Mountains of Grace

by Kelly Irvin

  “I thought you were all about tradition, tried and true, dried and pruned.”

  “Very funny. Tradition is important to us.” Mercy stacked books on her desk and turned to the chalkboard. She took a white rag to it, clearing the writing. “But that’s beside the point—you wouldn’t be teaching in an Amish school.”

  “I wouldn’t be teaching anywhere.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my degree is in communications.”

  Books clutched in her arms, Mercy leaned against her desk. She wrinkled her nose. “Why? Why did you get that degree? You never talked about it. Before you left for college, you said you might get a degree in education or you might go to veterinarian school or—”

  “Or I might become a stand-up comedian or compete on American Idol. I said a lot of things.”

  “You would be a good teacher. You’re good with kids. You’re good with people.”

  Friends like Mercy were worth more than all the money in the world. “You give me a lot more credit than I deserve.”

  “Just think about it, please.”

  “Why is this so important to you?”

  “Because you’re unhappy and I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

  “What else?”

  “I’m selfish. If you move to Billings, I’ll never see you. Eight hours might as well be eight hundred.” She ducked her head. “Teachers are needed here in this area. In Libby and Eureka and Kalispell. Or Polson and the other small towns between here and Missoula.”

  “You have to have a degree in education.” Juliette counted off the problems with this scenario on her fingers. “You have to student teach. You have to get certified.”

  “You’re thinking about it.” Mercy clapped her hands. If she’d been any younger, she would’ve jumped up and down. “Let’s go to the library Saturday and order the applications online. We can search for the requirements. Maybe having a degree already makes a difference.”

  “Whoa, whoa. There’s a difference between thinking about it and doing it.”

  “Come inside. Let’s get some lemonade and you can tell me what else happened Saturday night. You drank some beer. That’s not the whole story, sister.”

  Mercy pulled the screen door open. Juliette glanced back. From a stinky, dank converted garage classroom to a school classroom. Could it be possible?

  A window opened somewhere inside her. A fresh spring breeze fragrant with possibilities lifted the curtains.

  She swallowed against the ache in her throat.

  A verse also floated on the air. One her mother liked to quote whenever her children complained about something being too hard. With God, all things are possible.

  Even forgiving a sin-stained girl like her?

  28

  Libby, Montana

  Most of the time Tim couldn’t remember what day it was. He rubbed his eyes, already irritated from smoke and lack of sleep. It didn’t really matter, as long as he remembered to go to church on Sunday. It was Monday. No, Tuesday. He spray-painted the big 0 on the driveway of an empty home on Hutton Drive off Bobtail Road. The owners had done the smart thing and hightailed it from an area ravaged by a lightning-started fire fueled by timber, grass, and understory. It had eaten more than ten thousand acres of Kootenai National Forest and another three thousand acres of private property since its birth at the end of August. This was the last house on his route. He tossed the spray paint in the truck, slid in, and headed toward town.

  The radio crackled. Cammie was on dispatch and she sounded as frazzled as Tim felt. “Hey, Trudeau, are you out there? What’s your twenty?”

  “Hutton Drive. Headed your way.”

  “Can you call me on the phone?”

  “Sure.”

  There wasn’t much they didn’t put out on the radio, and the hesitation in Cammie’s voice said it couldn’t be good. Tim made the call via Bluetooth and waited for her to pick up. “What’s up?”

  “I got a call from Will Dalton up on Whitetail Road.” She paused.

  Will lived two houses down from Tim’s mom’s place. “And?”

  “He says your mom showed up at her house around lunchtime. He’s getting ready to leave so he went over to talk to her, let her know about the evac. She told him she’s not leaving. That the sheriff will have to pry her cold, dead fingers off the doorframe.”

  More like her burned-to-a-crisp fingers. “I moved her to Eureka on Thursday.”

  “That’s what I thought. They all got the Code Red this morning. Sal swept every house by ten o’clock. She must’ve come back afterward. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Why was Will still there?”

  “He was working on setting up sprinklers. He doesn’t want to leave your mom there.”

  “Call him back and tell him I’m on my way. He needs to leave. And can you let Emmett know?”

  “Will do on both counts.”

  Spitting gravel, Tim did a u-ey in the middle of the road and hit the gas. The woman was incorrigible. He hit the button on the steering wheel and called her. The phone rang and rang, then went to voice mail. “Mom, call me now. I heard you were back in town. That can’t be right. I know I didn’t dream driving you to Eureka last week. Are you seriously going to make me do it again?” He disconnected.

  Why did she push his buttons like no one else? Why did he have so little patience for her, of all people? Probably because when Mom and Dad split, he wanted to go with Dad. But no one asked him. At least he had those hour-plus drives with Dad between Libby and Eureka every other weekend for a few years before Dad moved to Missoula. Time they spent talking about important stuff like football, cars, and God.

  Dad didn’t want the divorce. Mom did. Forgiving her had taken a long time. God, I’m sorry. You expect me to respect my parents, no matter what. I promise to do better.

  If it kills me. And it might.

