me at work?” Sizzling anger bounced across her nerves like fat in a hot skillet. Ruth glanced toward her office door, hoping neither Attorney Dunlap nor Kathleen were near enough to hear this conversation.
“You don’t have a phone at that place you call home.” Joe’s sarcasm streamed through the receiver, the retort piercing Ruth’s ears. “This is a courtesy call.”
“Sure it is,” Ruth said. Whatever he wanted, the results would benefit only one person—Joe. She fingered the chain hanging around her neck.
“That friend of yours, the bum that hangs out on the courthouse steps—”
Ruth gripped the black receiver, wishing it were Joe’s neck. “Mr. Charlie is not a bum, and don’t you—”
“Listen to me, will you?” She heard the hiss of his breath, satisfied that at least she’d frustrated him. “He’s a nuisance, and people are starting to complain.”
“That’s a lie.” Mr. Charlie had been sitting on the courthouse steps ever since she had arrived in Logan, and who knew how long before? “You’re jealous of him. You can’t believe I prefer to visit with Mr. Charlie than spend time with you.” She needed to pace the floor but was tethered to the desk by the phone’s cord.
“Think what you want, but I’m calling the police first thing tomorrow morning and filing a complaint. This is your chance to warn him off.”
So that was his game, using Mr. Charlie against her. He knew her weaknesses better than she knew them herself. Why did he bother with her after all this time?
She glanced at the clock, willing the black arms to twirl, to magically speed the time so she could bash Joe in the face. But the red second hand dragged as it moved in jerking tics around the white face. She sighed into the receiver. Who was she kidding? She could never hit Joe—it wasn’t her nature. But there had been that night she had
shoved him against the restaurant window in Myrtle Beach. Well, maybe now she could. How dare he take his vengeance out on an innocent blind man? Her rage felt stronger than her small frame could contain. “I get off work in an hour. We’ll talk about this then.”
Joe gave a low chuckle. “Sure, sweetheart. You know where I’ll be.”
Ruth slammed down the receiver and jerked the rubber band from her ponytail. She dropped her head in her hands and brown, silky hair streamed over her face. The harder she tried, the worse things got. The courthouse steps held a special significance that only Mr. Charlie understood. He had refused to move to get out of the sun. He wasn’t about to move because Joe said so.
One of Mr. Dunlap’s clients left a vase of roses from her garden and the yellow and pink blooms had ended up in Ruth’s office. The odor, which seemed pleasant in the morning, now made her gag. She grabbed the stems from the clear glass vase, strode down the hall, and threw the flowers out the back door.
What happened to the sweet boy she used to know? Was she such a poor judge of character that she would befriend someone with a dark heart? Had she seen his hardness and ignored it, blinded by being the girlfriend of one of the most handsome guys she had ever met? No. Joe had changed. He had always been selfish but not the frightening person he was today. This man was a stranger, dark like the crows.
Back in the office, she didn’t seem to be able to settle behind her desk. She glanced toward the hall, half expecting a bird to wander across the green carpet and stop in front of her. The crow with the scar turned up daily, sometimes outside of her house on the sidewalk, other times in the courthouse grass, and almost nightly sitting on a low tree branch on her way home, watching. The bird seemed bigger and blacker than the others. She knew her imagination made the bird more than it was, but the crow still unnerved her. The air felt tighter when he appeared, as though the sky pressed down on her. Mr. Charlie’s explanation of battle made sense at those times, how the war was going on in Logan. She shook her head, trying to clear the confusion.
A half hour and she could leave. She settled behind the desk, thrummed her fingers on the surface, and waited. Finally, the dragging minute hand reached the twelve. Ruth grabbed her purse. Before she bothered with Joe, she needed to see Mr. Charlie, to touch him and reassure herself that he was all right. Joe wouldn’t physically harm Mr. Charlie; violence wasn’t his way any more than it was hers. No, he preferred mental manipulation. But still…
Light of Logan Page 14
