“Sorry about making you sit outside,” Ruth said to Mr. and Mrs. Dillon as they stood at the front door, gripping the frame of their folding lawn chairs.
“Not a problem,” said Mrs. Dillon, a petite woman in her forties. “We’ll have to do the same thing when our turn comes around.” As Ruth led them through the living room, Mrs. Dillon stopped. “This is lovely. Look at this room, George—and the coffee table. It’s just what I’ve been hunting for.” She turned to Ruth. “Mind if I ask where you got it?”
Ruth gave a shy smile. “Actually, I made it.”
Mrs. Dillon walked closer to the table. “Really? You made this?”
Ruth shrugged her shoulders. “It’s my hobby, I guess.”
“Will you make me a coffee table?”
A rotund Mr. Dillon grabbed his wife’s arm. “Come on, dear. You can discuss furniture later.”
In Ruth’s backyard, people arranged themselves in close groups, some on chairs, some on blankets. Church had become very informal, and no one minded.
Just over the tops of the trees, the dense clouds pulled apart, forming tails at the end of their full bodies. Even if the sky cleared, the sun wouldn’t reach the backyard until the afternoon. By then church would be over.
Ruth bit at her nail, jerked at every strange sound, and prepared to fend off whatever the anti-Christians planned for the day. She hoped nothing would happen. She hoped it for the people who came to worship God, and she hoped it for herself.
Mr. Freeman passed away the previous morning. Perhaps a murder charge would put fear into the troublemakers. Two dead as a result of radical behavior.
Nate walked around the side of the house just as Pastor Clark approached. “May I start?”
“Sure.” A couple of months ago this would have been inconceivable—church at her house.
Nate barely glanced her way as he sat at the edge of the yard.
Betsy stood with a sleeping Chip draped over her shoulder, his brown lashes reaching pale cheeks. “Do you care if I lay him down on your bed? He didn’t sleep well last night so I think he might be out for a while.”
With a hesitant hand, Ruth touched Chip’s back. So soft and warm. Her son, soon to be sleeping in her bed. She felt pressure in her chest as her heart swelled with love. Ruth sat down close to the craft area.
Betsy returned from the house and sat on a blanket in the grass.
Chet strummed a hymn, and people quieted.
Ruth’s tension slowly began to dissolve as she anticipated the praise hymns and the peace the songs brought with them. A deep breath helped ease the tightness in her chest.
It happened fast. Six men, dressed in green camouflage and carrying rifles, rounded the opposite side of the house. Black lines ran down their faces. They pointed their weapons at the guests.
Gasps and guttural cries came from the unsuspecting group. Then silence.
Ruth shrank in her seat, scanning each man, trying to recognize any of them.
“Hands where we can see them,” one man shouted as he waved the muzzle of his gun back and forth. “Spread out,” he yelled to his men.
The thin man closest to Ruth moved stiffly. He turned and faced her, his gun held at an awkward angle. Yes! Her heart leaped.
He was the young man who spoke to Joe at the courthouse the day they’d applied for their marriage license. He looked more comfortable dressed in a suit and tie than in the military garb and carrying a gun.
“I’m Pastor Clark and we are about to have a worship service.” The pastor walked toward the lead gunman. “What do you want? At least let the children leave—let them go across the street. One of the ladies can—”
The blunt end of the riffle connected with the pastor’s chest, followed by a loud huff. The pastor slid against the side of the house.
“I’ll tell you when to talk.”
Pastor Clark clutched his chest.
Horrified, Ruth grabbed tight to the sides of her chair. The plastic straps dug into her fingers.
Betsy made a mewing cry.
Ruth looked toward her and saw her friend staring at the screen door.
Chet’s knuckles were white as he gripped the neck of the guitar.
Chip. He was in the bedroom, alone. So far, no one had entered the house. Please God, keep Chip safe!
