Upstaged

by Aaron Paul Lazar

The pastor hurried down from the pulpit and waved his arms in an attempt to gather his flock. “Okay, everyone, follow Siegfried. Down to the basement. To the common room. The walls are strong there. Hurry!”

  Pushing through the door, they scrambled down the stairs into the basement. Most were elderly, and with flushed cheeks and terror in their eyes, they held to the railings and moved as fast as they could manage. Lillian Phillips stumbled on the last step.

  I helped her up. “Are you okay?”

  She stopped short and turned back toward the sanctuary. Her eyes popped in panic. “My pocketbook! I left it by the piano. My medication’s in there.”

  I watched Siegfried and Camille move the children to safety, and then spun and ran back up the steps. “I’ll get it. Go down with the others.”

  I pushed through the double doors into the sanctuary. As if a veil had been dropped, the light dimmed. I glanced outside and saw black. At ten thirty in the morning. A hungry roar eddied debris outside, escalating to a frightening pitch.

  I found Lillian’s oversized leather purse beside the piano and snagged it, racing down the aisle and stairs to the cellar with it banging against my leg. When I reached her side, she accepted the bag with grateful tears.

  A sea of confused people looked to Reverend Hardina for guidance. He summoned his fire and brimstone voice. “My dear people! We must try to be calm and trust the Almighty will protect us.”

  A boom of thunder shook the walls, and the Reverend dove to the floor. “Everyone get down! Take cover!”

  The winds screeched, increasing to a deafening roar. Siegfried grabbed Johnny and Shelby and slid beneath a stout table, holding them close. Johnny whimpered once and plastered himself against Siegfried’s chest. I held my wife tight, leaning back against the wall beside them. She locked eyes with Shelby, reaching for her hand to assure her. On the other end of the table, Dorothy Mason’s blue hair poked out, reminding me of a figurehead on the bow of a ship.

  My mind played its usual tricks, saying goofy things to me. Was she the symbol of some dreaded doomsday ship headed for a bizarre netherworld where the Wizard-of-Oz tornadoes sailed through a tiny farming town in upstate New York?

  I pulled Camille closer and backed nearer to the cement wall, trying to still my thumping heart.

  Then—in the safest place I knew on earth—all hell broke loose.

  Chapter Two

  I leaned back against the cold cement wall. Camille shivered in my arms, staring outside at the branches flying across the churchyard. Black clouds eclipsed the sun and plunged the hillside into darker night. The wind shrieked with ungodly force, like ghouls unleashed from the devil’s den.

  Built into the side of a hill, our fellowship room featured windows on three of the four walls, overlooking the valley. Most of the congregation huddled on the inside wall, away from the windows. Reverend Hardina gathered his courage and rushed forward to close an open window. Its curtain flapped hard against the ceiling until he wound it shut.

  The lights flickered and went out, plunging us into dingy gray touched with an eerie ochre blush. The ozone-filled air throbbed in concert with the maelstrom outside, pulsing with our collective fear.

  Johnny whimpered and began to cry. Siegfried patted his back and whispered comforting words in German.

  Lillian Phillips dug in her suitcase-sized purse and drew out a small yellow box. She yelled above the roar of the storm. “I have something that might help.” With trembling fingers, she slid a bottle of tincture out of the box and held it up for us to inspect. “Bach’s Rescue Remedy,” she said. “Made from flowers. Want me to put some on the children’s wrists?”

  I stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “What?”

  She exchanged a knowing glance with her sister, Abigail, who huddled beside her. “It’s good for the nerves. Supposed to be calming. Just a few drops is all it takes.”

  Camille extended a hand. “Let me see it.” She squinted at the label and held it for me to read.

  The tiny writing blurred before my eyes. “Don’t have my glasses, hon. ”

  Camille nodded as if she should have known better, then scooted over to dab a few drops on the children’s arms.

  “Give me some of that,” I said.

  She chuckled and squeezed a few drops on my wrist.

  “Thanks, Lillian.” Camille returned the bottle and scooted back over to my side.

  The roar of the wind grew louder.

  Without warning, half of the aluminum roof tore from the house trailer across the road. It smashed against the side of the church, obscuring one window, and vibrated as it beat against the glass in a tortured metallic song.

