by JEFF MOTES
It sounds as if the voices are in a low conversation. Maybe three, two men and a woman, but I can’t tell what they are saying. I ease to the right corner and look around. I see them, an older man and woman and a middle aged man. They’re in a large kitchen that adjoins the great room. The men are sitting at a bar with their backs to me.
The woman is leaning from inside the kitchen and sees me. She raises her hand to her face and says, “Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord, you’re up!” The me turn and start to rise and I shrink back into the hall. “You men be still,” the woman says. “She’s scared.” She walks toward me saying, “It’s okay, honey, we aren’t going to hurt you. I’m so glad you are up walking. My name is Betty.”
She comes around the corner and looks straight at me. “Honey, I know you’re scared. You’ve been through a lot, but we aren’t going to hurt you, dear.” She reaches out with an open hand. I look at her uncertainly.
She has a kindly face and is perhaps in her sixties, older than my mother. I bring my right hand from behind my back. The woman looks at the knife, but doesn’t back away or move her hand. I pocket the knife and step forward, taking her hand. Oh, how I wish I were with my mother! I step closer and the woman draws me in, hugging me gently. The tears flow, and I sob into this woman’s chest. She wraps her arms around me and gently, like a mother, smooths my hair.
“Go ahead and cry, honey. It’s okay. Just go ahead and cry.”
I do. The days of stress, the days of uncertainty, the days of worry, and the constant threat of harm have not found relief until the loving arms of this older woman embrace me.
My tears flow for what seems like forever, until all have been shed. I withdraw from the embrace. Betty holds me at arm’s length. I glance at the two men, whose eyes are red and puffy.
Looking back at the kind face of the woman, I say, “I have to use the bathroom.”
“Of course, dear.” She leads me back to the bedroom.
Betty quietly opens the door and peeks in before opening it all the way. She walks through, leading me to the guest bathroom.
“I do hope your husband will wake soon too,” she whispers.
My husband? Remembering all the religious decorations I saw earlier, I wonder if she knows we aren’t married if she will put us in separate rooms. I don’t want to be separated from John, not for now anyway, so I refrain from correcting her.
She opens the door to the bathroom and turns on the light. “Honey, the towels are in the cabinet underneath the sink. Shampoo and soap are in the shower. Let me know if you need anything, dear.”
“Thank you,” I say appreciatively.
I close and lock the door. After taking care of what dad always called “the paper work, I wash my hands. I look into the mirror. My hand goes to my mouth and I gasp. This is the first time I have looked in a mirror in days. My eyes begin to fill with water again. I hardly recognize the person looking back. My hair is oily and matted in places. There are dark bags under my eyes. A blue knot is right above my right temple. The whole left side of my face is a ghastly black and yellow. There are bruises around my neck. Each individual bruise made by the fingers of the man who choked me is visible.
I start undressing, first removing my shoes and socks, then my pants, and now my shirt. Lastly, my bra and undies. My upper body is covered with bruise marks. There is a horizontal burn mark all the way across my chest, right above my breasts, from the rope that unseated me from my bike. There are bruises on my arms, my ribs, a big black and yellow splotch across my upper back. Even my breasts have bruises. It’s no wonder I hurt all over.
“Dear God, thank You for keeping me alive,” I whisper.
There is a light tap at the door. I pull my shirt up from the floor and cover myself. “Yes?”
“Honey, I’ve brought you some clean clothes,” Betty says. “I’ll place them on the bed. When you get ready, come to the kitchen for something to eat.”