Some of the worshippers sat with heads bowed, most likely in prayer. A toddler started to cry. The mother bounced the child in her arms as her own eyes grew round with fear. The man beside her leaned forward and placed a protective arm around them.
“Sit back or I’ll sit you back.”
The man gave his wife a silent look and slid his arm from her.
The sound of smashing glass came from the front. Another camouflaged man, his belly hanging out from under the olive-green t-shirt, moved along Ruth’s side of the house, hitting each window with a baseball bat as he walked. The man swung the bat around the opening, removing shards of broken glass from the frame.
A primal scream rent itself from her body. “No! Stop! There’s a little boy inside! Stop! Please!” She darted toward the house, and the thin young man caught her by her waist. She struggled and they fell hard onto the ground. A second man kicked her in the stomach. She doubled over, moaning.
“And now for the fun, ladies and gentlemen.” The leader chuckled. Stacks of crates were carried to the backyard by another group of men. Black feathers stuck out from between the slats.
Crows!
Ruth watched in horror as the cages were held to the open windows and the crows were released into the house. There must have been six or more crows in each crate. When one crate was empty, another was brought to each broken window. How had they trapped all these birds when the mayor’s plan to capture them failed?
With guns pointed their direction and smirks lining the gunmen’s faces, no one spoke.
Ruth sat in frozen silence listening to the sound of wings beating the air inside the house. She thought the birds would fly back out another window, but instead they seemed to be trapped inside, their wings thumping and beating.
Two soldiers stood with guns pointed at Chet and Betsy. Chet’s face had gone white. Several women clung to Betsy, who struggled to stand.
Something crashed. A lamp perhaps? More crashes.
“Enough!”
In the haze of pain, Ruth heard his voice. She struggled to sit. “Joe, stop them! Chip is in the house!” He turned toward her, and she stared, horrified, at venomous eyes. Find courage! Find courage! “Joe! Listen to me! Our son is in the house with those crows! Our son, Joe, Chip Ross!”
Joe lifted his arms over his head. Crows flew from the trees and the sky turned black with their bodies.
People screamed, throwing arms over their heads or climbing under blankets and chairs.
Ruth stared, her breath caught in her throat. Was she to watch her friends be eaten to death? Her voice barely sounded through her constricted throat. “Joe, stop this!”
He turned to her. This time his expression was empty: empty of humanity.
Oh, dear God, help us!
Betsy began to scream. Faces turned her way.
Nate used the distraction to leap and pull Joe to the ground.
Joe grabbed Nate’s neck.
Crows flapped overhead.
Screaming voices, chairs upturning. Gunshots.
The screen door opened and Chip walked out, monkey still clutched in his arms, Ruth’s maternity-shirt blanket draped over his shoulders. “Mommy?”
Joe stared at Chip. Either by distraction or intention, he released Nate from his grip.
The crows took to the sky, leaving behind feathers, confusion and fear.
Ruth held her breath.
Joe’s blank expression never changed. Not when he was about to kill his cousin, and not now, while staring down at his son.
Nate rolled to his side and clutched his neck with his hand.
Soldiers continued to stand, but guns slipped from position as they watched their boss.<
br />
Betsy and Chet bolted to their son.
Joe snapped his fingers. He and his men walked out of the yard.
Betsy wrapped her arms around Chip and sobbed loudly as Chet held them both.
People untangled themselves from twisted chairs and knotted blankets.
“Call the police!” someone finally yelled.
“Already done.” The voice came from across the drive. The neighbor stood at his door, cellphone in hand. “They should be here any minute.” He looked at Ruth and smiled. “Hey!” Then he walked back into his house.
“How dare you? Did you think this was a joke?”
Ruth turned.
“You’re Chip’s mother?” Heat streamed from Betsy’s rigid body. Her nostrils flared as she held tight to Chip.
None of Ruth’s past pain compared to the agony she felt as she stared into Betsy’s face. She approached her friend, hands out. “I never meant for you to find out, especially not this way.”
