Elevator, The

by Hunt, Angela

  He’d read about the game in the paper tomorrow morning, of course. He’d sit across from Mattie at the breakfast counter and try to pry a few words out of their son, but he might as well try to start a conversation with the dog. On a Saturday morning, after a hard game and a late victory party, Mattie wouldn’t feel like talking.

  To her left, the band members filed out of their reserved section, moving to a steady cadence provided by the percussion section. One high-stepping sax player strutted by, swinging his horn, and Gina pretended not to notice the wink he gave Samantha. She looked adorable in her Cowgirl outfit, even though the hem on those shorts had caused a major war an hour before they’d left the house. Sammy insisted that all the girls wore short shorts to football games; Gina countered that no daughter of hers was going out in a costume consisting of an exposed fanny and fringe.

  Finally, they compromised. Sammy sewed a row of fringe at the bottom of her white shorts, lowering the apparent hem by at least two inches. The fringe matched that on the bolero vest she wore over her light-blue shirt, so the entire effect was enchanting.

  Score one for Mom.

  Samantha stepped closer to Gina’s side and jerked her chin toward the stands. “Here comes Mandi.”

  Gina turned in time to see her older daughter pick her way down the stairs, remaining in step and swinging her flute down-left-right-up as if her future depended on it. Mr. Gleason was tough on the band kids, requiring them to remain in a disciplined formation almost from the time they arrived until the time they exited through the main gate. He allowed them to mix, mingle, and go for soft drinks during the third quarter, but otherwise he made them toe a tight line…and the kids loved him for it.

  Gina made a mental note to ask the band director for his secret.

  Samantha nudged Gina’s ribs. “Do you think she’ll say hi to us?”

  “Wouldn’t count on it.” Gina tipped her head back and stared at the cloud of insects swarming around the bright stadium lights. “But you can try.”

  Samantha giggled and moved to Gina’s other side, where she’d have more direct access to her sister. Gina watched, half-interested, as the flute players came down the steps, turned a sharp right corner, and marched toward the open area where Gina and several other parents waited.

  “Hey, Mandi!” Samantha raised her voice to be heard above the noise. “Mandi! Over here!”

  Samantha waved as if she hadn’t seen her sister in years, and Gina suppressed a smile when Mandi’s pleasant expression vanished beneath a get-me-out-of-here look.

  “Mandi! It’s me, your sister!”

  Mandi stopped staring at the head of the student in front of her long enough to send Samantha a drop-dead glare.

  “That’s enough,” Gina said, dropping her hand to Sammy’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t want her to tease you like that.”

  “I wouldn’t care.”

  “When you’re fourteen, you’ll care.”

  “Gina!”

  She turned in time to see Gladys and Herb McGee striding toward her.

  “You must be awfully proud of that boy!” Herb’s big hand swallowed Gina’s as he pumped her arm. “What is he, a junior?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s got big things ahead of him, you mark my words. Scholarship, maybe? To FSU? He’s quite a football player, Gina. I know Sonny must be about to bust his buttons.”

  “He is.” Gina smiled at Gladys when Herb finally released her hand. “Did you all enjoy the game?”

  “Say…where is Sonny?” Herb rose on tiptoe to scan the milling crowd. “Probably down at the sidelines bragging to the other fathers.”

  She smiled again, her face aching with the effort. “Sonny had to work tonight.”

  Herb gaped in exaggerated amazement. “Why—that’s awful. You tell him he’s working too hard. No man ought to miss a game with the crosstown rivals.”

  Gina nodded. “I’ll tell him.”

  Gladys linked her arm through her husband’s and pulled Herb away. He was still exclaiming over Sonny’s workload when she caught Gina’s eye. “We’ll see you next weekend.”

  Samantha tugged on her sleeve. “Mom? Can I go get a Coke?”

  Gina squinted toward the snack bar. “Aren’t they closing?”

  “Please, Mom? There’s people there, see? I just want a Coke.”

