by M. Mabie
I drove end-to-end, down the main road, until I came to the small motel, close to the dead-end of town on the east side and parked near its office. With my duffel bag in hand, I went inside to book a room for the night. One night would be more than enough.
I was greeted with Luke 10:27 above the counter and a friendly smile from the man behind it. I remembered his face, but not his name.
“Good afternoon, what can I do for you?” He punched a few keys on a large calculator and wrote something down before taking his glasses off and offering me his hand. He studied my fingers.
“A room, please.”
He politely grinned. “And how long will you be staying with us?”
“One night.”
Tapping on the high-top counter, he replied, “Short timer, but that’s fine. May I see your ID, and I’ll get you all squared away?”
I passed my driver’s license to him and looked around as he worked. Polished floors. Clean windows. Neatly stacked pamphlets about Jesus.
He sighed. “Abraham Hathaway, I didn’t even recognize you. I’m sorry about Jacob.”
I’d been prepared, as the oldest of the Great Pastor’s sons, for them to know who I was when they read my name. I’d even considered bringing a tent to avoid as much. However, I had nothing to hide, no one to fear, and I liked a hot shower when I had the choice.
I nodded and tucked my ID back into the slip inside my worn leather wallet.
He slid a sheet of paper over to me with the rate and other details and then twisted to get a door key from a hook on the wall behind him. “I’m sure Pastor and your mother are overjoyed that you’ve come home. God is good. Cash or charge?”
Overjoyed would be a stretch, but I’m sure my dad would make it seem that way to his flock. Hell, Sunday’s sermon might even mention it. How the Lord took Jacob and brought Abraham home. Little would he know how the Lord screamed in my ears to leave again.
“Cash.” I took the key, complete with scripture keychain.
He pulled his glasses from his face and let them dangle a chain over his chest, and then folded his hands in front of him. “Just stop in and pay in the morning, Abraham.”
“Thank you.”
“Breakfast is at seven. You’ll find all the towels and things you need in a small closet in the room. We have an ice machine in the courtyard around back. Check out is at noon.” He pointed out the door, to the right. “You’re down that way. Room three.”
The room was clean, modest, and predictably decorated. There were a few hours until the visitation, and my legs were stiff from sitting on the drive. So, I tossed my bag onto the chair under the Last Supper and decided to take a walk, thinking I might find a bite to eat.
Full and stretched, when I returned to the room, I noticed someone had come in, turned down the bed on one side, and placed the Holy Bible on the pillow. I wondered if that was customary at the Good Shepherd Inn or if they were presuming I needed saving.
Most likely both.
4
Abe
Every parking space was full at the church, and I had to park across the street at the bank. As I made my way to the doors, I watched men head in the direction of the grand entrance. The women and a few of the older female children, however, used the door on the side, their hands full of casserole dishes and Crock-Pots.
I was thankful for my full stomach and for the good reason not to stay longer than necessary that evening.
Although, of the few things I fondly remembered about my youth, food was at the top of the list. I was a bachelor and therefore ate like one. My daily diet consisted of single-serving dinners, fast food if I was going through town and didn’t feel like the hassle, and the occasional meal at a the Griers’ or Chris’s house.
Feet away from the kitchen’s entrance, I smelled the home cooking. I’d be lying if I didn’t savor it as I held the door for an older gentleman.
The main entrance bustled with quiet voices, the sound of a piano echoed off the marble, and there was a line on the right leading under one side of the massive split staircase into the sanctuary. Normally, brothers and immediate family would receive, and I probably should have gone straight to the altar and stood with my mother, but instead, I fell in line and waited with my father’s congregation. Silently, I stepped forward when necessary, right hand over left in front of myself. Ignoring how they studied my naked hands as they passed.
I wondered if my brother would have wanted things the way they were. Did he accept his rings and love his life in Lancaster, or had it been just as bad for him? The sudden thought of Jacob possibly being more like me caused a tightness in my chest, and deep-down I hoped he’d been happy and content with their way of life.
After all, any one of them could leave at any time. It was possible. Many had. Me and the Griers included. Life went on outside the gates.
Yet, all these people stayed.
If they were happy, then who was I to judge? It was probably just skepticism that argued inside me that they didn’t know any better and feared what they didn’t know about the world beyond their perfectly fabricated utopian-style culture.
I watched my shoes a lot in that line, looked at the wall to my side, and did my best to stay inconspicuous. As much as I hated it, I felt anxiety and focusing my attention elsewhere—being anywhere out of eyeshot—helped ease me the closer I got to my family.
The line made a ninety-degree bend at the blood-red stairs which lead to the pulpit where my father’s voice hit my ears. Firm, yet singsong as he said, “Amen,” to the person ahead of me. After they gave their condolences, assuring my parents that Jacob was in the Promised Land, walking with the Holy Father, it was my turn.
I righted my posture, pulled my shoulders back, and stood in front of my father at the foot of my brother’s casket. His face had new lines and creases. Although it was still shaved and manicured to a point, you’d think his body hair had also given up its will, as much as my mother and everyone else had, to his preferences.