“Thank You, Lord, for this precious lady!” I whisper. I drop the shirt to the floor, pushing it along with my other dirty clothes to the wall. Opening the cabinet, I pull out a large plush towel and washcloth. Obviously, they haven’t been used much. I move to the shower, place the large towel in the hanger, open the stall door, and turn the water on. Yes, there is hot water! I adjust it and step in. The warm water flows over my body and gradually seeps away some of my pain. There are several bottles of shampoo and body washes. The first one I pick up is an Old Spice body/hair wash. It smells nice, but not on me. There is also a bottle of VO5 shampoo and Bath and Body Works cucumber and melon body wash. The body wash smells light and fresh. This will do nicely. I wash my hair, taking extra care around the knot above my temple and the tender spot where my head hit the asphalt. The cucumber and melon smell is refreshing after the sweat smell I’ve had for nearly four days. Four days? I don’t even know what today is. Has it been four days, five days? More? I don’t know. I’m going to have to ask Betty.
Drying off, I step in front of the mirror. It’s fogged over, so I unwrap my towel and wipe it off. Looking at myself I consider what I’ve been through the past few days. It is truly amazing I’m not in worse shape. If it hadn’t been for the training my father gave me as a young woman, I would be dead. If it wasn’t for the pack he insisted I keep up to date in my car, I would be dead. If it wasn’t for the bike Mary’s husband gave me, I would probably be dead. If it wasn’t for John, I would be dead. If it wasn’t for Betty and these people in this house, I would be dead.
I see it clearly now. God has been with me the whole journey, intervening at the proper time to keep me alive. That gives me comfort. God is my protector. I will see Lizzy again.
“Thank You, God. Thank you.”
I wrap the towel around myself again and open the door. John is still asleep. I scoop up the clothes Betty left on the bed and return to the bathroom. There is a pair of jeans, a little smaller than what I normally wear, though I’ve probably lost weight in the last few days. A turquoise pullover shirt, white ankle socks and white undies. The best item is a comfortable looking white bra! I check the size, excited to find it will fit well. I put the undies and bra on, then think of drying my hair. I look for a hair dryer but don’t see one.
Wait. I’m looking for a hair dryer? Really? A hair dryer? After an EMP attack I’m looking for a hair dryer? Then it hits me. There was hot water for the shower! The electric lights are working! I go to the light switch and flip it on and off. It works! The power is back on! Things are going to be normal again! I finish dressing, brush my hair and put it into a ponytail using a hair band I found in the top drawer, then exit the bathroom.
I walk over and check on John. “John, everything is going to be okay,” I whisper. “I’ll have that cup of coffee with you on the front porch soon.”
Chapter 29
Jill
Jill, Are You Okay?
Day 5
I walk down the hall, not as timidly as earlier. Despite my pain, I have a smile on my face. I feel happy again. Everything is going to be all right.
When I step into the kitchen Betty smiles and says, “Honey, you look like you feel much better now. Would you like some coffee while I fix you some breakfast?”
“Yes, thank you, with cream.”
She pours the coffee and hands me a large mug and a bowl of creamer. I sit at the bar and stir cream into my coffee. The mug is warm in my hand. Bringing it to my lips, I take a sip. Oh my. It’s so good! I look around the kitchen. The cabinetry is beautiful; it reminds me of some I saw that Pugh’s Cabinets had made back home. The appliances and granite countertop look great too. I’ll probably never have anything like this. It’s beautiful.
“How do you like your eggs?” Betty asks.
“Over medium, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Oh dear, it’s no trouble at all.” She cracks two eggs into a cast iron skillet on the gas range.
The aroma of the kitchen reminds me how hungry I am. When was the last time I had a home cooke
d meal? It was back when my own mother cooked a similar breakfast before I left for the meeting in Birmingham. My mother has always been gentle and sweet. Dad, though a wonderful father, was sometimes rough around the edges. Not Mom. She had a way of bringing calm to most any situation. I watched Dad’s rough exterior calm down many times with the simple touch of my mother’s hand upon him. Even when I had to tell my parents I was pregnant, my mother was able to calm my dad. However, even she wasn’t able to calm him when he found out Clyde was the father. He was so upset he left the house. Later, he came and wrapped his arms around me and hugged me close.
Dad would often say, referring to my mother, “Never underestimate the power of a good woman. With a cutting look from her eyes, she can send a strong man to his knees. But with the gentle touch of her hand she can invigorate strength and courage into an otherwise defeated man.”