  Gina sighed, then glanced at her watch. Nine-fifty, so the players shouldn’t be too much longer. She didn’t know what kind of speech the coach delivered in the locker room after a winning game, but so far he’d taken half an hour to deliver it.

  She pulled a dollar bill from her purse and gave it to Samantha. “All right, but hurry back. I want to catch Mattie before he heads out with his friends.”

  Sammy took the money and sprinted away, leaving Gina alone. She glanced toward the closest exit, clogged now with uniformed band members whose formation dissolved the moment they passed through the gate. One of the boys, sweaty in his uniform pants, T-shirt and suspenders, had doffed his jacket to chase a girl who’d filched his cowboy hat.

  Gina scanned the area around the snack bar, then spotted Samantha moving through the crowd of band boosters who were cleaning up. A twinge of guilt made Gina wince; as new band parents, she and Sonny ought to spend a Friday night behind the counter.

  She clenched her fist. What work could possibly be so important? Sonny should have been here.

  She turned toward the gate and spied Mandi talking to her friends. She’d wait by the parking lot, pretending to be independent and parentless, until Gina and Sammy left the field. Then Mandi would wave to her friends and walk to the car in her mother’s wake.

  Gina laughed softly. A few years ago she could remember feeling the same way—wanting desperately to be independent, being embarrassed to have to depend upon Mom for a ride, for money, for anything.

  She folded her arms and stepped up to one of the fence’s supporting poles, then leaned against it. The door to the visitors’ locker room had opened; several of the Sickles players came out, wet-haired, fresh-faced and carrying green-and-gray gym bags that seemed to drag their shoulders into a posture of discouragement. As silent as a defeated army, they moved out in single file, led by their coaches, who headed toward a chartered bus.

  Poor kids. Gina had seen Mattie wear the same look after a major loss, and nothing she could say or do seemed to cheer him up. Fortunately, his depression vanished with the start of a new week.

  She straightened as the door to the home locker room opened and the players began to exit. She looked for her son’s copper-colored hair, but she couldn’t find him in the crowd. A group of players grinned, hooted and slapped hands as they cavorted in the grass, then the skinny kid who served as team manager cut through them, dragging a mesh bag bulging with footballs.

  Surely they were ready to go. Gina straightened and took a few steps forward. For some silly, macho reason the boys weren’t supposed to mingle with the crowd after a game, but if she walked to the open area behind the goalposts, Mattie could meander over and hear her quiet congratulations before he headed toward his car and the victory party.

  She had nearly reached the area behind the end zone when she spotted her son with Chuck Hoff, the towheaded kid who’d been Mattie’s best friend since middle school. They were laughing together as Matthew quietly accepted mock punches and congratulations from his teammates.

  She unfolded her arms and lengthened her stride, anxious to catch Matthew and Chuck before they got away.

  Sonny should be doing this.

  She hadn’t walked more than ten steps when an oddly primitive warning sounded in her brain. The Gaither players, still jiving and celebrating, were taking their time about leaving. The remaining Sickles players, who practically vibrated with resentment, had to file past the Gaither boys….

  Might as well combine gasoline and flame.

  She swerved to dodge a pair of entwined middle-school sweethearts and hurried toward the football players. Where had all t
he coaches gone?

  She stepped into a hole and pitched forward in the grass. Ordinarily she would have been embarrassed, but no one seemed to notice. If only Mattie would look and come help her!

  She pulled herself up, then winced when she tried to put weight on her ankle. She’d probably sprained it, but it couldn’t be helped. All that mattered was getting those boys off the field and on their way.

  A warning spasm of alarm erupted within her when she looked up and saw one of the Sickles players walk past Mattie and deliberately bump him. Mattie turned, his arm lifted, his smile flattening into a thin line. He said something, the other player replied, and before Gina could act, remnants of the two opposing teams squared off under the lights.

  Adrenaline fired her blood as tension crackled between the players. Obviously, they’d picked on Matthew because he’d scored against them. Her son wasn’t the type to fight, but, like his father, he wouldn’t back down.