“Get away from me!” Betsy screamed. “I don’t ever want to see you again!” Clutching Chip in her arms, Betsy ran toward the front of the house.
Chet gave a questioning glance and followed.
~*~
By now, the church people were familiar with the routine and they settled in chairs, knowing it would be awhile before the police would allow them to leave.
“Ma’am,” one of the officers said to Ruth. “Is this your house?”
“Yes, it’s my house. My messed-up life, my rotten luck. Yes, it’s all mine.” She had told Joe where church was to be held. The words that she’d believed had been given to her to speak, what a joke. Just when she had begun to believe in the goodness of God. God didn’t care about her, or her town, or these people. She was to blame for all her own problems. Mr. Charlie might think some grand plan was directing her life, but he was wrong. She directed her own fate, and she was making her own mistakes. But this time, she had jeopardized the life of her own child.
“You need to come inside with me.”
“And let the crows peck me to death like they did poor Mr. Charlie?” Her eyes widened.
The crows were still in her house, and they had been there when Chip was asleep on her bed. Chip walked out of the house, through the frenzy of birds just fine. Not a peck on him that she had seen. Not traumatized. He had behaved just like any kid waking up from a nap.
She rubbed her temples, trying to make sense of it. Her house must be a wreck. She heard the crashing herself. And yet, Chip survived. More than survived. Swallowing a huge lump, she followed the officer through her back door.
Dishes lay broken on the floor. The living room lamp was in three parts; gray stuffing from the chairs and couch covered the rug. She sobbed when she saw the coffee table, torn apart, slab clawed from slab.
Ruth expected the damage, but not the crows.
Dead birds lay everywhere. Everywhere except her bed with its boy-sized dent still visible in the middle. The window above the bed was broken the same as all the other windows, but not a shard of glass sparkled on the covers.
She walked back outside, homeless and confused, to find Nate waiting.
“Chip is your son?”
“Yes.”
History repeated itself as he strode from the yard, leaving her alone in her misery.
~*~
Ruth stood where her garden had been, the remaining pepper plants trampled flat. Everyone had gone. All the first-floor windows were broken. Inside, dead crows lay thick. The police were finished—she could clean up now. That’s what they’d told her. She could clean up now. Instead, she walked away.
She found herself at the First Street Church and slumped against the wall on the empty front porch. Two cars drove down Main Street and then nothing. Across the street, the courthouse slept. No one disturbed the heavy glass doors. No one sat on the cement steps waiting for her. Joe’s window remained dark. If he had gone there after destroying her life, he hadn’t turned on any lights; but it was Sunday, after all.
A shadow covered her. “I went to your house, but you weren’t there.” Pastor Clark sat beside Ruth on the porch landing, red graffiti showing between them.
“You knew I would come here?” She hadn’t known it herself, but it seemed like the place to be.
“I was on my way home.”
“I’ve made a mess of everything.” She squeezed her burning eyes.
“Want to tell me about it?”
The words rolled as if she had been waiting all her life for this moment. She talked about Joe in Atlanta, the pregnancy, the money for the abortion, and about the adoption. She shared her belief that the baby was a girl, and that she had just learned Chip’s identity. She agreed to marry Joe to save Chip and then sold out the church to keep from marrying him.
Love had always been her problem. She refused to tell her mom about the pregnancy for fear of losing her mom’s affection. Her ache for love as a teen ultimately cost the love she really wanted. More than that, love for a child that was never hers caused her to betray her church and lose Betsy’s friendship.
As she stared across the street at the empty courthouse steps, she talked about Mr. Charlie, how he called her the light of Logan. She counted the crows for him. He had been her only friend and the crows had killed him. For some reason, it felt like her fault.
But the crows had not harmed Chip. In fact, all the crows in her house died. The birds could have flown out the windows, but they didn’t. Instead, they’d died. Dropped all over her house. He could go see them if he wanted to. The birds could rot there for all she cared. She wasn’t going back.