It must only work on good men, because it certainly didn’t work on Clyde.
Betty puts the eggs on a plate and spoons some grits from a pot on the stove. She opens the oven and removes a pan containing a few biscuits and bacon. She adds those to the plate and brings it to me. Handing me a fork, she sits on a stool across the bar.
“Go ahead, honey, and eat up,” she says.
“Thank you.” I briefly close my eyes and thank God for this food. I’m so hungry! I force myself to slow down. I don’t want to show bad manners.
“If you’ll get me the sizes of your husband, I’ll see if I can’t find him some clean clothes for when he wakes up. I don’t think he can wear anything of George’s, but I think I can round something up.”
I have a tinge of guilt hearing her call John my husband again. I don’t even know what size clothes he wears. John’s not a big man, but he’s not a small man either. Maybe he’s about the height of my father, only not quite as thick. I’ll have to check his clothes to see what size he wears.
“I will,” I say. “His name is John.”
“I know dear. My husband, George is his name, checked his license when you were brought here. We placed it in the top of your husband’s pack. We didn’t find any identification on you, so, honey, I don’t even know your name.”
I blush. “I’m sorry. My name is Jill Barnes.”
Betty looks a little surprised, but says nothing. I realize what was just said. John Carter and Jill Barnes. While it’s not unheard of for a woman to keep her maiden name upon marriage, I always thought it was strange and showed a lack of commitment and respect for the marriage. It took nearly an act of Congress to get my name changed back from Baker to Barnes after my divorce. Those thoughts make me shudder.
“Betty, I don’t want to deceive you. John is not my husband. He is a very dear friend. Maybe something more, I’m not sure.”
I tell Betty of our journey and my relationship with John through the years. I tell her about the barn and those evil men. She listens intently while I tell her how he arrived at the right moment to save my life by killing those evil men and that he stayed with me until I was recovered enough to travel.
With a slight sigh says, “Well, I thought something like that might be the reason you were in that truck. It sounds like you two are crossing paths for a reason.”
“Betty, I know this may sound unusual to you, and John and I are not intimate, but please don’t put us in separate rooms. At least not until he is able to get around on his own.”
She pats my hand. “Don’t worry, dear, you can stay where you are until you want another room.”
“Betty, I don’t know what day it is, or where we are, or even how we got here.”
Betty smiles and tells me what day it is. I must have been unconscious for at least twenty-four hours. That makes this day five after The Day.
We’re in the country a little northeast of Montevallo. As far as how you came to be here, Mark, George’s nephew, brought you here. I’ll let them tell you the circumstances, if you don’t mind.”
I’ve heard that name before, although I can’t place it right now.
“At least things are getting back to normal with the electricity back on,” I say. “I didn’t realize how dependent we are on electricity until it was out for a few days. Do you know if the phones are working too? I would like to call and check on my daughter Lizzy and my mother.”
Betty looks at me strangely. “What do you mean getting back to normal?”
“You know, with the electricity back on. Surely it won’t be long before the phones are working.”
Betty looks at me with sympathy in her eyes. She reaches out and takes my hand. “Honey, the electricity is not back on. If what George says is true, it’s not coming back on for a very long time. I’m sorry you’ve got your hopes up. George has a generator and some other things he uses to make electricity. The power from the power company is not back on.”
I sit there, stunned. The great hope that things were getting back to normal fades away. With an inward sigh, I think John, I guess we won’t be having that cup of coffee on the front porch any time soon.
While Betty and I are talking, the kitchen door opens from outside. Setting my coffee cup down on the counter I turn to look. A big, older man steps in. Behind him, though obscured by the first man, is a younger man, maybe about John’s age.
“Jill, this is my husband George,” Betty says. “George, this is Jill. This other young man is our nephew, Mark.”