  I shot Siegfried a worried look. He returned a grimace.

  “Opa!” Johnny cried, his eyes welling with tears.

  Siegfried held the boy flat against his chest, cupping his sweaty head. The child extended his hand to me. “Opa!”

  “It’s okay, buddy. It’ll be over soon,” I slid sideways and reached for his hand, trying to calm him further.

  We moved as close as possible to Siegfried and the children.

  Camille reached over to squeeze Shelby’s hand again, then pulled back and looked at me when the noise outside turned deafening. Her eyes flared wide. “I can’t believe this.”

  I knew exactly what she meant. Tornadoes usually touched down on the hot flat fields of Kansas and on the Science channel. They had no business screaming across the hills of our little town. I shifted on the scratchy carpet and kissed the top of Camille’s head. “I know.” I tried to steady my voice. My insides felt like the warped shingles flying past the windows. “It’s surreal. Like a dream.”

  She stopped shivering and leaned back against the wall, locking eyes with me. “More like a nightmare.”

  Lillian crouched beside her sister, like two old hens keeping warm in a henhouse. She patted her short white curls and raised her voice against the gale. “Reverend? Would you lead us in prayer? ”

  Nahum perched in the stairwell, his eyes glued to the horrific scene unfolding outside. Shaking off the terror, he crawled to the middle of his flock, standing on wobbly legs as if trying to establish his sea legs on a rocking boat. His arms flew toward the heavens. “Dear Lord—”

  The sound of exploding glass came from the floor above; a window shattered in the vestibule above us.

  At that moment, Abel Hargrove clutched his chest and slumped sideways to the floor, the color drained from his face.

  The crouching members of the congregation parted like the Red Sea to let the Reverend scramble through. He shrugged out of his suit coat and balled it in a pillow beneath Abel’s head.

  Patsy Brown, the only member of our church certified in CPR, scooted toward him, her face clamped in steely resolve. She gently pushed Nahum out of the way and began to work on Abel.

  The pastor stood in the middle of the room and again raised his arms to Heaven, yelling above the roar of the tornado. “Dear Lord. Your humble flock sits before you, asking for deliverance from this frightful storm. Give us strength to endure the fury of nature’s wrath.”

  I closed my eyes, squeezed Camille harder, and listened as the wail of the winds screamed an eerie counterpoint to his words.

  Chapter Three

  T he twister’s intensity soared, hammering the building. I wondered how the old section of the church would withstand the assault. Its timbers had been hewn by hand in 1829 and had weathered many storms, but never in the history of record keeping had it experienced fury like this.

  The floor and walls vibrated, humming with dark fury. Angry clouds tumbled past the windows, brandishing objects snatched from the earth. Shrubs, a wheelbarrow, a twisted drainpipe, and a child’s toy jeep hurtled through the air. Earsplitting metallic screeches crashed outdoors, sounding like a pileup on the New York State Thruway.

  A horrific crash shook the building. Something huge had slammed into the west wall. Instantly, the winds stopped, and the twister extinguished as if God had
wet his thumb and forefinger and snuffed out a flame.

  I relaxed my grip on Camille and looked around the room. Abel sat up; the color slowly washed back into his face.

  Patsy reassured everyone in her matter-of-fact tone. “He’s okay. Just a touch of reflux, I think.” The diagnosis was met with collective sighs of relief and mumbled prayers.

  Reverend Hardina stood in the middle of the room looking confused. His thin gray hair hung in an untidy screen over his eyes. He took a deep breath and slicked it back as if regaining control of his life. With well-practiced skills, he began to soothe the flock. “Indeed! Praise the Lord. All right. Let’s settle down and see if everyone’s okay.”

  The sunlight returned, shining through the windows on the bewildered souls who clambered to their feet. The younger members hurried to help their elders.

  Siegfried appeared at my side with Johnny and Shelby. Shelby flew into her mother’s arms and I picked up my grandson, hugging him close .

  “You okay, buddy?”

  He nodded, but clung to me with eyes squeezed shut and his legs clamped around my waist. I snuggled him until he relaxed and started asking lots of questions, which was always a good sign.

  Camille dug out her cell phone and called her mother. With a sudden rush of fear, I dialed home to check on my daughter, Freddie, and my twin granddaughters.