“What are you going to do?”
She thought of Mr. Charlie’s place. There was the money, but she didn’t know how much. She couldn’t stay in Logan where everyone hated her. “I’ll find work somewhere else.”
“So you’re running away?”
“No, I’m not running away. People who run away have something to run from. I have nothing. I’m just leaving.”
"God brought you here for a reason, Ruth.”
“I am so tired of hearing that!” She covered her head with her arms.
“Why did you come to the church?”
“No reason. I just ended up here.” Her words rose, muffled between her arms.
“Maybe you wanted to be close to God and thought you could find Him here?”
She sniffed and nodded toward the locked doors. “I don’t think God hangs out here anymore.”
Pastor Clark’s laugh surprised her. “You may be right about that. But do something for me before you leave town.”
She eyed him cautiously.
“Tell Nate your story just as you told me.”
She gave a loud huff. “He already knows my story.”
“I don’t think he knows all of it. Will you do that for me?”
A car drove by, slowed, and turned right. No one walked on the sidewalk.
No crows dotted the yard….no crows.
Her back stiffened. “Where are the crows?” They’d brought trouble and now their absence would bring more, she was sure of it. Her heart raced as she scanned for the black feathered birds that plagued the town.
“I wondered if you’d noticed the crows were gone. I have my own ideas.”
She stared at him wide-eyed.
“Come to the house.” He stood and reached out his hand to help her up. “You haven’t had lunch and neither have I. We can eat while I talk. And then you can tell your story to Nate.”
~*~
Pot roast and mashed potatoes. Ruth didn’t think she could eat a bite but found herself stuffing food in as fast as she could move her fork. Jennifer Clark, Pastor Clark’s wife, was exactly how Ruth imagined her: a delightful woman with big blue eyes and a tiny face. They had never met because Mrs. Clark attended a different group on Sundays rather than moving from house to house with her husband. All through the meal, she shared funny stories of growing up in Kansas, living on a farm, and raising animals. It sounded very
foreign to Ruth. Maybe that’s where she should go—to Kansas.
When the meal was over, Jennifer turned to her husband. “You two have things to discuss. I’ll do the dishes.” She kissed her husband on the cheek and carried the plates to the kitchen.
Pastor Clark stood. “Let’s move to the living room. I want you to hear my story.”
The living room looked as 1980s as the kitchen, with solid oak side tables and a green velour couch; old but sturdy, not put-together like hers. The room had been loved over time: worn in all the right places. The wide front windows let in dappled light that gave warmth to the space while the heavy oak door with its etched glass circular window lent a touch of elegance.
Now that the moment had come, Ruth felt hesitant to hear what Pastor Clark had to say about the crows.
Pastor Clark motioned for Ruth to sit on the couch. He settled in a leather recliner that held permanent indents of his body. Dishes rattled in the kitchen. The brass clock on the wall made ticking sounds that reminded Ruth of the tapping of fingernails.
“I grew up in Haiti where my parents were missionaries.”
Nate had told her the story.
“In Haiti, the main religion is Vodou, or Voodoo as it is pronounced in the United States. Voodoo is a religious cult where the followers believe a spirit can move from one living thing to another living thing. In Voodoo, various services are performed for the gods in return for favors, such as wealth, long life, and so on.”
Ruth squirmed, feeling uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure why she felt fearful, and that made the tension worse.
“I had a chat with your Mr. Joseph shortly after he came to town. I knew him as a child; and when I spotted him a few weeks back at Jerry’s Diner, I struck up a conversation. He was quite willing to talk, and I learned he had ambitions that were, in my opinion, beyond his abilities.”
“Joe comes from a rich family.”
“And therein lies the problem. He has a need to keep up with his parents, who are both overachievers. He created a vision for his life, and after graduate school, when he knew his vision was not happening, he became desperate.”
Light of Logan Page 27