When I get a good look at the man I nearly shriek. This is the same face I saw looking at me with hatred in his eyes! This is the man who attacked me and John! I stand up quickly from the bar, knocking the bar stool over and it clangs loudly on the tile floor. I start backing for the hall to retreat to the bedroom.
Betty moves from around the bar and comes toward me. “Honey, I know you’re confused. Please let me explain.”
I reach in my back pocket and bring out the knife, ready to open it if any one approaches. Betty stops. “What is this!” I demand. “Don’t come near me! I know who this is! This is the man who attacked us!”
Desperation builds inside me and without thinking I scream, “John!”
The men look stunned and don’t move or say anything.
Betty’s eyes fill with tears. “I’m so sorry, Jill. I’m so sorry. It was all a mistake. They thought Earl was in that truck.”
I look over at the man. There are tears in his eyes too. I don’t know what to think.
Dear God, oh dear God, what do I do?
From down the hall I hear the bedroom door jerk open and John comes staggering out. In a weak yet firm voice he asks, “Jill, are you okay?” He staggers forward, his left hand reaching for his head. “Jill, are you okay?” In his right hand is a pistol.
In an instant, I consider all the ramifications of what I’ve just heard and what that pistol in John’s hand means. He’s ready to fight, though he isn’t able. I make my decision. There really is no other one I can make. I move quickly to John.
“Yes, John, I’m okay,” I say calmly.
“Where are we?” he says. “What happened? My head hurts so bad.”
I put the knife back in my pocket and touch him on his chest. “I’m okay, John. Everything is okay.”
John looks confused. “I don’t understand.”
I move closer. “I know you don’t, John. I’ll explain later. For now, please trust me. Everything is okay.”
He looks down at me and says “Of course I trust you.”
I reach for the pistol. “Let me have this, John.”
He lets go, and I put it in my front pocket. “Now, let’s get you back in bed.”
I move to his side and place his arm around my shoulder, helping him down the hall. He is losing strength, and his weight is becoming too heavy. “Betty,” I call out, “please help me, but only you.”
Betty comes and takes John’s other arm and together we return him to the bed. It takes both of us to get him situated in the bed. He lies back on the pillow and closes his eyes.
“I think he has a concussion,” Bet
ty says. “He needs rest, but we also have to get some liquids into him soon.”
“Whatever we need to do, I will do. But first, tell me what’s going on.”
In a lowered voice Betty says, “It was all a tragic mistake. The man that owned that truck you were in raped Mark’s daughter and another girl two days ago. They also badly beat a neighborhood boy and killed his brother. Mark and some of the men went out searching for them. When they saw the old rusted up truck that Earl always drove they attacked it. It was too late when they saw their mistake.” Betty looks into my eyes. “Mark is devastated by what has happened. He is a good man and he is so sorry for the mistake he made. He brought you and your husband here because I’m a former ER nurse.”
I notice she is calling John my husband again, but remain silent.
“You were banged up pretty bad, but I didn’t see any major injuries on you. Your husband, though, he was in pretty bad shape. He had a bullet wound from where a bullet skirted alongside his head. It didn’t penetrate or damage his skull, but it did leave a nasty head wound and they always bleed so much. I cleaned his wound and stitched him up. He also must have hit his head pretty hard, giving him a concussion. We would have taken him to the hospital, but we’ve heard they were turning patients away, and thought we could give him better care here. He’s going to be all right, Jill. He just needs some rest.”
I look at her, amazed at what she said.
“Mark’s daughter must be one of the girls John freed before he saved me. John killed those men. We were using that truck to get home.”
Betty raises her hand to her mouth. “Oh my! Thank God for your husband.”
I take the pistol from my pocket. It looks like a Glock, though I’ve never seen one this small. Running my finger along the slide, I feel the slight raise of the ejector, indicating a round is in the chamber. I place it in my waistband right behind my right hip.
Betty watches, yet doesn’t say anything. She heads to the door, stops, and turns. There are tears in her eyes again as she says, “Please don’t kill Mark, he has a wife and two daughters.”