  Her sleepy voice answered. “Dad? What are you talking about? What tornado?”

  Relieved the twister hadn’t reached our house, I quickly explained.

  She listened for a minute, then interrupted me, rushing her words. “Is Johnny okay?”

  “He’s fine,” I said, shifting him to my left side. “The storm’s over, and he’s right here with me.”

  “Thank God.” She asked a dozen questions and then paused, covering a yawn. “Sorry. I’m a wreck. Only got about two hours sleep”

  “Teething again?”

  “Yeah. Celeste has a molar popping through. Kept me and her sister up most of the night. They’re sleeping now, but man, do I need coffee.”

  A stab of empathy hit me. She worked so hard, and now with three little ones, my poor daughter was perpetually exhausted. “Why don’t you just climb back into bed? Get a little more rest. God knows you need it.”

  “What about you and the church folks? How wide was the damage?”

  I heard the worry in her voice and watched Siegfried gesturing at the window. “I’m not sure yet. Nobody here was hurt as far as I can see. We’re about to step outside and take a look. If we need you, I’ll call.”

  Siegfried motioned for me again.

  I started to walk toward him. “Freddie? I’ve gotta go. I’ll bring Johnny home soon.” We hung up and I turned to my brother-in-law, who pressed his nose against one of the windows.

  “Mein Gott, Professor!” He swiveled his big head toward me. “Look.”

  I snapped the cell phone shut and handed Johnny to Camille.

  The Spencers’ house trailer had been ripped from its foundation across the road and now lay crushed against the church windows. Its corkscrewed frame exposed the insides of the kitchenette. Water still dripped from disconnected sink pipes hanging upside down from the ceiling like a stalactite.

  Cold fear pooled in my stomach. I prayed the Spencers hadn’t been home when the tornado hit. “We’d better get out there, Sig.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance. We wove through the prattling congregation and hurried out the back door with Nahum close behind. Brilliant sun shone over the landscape and the air temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees, feeling more like May now than late June. Wet leaves dripped overhead. We stood still, trying to absorb the alien scene of destruction.

  The twister had torn up the valley, cutting a clear swath of devastation through the woods up to the crest of the eastern ridge where the church stood. The Johnsons’ red barn lay in splinters beyond the wheat field, but their farmhouse stood intact.

  Two dozen cars, previously parked on Barker Hill, had been thrown hundreds of feet into the cornfield on the opposite side of the road. They lay in various states of shock. Several rested with their wheels up, still spinning, and a pair of minivans stood in a bizarre car teepee in a ditch. The all-way stop sign, usually cemented into the street corner, lay at our feet.

  Relief washed over me when I recognized Mr. and Mrs. Spencer standing across the street; he in jeans and no shoes, she in a housecoat. She sobbed through her hand, staring at the pile of jumbled foundation blocks. Mr. Spencer cradled her shaking shoulders. Patsy and her sister pushed past us, hurrying across the street to help.

  We stumbled over the stop sign and turned to stare at the church. The parishioners followed, cautiously peeking out the doorway before venturing into the foreign landscape. Wringing hands and leaning on each other, they scanned the area with dropped jaws and wide eyes. Neighbors appeared, gawking at the damage like Munchkins staring at Dorothy’s house when it landed in Oz. I looked at the nearby houses with relief. Except for a maelstrom of debris, it seemed they had survived the onslaught of the tornado.

  I jogged to the front of the building with Siegfried and Nahum close behind, and we searched the parking area for signs of anyone pinned beneath branches or vehicles. Thankfully, there were none.

  A pair of green garbage cans rolled down the slope beside us, lodging against the church steps.

  Fat drops of water splashed on my face from sodden branches overhead. I wiped away the moisture and studied the grounds, noting that my Sequoia had been spared along with all the cars in the front lot. I’d had more cars wrecked in the last few years than I cared to admit. Selfish as it was, I didn’t think I could face another new car salesman. A small sigh of relief escaped my lips.

  Roofing tiles covered the ground. Two antique stained glass windows lay shattered, leaving glass shards of fractured holy scenes strewn on the grass. Dozens of trees and branches littered the ground and the white pine that had graced the churchyard for two hundred years lay uprooted, blocking one side of the circular driveway.