He didn’t speak but scrutinized me as much as I did him. I was inches taller than he stood and it pleased me how he appeared surprised by the sight of me. He held out his right hand. I confidently shook it, no longer a boy who cared about his criticisms, but a man holding his own.
“Abraham.” He leaned in, shoulder to shoulder, his hand still gripping mine.
I hadn’t prepared what I’d say, but words came, and they felt right. “Sorry for your loss.”
He patted my back and thanked me, stepping away.
“I appreciate that, but he is the second son I’ve lost. And at least, I know where he is.”
My jaw tensed, and inwardly I laughed. He’d never change.
I didn’t give him any more of my time and walked the length of the oak box where my brother’s body was, stopping near his head, and looked in. His face had been painted and was puffy, but the rest of him was portly too, which was a surprise. My father had always been a fit man, regardless of the fact he’d only broken a sweat a handful of times. I had imagined Jacob build like him or even like me. Instead, he was round and soft. He wore a Holy Matrimony ring on his left hand, and that caused me to pause.
The longer I stood alongside my younger sibling, it made sense now how a heart attack—which is what Mom had told me—could kill a man at the age of twenty-four.
Then I felt a warm hand on mine and, instinctually, knew it was my mother.
“I’m so happy you came. I didn’t think you would,” she whispered and wrapped an arm around my back. “I prayed, and here you are.”
It had been difficult to leave my mom when I was just a day past sixteen, and I knew it hurt her deeply when I left. Then again, I was also aware of how painful it was for her to watch my father and I fight as much as we had before I packed up my truck and moved.
I leaned into her side embrace, and we shared a moment beside Jacob.
Her voice was so much thinner than it had been when I was younger. She’d always been tender and soft-spoken
, but now there was even an unused quality in her tone when she admitted, “I’ve missed you.”
When my eyes shifted in her direction, it saddened me how she’d aged. How I’d missed time with her and she with me. Sometimes when I read novels, and they spoke about a mother, I’d picture her. Evidently, I hadn’t aged her in my mind.
“It’s good to see you.”
Behind me, my father interrupted us. “Catherine, Brother McCall would like to pray with us.” Then he pulled her away to pray with the old Legacy Band Bearer and his wife.
Beyond the casket, beside a tall display of white funeral flowers, stood a woman. Her tiny hands lay clasped in front of her long dark skirt, and she wore a thin gold band on the left ring finger. Her hair was like a plank of ash wood, naturally light and dark blonde, thick and wavy down to her waist. Her face was downcast as if in prayer. She must have been my brother’s wife even though her hair was down, instead of up like most other wives in the church.
And though I had heavy opinions of my family, I couldn’t put the weight of them on her. She was young and just lost her husband. God only knew what would happen to her.
I pitched forward to quietly offer my sympathies, both for the loss of my brother and her blind servitude. “Sorry for your loss. I’m Abraham.” It was lost to me why I’d introduced myself that way. I only went by Abe back at home.
Annoyingly, her eyes didn’t raise when she replied, “Hello, Abraham. I’m Myra Hathaway.” They’d found a well-groomed wife for my brother. Passive and meek, I thought while looking at the top of her head.
When I didn’t step away, she finally lifted her chin, high enough to nearly drown me in the deepest blue that lived in her eyes.
“Jesus Christ.”
5
Myra
The second I looked up, he said the Lord’s full name to my face, a swear far worse than ones I’d known many to get Service and Testimony for.
Why did he speak such blasphemy? Had I done something? Mis-spoken?
I’d only said hello and my name. Certainly, he was just upset. Not himself. It was a visitation after all.
But who would say that—like that—to a widow?
Was I a widow? Didn’t widows have broken hearts?
My thoughts confused me again and again. Nothing was how I’d ever imagined, what I’d planned for, or ever been told. I stood there wearing my Holy Mat ring on my left hand like Pastor asked me to, when I knew it still belonged on my right.
Nothing over the past month had made any sense to me. No matter how I prayed for patience or grace, or any other selfish request I’d whispered above, all I was left with were more questions.
No answers.
I deferred the conversation to him and waited with my head down.
This Abraham man wore scuffed boots and work pants, and I wondered why no one had cleaned them properly for him. All they needed was a vinegar wash and maybe baking soda on one particularly ugly spot. It wouldn’t take long.
He must have been a non-believer. Non-believers didn’t receive the same gifts as we did. But even though he’d loosely used the Lord’s name in vain and didn’t wear any rings, the man should still have good, clean shoes.
My father used to be so proud of how clean I got his old work boots. He only wore house shoes anymore, but I supposed the retirement home would clean his boots if he needed them to. I’d look in his closet the next time I visited and check for him. He only had his wits on rare days, although fewer and further between, but his old body didn’t need rugged boots anymore. Either way, if he wanted them, I’d see to it that they’d be clean.
Abraham must have needed time, and so I gave him a moment.
After a few, I considered maybe he needed a nudge to help him catch his composure and move down the line.
“God bless you, Abraham.”
I thought it had worked until he rumbled and cleared his throat before he asked, “How are you?” His voice was as coarse as the leather on his feet, and his question was one I’d asked myself many times.