  She hobbled into a blizzard of insults. The leading Sickles player stood with his hands loose at his sides, his gym bag on the grass at his feet. He’d clamped his jaw and was breathing hard though his nose.

  Did kids hide weapons in their wet towels?

  She faced her son who, like his friends, was still hyped up on testosterone. “Matthew,” she said, using her sternest voice. “You need to get in your car and go.”

  Her sixteen-year-old warrior cast a glance of well-mannered disdain in her direction, then faced his opponent. A muscle quivered at his jaw.

  “That your mommy?” the other player sneered. “Want her to take the heat for you?”

  “I’ve got a handle on things,” Mattie said, his face set in the ears-back look dogs give each other before springing forward.

  Gina stepped into the narrow space between the two players and lifted her arms. Both young men towered over her, but she had to maintain this fragile peace. “If you fight,” she said, her words strangled by the panic welling in her throat, “you’ll have to fight around me.”

  A couple of the Sickles players murmured in the background while Matthew’s arm flexed. She breathed in the scent of male ferocity and sweat, knowing he would hate her for this; he would blame her for destroying his reputation and threatening his manhood.

  He’d say she made him look like a wuss.

  One of the Gaither players launched a stream of curses against the Sickles team; a Sickles player responded in kind. Gina kept her arms up and lifted her chin, her heart hammering her rib cage as the threatening players edged closer—

  “What’s going on here?” One of the referees, still in his black-and-white shirt, shouldered his way through the crowd. He blinked at Gina, then turned immediately to the boys. “You guys break it up and move along. Sickles, your bus is about to pull out. Unless you want to walk the five miles back to your school, you’d better hit the road now.”

  Gina exhaled in a steady stream as the muttering players retreated, one or two pausing to flash a crude but eloquent bit of sign language in her direction. Mattie moved away, too, safe in the company of his friends.

  She waited until the last player had stepped onto the asphalt parking lot, then she looked at the ref.

  “Do me a favor?”

  “Sure, lady.”

  “Let me borrow your shoulder?”

  Under bright lights and a cloud of flying insects, Gina covered her face and rested her forehead on the man who had come to her rescue. The bewildered referee patted her shoulder until she straightened and palmed tears from her cheeks.

  “You okay, ma’am?”

  “Yes, thank you. I have to find my daughters and take them home.”

  The ref’s tongue worked at the inside of his cheek for a moment, then he grinned. “That was a pretty gutsy thing you did.”

  “Oh. Not really.” She ran her fingers along her lower lashes to wipe away any smeared mascara. “Any mother would have done the same thing.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Then, to prove her point, she folded her arms, lifted her chin, and set off in search of Mandi and Samantha.

  Sonny should have been there.

  2:00 p.m.

  CHAPTER 18

  Michelle swallows hard and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. The sour taste of vomit lingers at the back of her throat while a thin sheen of sweat covers her chest and forehead. The other women have retreated to their corners, probably because they find her offensive. They must be repulsed by her; she wouldn’t blame them if they were. At this moment she despises herself.

  What has happened to her? She’s Michelle Tilson, always confident and always in control. When life doesn’t flow her way, she takes the helm and charts a new course, doing whatever it takes to cruise through troubled waters. She adapts and perseveres and survives, but in the last hour all her efforts have resulted in ruin.

  Eddie’s death is all her fault. If she hadn’t bullied the answering-service operator, he would still be safe at home. But instead he crossed the bridge and headed into a storm to save a group of women who demanded his safety harness and watched helplessly as he tumbled down an elevator shaft.

  She lifts her head as a new sound reaches her ear. From someplace above them, Eddie’s dog is whimpering. Despite her fear of all things canine, the sound lances her heart.

  “Listen,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “What are we going to do about that?”

  Gina gapes at her as if she’s suddenly begun to speak Chinese. “What do you mean, what are we going to do? We can’t do anything to help ourselves. Why should we care about a stupid dog?”