  A porch chair sat on the church roof, pitching in the light breeze. It compounded the bizarre atmosphere of the morning, as if nature’s specter rocked above us, surveying the devastation she had wrought.

  Most of the roof shingles had been ripped from the surface, exposing blackened pine planks .

  Siegfried assessed the damage, shading his vivid blue eyes that squinted at the roof. Wisps of fine hair escaped from his long blond ponytail, blowing across his strong face. “Mein Gott , the steeple held.”

  I nodded, shocked that it hadn’t been ripped off in the wind. From the focused expression on his face, I wondered if Sig was calculating how many shingles would be needed to repair the roof.

  I watched him for a moment, realizing we owed our lives to him. Earlier in the morning, quite true to form, Siegfried had rolled up his Sunday best sleeves to fix a leaky pipe in the women’s restroom while we attended the service. Skilled in carpentry and home repairs, he often volunteered to help with church projects. If he hadn’t been elbow deep in plumbing at the time Oscar called, he wouldn’t have heard the office phone ring.

  And if the Stones hadn’t been home, instead of in their usual pew at church, Oscar wouldn’t have called in the warning.

  I shuddered, more of an aftershock, I figured, and stood beside my childhood friend, silently thanking God for his sure, calm presence.

  Twin brother to my first wife, Elsbeth, he’d been a rock to us over the years. And of all the people I’d ever called friends—from fellow college professors to chatty neighbors—this strong gentle giant was still the best friend I had on earth.

  Although he’d barely managed to graduate high school, his occasional flashes of math genius were tinged with a startling sixth sense originating from childhood. The young Siegfried had been destined to attend college in the fall of his twelfth year. After a devastating boating accident rendered him comatose for months, he’d only partially recovered from the brain damage and end
ured various forms of physical and educational therapy for years afterward. After much difficulty, he graduated from high school at the age of twenty-one.

  Later, when his parents died, my daughter Frederica hired him to assist with her veterinary clinic. His gentle nature and tireless devotion to animals made him an invaluable addition to her hospital.

  Nahum leaned down to pick up a hymnal that had landed on the lawn in a sprinkle of broken glass. He shook it off and slid it under one arm.

  I linked arms with Siegfried and surveyed the building. “What’s the damage?” I held my breath before my giant friend pronounced the verdict, because very little remained in the meager church coffers. We’d barely scraped together enough cash for the electric bill. Fortunately, the Chicken Barbecue had been moderately successful, and the Reverend’s June salary had already been paid.

  “For the roof, about Ein Tausend drei hundert Dollar (one thousand three hundred). And if we find salvage windows, we could save some money. Perhaps.”

  “Wait a minute. Wait just one minute!” The Reverend’s worried brow relaxed and an expression of hope played over his weathered features. He looked up to the heavens and clasped his hands. “We’ve got insurance. I’m quite sure we paid the bill last month, and I believe it covers storm damage.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Gentlemen, for the first time in years, we may not have to worry about funding.”

  We moved around the north side of the church toward the ancestral graveyard. Several headstones had been plucked from the earth and lay shattered on the ground, their 175-year-old inscriptions forever lost. A deep trench gutted the wheat field below the cemetery, tracing its way down the valley. Nearly ripe stalks of grain lay flattened for acres on either side of the ditch.

  A handful of parishioners bent over the furrow, yelling and gesturing in our direction. From our vantage point on the hill, I caught a glimpse of muddied orange fabric close to the disturbed ground. Dread rose in my throat. Siegfried and I raced toward them, struggling to keep our footing on the soaked wheat stalks.

  I’d expected to find someone who’d been caught up in the tornado and killed a few minutes ago. Instead, a man’s hunting coat and pants lay in the trench, loosely wrapping skeletal remains. The victim lay face down beside a rifle. Sunlight reflected on the smooth pale surface of the back of his skull. A hunting license—pinned to his jacket—was only partially visible from above. I gathered my courage and took a few steps down into the hole to read the tag, then stumbled back out, suppressing the urge to vomit. The name I’d seen on the tag shook me, and I reeled back onto the wet stalks of wheat and loose clumps of dirt scattered beside the trench.