The pleasant answer, the answer that gave comfort to others was, “I’m at peace knowing he’s in a better place.”
But I didn’t say that.
Lost to myself, I boldly examined the brute before me, foot to head, and answered him honestly. “I don’t know.”
His light brown hair was full-on wild, messy and flipped over to one side, and I couldn’t even see the skin on his cheeks through all the brown and red whiskers. His eyes looked green, then brown, then gray and blue. A flowing hazel.
When my gaze lingered, he continued slowly, “If there’s anything you need—” He paused and shifted his weight back and forth. “If you need anything—”
Another pause.
Another shift.
I dropped my eyes, hoping I wasn’t making him uncomfortable.
“Myra,” he addressed me, and my name had never sounded so raw. His voice was sharp and deep. “Jacob was my brother.”
Reckoning rang in my chest. I was so thoughtless. That explained his unease. How terrible of me to not realize.
I glanced up at his intense face again, trying to make the connection. I’d only seen a few old pictures of Abraham from when he and Jacob were children, and he hadn’t attended our banding ceremony.
“Please forgive me. I’m so sorry for your loss,” I apologized, embarrassed by my rudeness. “Of course, you’re Abraham.”
He didn’t look like the Pastor, Ms. Catherine, or Jacob—at all. Then again it was hard to say what he looked like under that hair atop his broad shoulders. Jacob had been a large man, and Abe was large too, but in a very different way.
It felt shameful appraising him, comparing him to his brother there in our church beside his mourning family, and I bowed my head again to show respect, again forgetting my place before a man. He’d been offering a kindness, being polite.
“Thank you.”
That must have been all he needed, because after shifting a few more times on his feet, he briskly marched away.
I replayed the whole encounter, over and over, as others passed me with condolences.
The truer answer to his question of what I needed was: I didn’t know because I didn’t know what I had. My childhood home was now occupied by one of my older brothers and his children. Would the home I lived in with Jacob be mine?
Did our short marriage even count? We hadn’t even had our reception yet. Hadn’t moved our rings together. Hadn’t done a lot of things that husbands and wives do.
Would I be alone forever now?
Did some hearts break slower than others? Or would mine remain unbroken because I hadn’t known my husband in a biblical way yet, despite which hand my gold band was on?
When would someone tell me what to do? Or how to feel?
6
Abe
I stomped up the aisle to the double doors in the center of the sanctuary, annoyed and angry about things that weren’t my business.
“Abraham Hathaway,” a familiar voice called as I stepped outside, and I glanced around to see who it was.
“Robbie Carter.” He still had a friendly, almost goofy smile, and he looked exactly like his dad had when we were young. Same thick, side-parted red hair. Same long legs and wide gait.
I met him in the grass and shook his hand. He was married with children, and he read my hand too, but didn’t comment.
“Good to see you. Gosh, how long’s it been? How you doing? Almost didn’t recognize you with all that scruff. You look like a lumberjack.”
Running into him snapped me out of my rampant thoughts, and I grinned, genuinely happy to run into someone I remembered fondly and rubbed the thick hair on my face. “I am in the tree business.”
His massive hand slapped my shoulder. “Well, I guess that fits then. I’m really sorry to hear about Jake.” He gestured behind me. “Guess you’ve already been in. Figured you might be up there with your family.”
“I came.”
“And that’
s all that matters. Hey, how long are you in town? I’d love to catch up. I’m out on my folks’ old place. The two-story house before you get back to theirs. Stop in. I’ll introduce you to my wife and my girls.” He grinned ear to ear. “Got a brand new one just last week. That’s where Jenny is, at home cuddled up with her. I’m just swinging in to pay my respects to Pastor, your mom, and Myra. Heck, you too, I suppose. Like I said, I’m real sorry.”
I wasn’t so sure about catching up. He’d probably get Service and Testimony hours if anyone found out he was socializing with me. Then again, I wasn’t sure what my father let the town believe about my absence. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’m leaving tomorrow after the service.”
He nodded. Surprisingly, without argument or much judgment that I could tell.
“Well, maybe you just swing by later tonight, if you don’t have plans. I’ll probably be out in the yard past dark anyhow, holding all the lightning bugs for the girls so they don’t wake the baby.”
I liked to keep my word, so I didn’t promise anything. On the other hand, I wasn’t keen on spending much time in the hotel either. “We’ll see. Good to see you, and congratulations on everything.”
He clapped as he walked off backward. “Hope to see you later. God is good.” Something about the way he said it was sincere, and I was happy for him.
7
Abe
I couldn’t get her blue eyes out of my head. Or her thick, wavy hair. Or her voice. The woman hadn’t even looked upset. A widow should be distraught. Wracked with sadness. At least, there should’ve been sorrow in her eyes, but there wasn’t. Maybe there’d been some fear, uncertainty, but mostly my late brother’s wife only looked blank.
Empty.
Or maybe that made sense, because I hadn’t been to many visitations or funerals.
It was the question of what would happen to her that ran through my head as I made my way down the gravel lane to Robbie’s house later that evening. Sitting in the motel room with nothing but the local public access channel, which was run by the church, to entertain me, the choice to visit my old friend was easily made.