  Michelle claps her hands over her ears as the animal breaks into a heartrending howl. “I don’t think I can stand that noise. It knows, it knows what happened!”

  “Then it knows we didn’t have anything to do with that man’s accident,” Gina snaps. “The elevator company should have sent a team with ladders and the proper tools. Instead they sent Ichabod Crane and his hapless hound—”

  “At least he came. No one else would take the chance.”

  “But they should have! We’re in desperate need here! When the hurricane blows ashore we’re going to be caught like sardines. I don’t know a lot about elevators, but I know we’re hanging from cables that are attached to the top of the building. If the roof of this building goes, so might we. One quick ride south, and it’ll all be over.”

  A low, tortured sob breaks from Isabel, who is still wrapped in a tight knot, her arms around her knees. Her shoulders shake as she weeps.

  For a long moment Michelle is too paralyzed to respond to either woman. They are helpless; they are miserable; they all feel terrible about Eddie Vaughn. They’re going to have to answer for him; maybe they’re going to have to answer for everything they’ve ever done.

  Her grandmother believed in Judgment Day. In an awe-inspiring, angry God who only smiled when he wore the face of Jesus.

  Gina glares at Isabel. “You are getting on my last nerve, so stop crying.”

  Michelle lifts her chin. “You don’t have to yell at her. She feels bad about Eddie—we all do.”

  “We need to get over the mechanic,” Gina answers. “We have to come up with some kind of strategy if we’re going to get through this ordeal. We need to make a plan.”

  Michelle blinks at the older woman, unable to believe what she’s hearing. Though Gina is certainly no warm fuzzy, she can’t be as unfeeling as her words imply. This snappishness has to be some kind of post-traumatic stress reaction.

  “Shh.” Michelle crawls toward the distraught cleaning woman, then rests a tentative arm on the woman’s shoulder. “We’re going to get through this. We just have to have a little faith.”

  Gina whips her head around. “Faith? In whom?”

  Michelle searches for an answer. “Gus knew we were going upstairs. The answering-service operator knows about us. And…well, my grandmother always said God sees everything. He knows we’re here.”

  Gina
snorts, then props one elbow on a bent knee. “Oh, yeah, the Almighty got a lot of people out of New Orleans when Katrina struck. And all those people he plucked up from the tsunami—how could I forget about them? He sends out heavenly rescue squads all the time, doesn’t he?”

  Despite Gina’s sarcasm, Isabel’s sobs slow and subside. After a few moments, she pulls a tissue from her pocket and blows her nose. “Thank you,” she mouths silently.

  Michelle responds with a nod, then lifts her arm and slides a little closer to her corner. What is to become of them? Despite her attempt at comforting Isabel, she can’t help feeling that Eddie was their only hope. The distressed dog can’t help them and the elevator hasn’t moved in—

  She groans as a new realization strikes. Eddie said the elevator won’t run if the ceiling hatch is open. So if the power happens to come back on, they won’t move to the next floor. They’ll be stuck here, exposed to whatever happens to fly down the shaft, for however long it takes for the hurricane to pass and rescue operations to begin.

  Like the Katrina victims who sweltered and died in their attics, they could be trapped for days. They might die from dehydration in this car. She might never see Parker again, never have an opportunity to tell him she wanted to marry him.

  Never be able to share her secret.

  Michelle draws a deep breath and looks at the redhead, who has leaned back against the wall, her face resettling into calm lines. Perhaps it was good for them to let off a little steam. Perhaps it’d even be good for them to confess a few things.

  “I wasn’t going to tell anyone—” she lowers her gaze to her hands “—but if we don’t make it out of here, I’d like someone to know. If we aren’t rescued, three people won’t die in this car. There’ll be four victims. This morning I discovered I’m pregnant.”

  Gina’s placid expression softens as a smile crinkles the corners of her eyes. “Congratulations. Is this good news?”

  Michelle barks out a laugh. “I wasn’t sure at first, but the more I thought about it, the more excited I became. I was on my way to tell my—”