  Five minutes later he pulled into her driveway. Aunt Maddy’s ‘99 Cutlass sat crooked, its front end nose-to-nose with the garage door. Did that mean Leland hadn’t come with her?

  The front door stood open. Tim pocketed his key and pushed his way in. The smell of Lysol and lavender-scented air freshener bombarded him. His mom’s two favorite fragrances. “Mom? Mom!”

  He found her in the living room, ensconced in her drab green recliner, her oxygen tank on one side, Snickers, the yappy shih tzu, on her lap, and a large glass of wine on the table on the other side. A Jeopardy contestant correctly named the title of Aretha Franklin’s first number-one hit.

  Even Tim knew that.

  Mom frowned. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.” Snickers yapped, hopped from the chair, and approached Tim, growling with all the ferocity of a pit bull. “She does know I’m one of the good guys, right?”

  “She knows you’re mad.”

  “I distinctly remember driving you and Leland to Eureka a few days ago and telling you to stay put until the all-clear sounded.” Her suitcase lay open on the couch. Leland was nowhere in sight. “What happened? Why did you come back?”

  “Nothing.” She wiped her nose with delicate care not to mess with the tube that decorated the end of it. She tossed the tissue on the end table with a few dozen others. “I decided to come home.”

  “In Maddy’s car? Where’s Leland?”

  Her lips pursed. Her chin lifted, but the wattle underneath shook. “He left me. He said I was mean and cranky and he left me. He went to his brother’s in Kalispell.” Fat tears ran down her wrinkled face onto her purple velour jogging suit. Her oxygen tank hissed. “I am not mean and cranky. No more than he is.”

  “So you two had an argument. Call him, say you’re sorry, and all will be forgiven.” The argument didn’t explain what she was doing back in Libby in the middle of an evac zone. “Tell him to meet you back at Maddy’s and you’ll kiss and make up.”

  No guy liked to think about his mother kissing or making up with some old guy, but moms, regardless of
their age, deserved to be happy. Everyone wanted a happily ever after. No one wanted to be alone.

  Where did that leave Tim? “Does Maddy know you have her car?”

  “I left her a note.”

  “You took her car without asking her?”

  “She was asleep. I didn’t want to wake her.”

  “How thoughtful.” He closed the suitcase and zipped it up. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “You can’t stay here. The fire is headed this direction.”

  Glowering, she grabbed the chair arms with gnarled fingers that ended in long, yellowed fingernails. “I’m staying.”

  “You’re going.”

  She grabbed the remote, changed the channel, and hit the volume. The theme song to Judge Judy blared.

  It didn’t seem appropriate to sling his own mother over his shoulder and carry her out to the truck like a skinny sack of potatoes. “I’m putting your suitcase in the car.” He yelled over a heated discussion between a woman and her ex. “I’ll be back for you.”

  “I’m still your mother. I tell you what to do, not the other way around.”

  He marched from the house into the warm sun where he laid the suitcase in the truck bed and whirled. Time wasn’t on their side. The first notes of “I Shot the Sheriff” wafted from his phone. The office. “What?”

  “Not going well, I take it.” Cammie’s southern drawl was more elongated than usual, which meant she was stressed.

  “Another call?”

  “I hate to bother you, but I can’t raise the sheriff on the radio and he’s not answering his phone.” Warning bells sounded. Emmett was never incommunicado. “Kimberly has a situation on her hands at his brother’s house.”

  Emmett’s brother Paul had his share of challenges, but therapy and a stable drug regimen had smoothed the way for a relatively quiet year. “What’s going on with Paul?”

  “He’s throwing a bunch of appliances and electronics on the lawn and refusing to leave. Sheriff’s parents are freaking out and won’t leave without him.”

  “Keep trying to reach the sheriff. I’ll head that direction.”

  Tim did an about-face and triple-timed it into the house. Without a word he found his mother’s portable oxygen rig in its sleek, small, black bag and set it in her lap. “Get suited up.”

  The mutinous glare on her face faded, replaced by unrepentant curiosity. “What happened? Is it a car accident? Is the courthouse on fire? Did my neighbor finally murder that no-good cheating husband of hers?”

  “You’re not the only one who doesn’t want to leave.”

  “Who is it?” She crept to her feet, one hand on the armrest to balance herself, the other on her bag. “What’s going on?”

  Her nose for gossip practically sniffing the air, she tottered in purple Keds toward the hallway, oxygen tank trailing after her, while never taking her gaze from his face. “Is it Lois Crabtree? She’s a stubborn stink butt if there ever was one. She won’t leave without all twenty cats.”

  “It’s Paul Brody.”

  “Is he off his meds?”

  “If I see you calling your lady friends, I’ll take your phone.”

  “I need to change into proper clothes and pack Snickers’ food.”

  “I’ll get the food and Snickers’ crate.” That she still recognized the need to wear clothes was a blessing. “Make it snappy, please. We need to get everyone out of this neighborhood now.”

  “Keep your pants on. I’m coming.”

  Nothing like the possibility of juicy gossip to get Eleanor Trudeau’s rear in gear. A mere five minutes later, they were on the road with an unhappy dog between them. Another three minutes and Tim rounded the corner onto Bobtail Road. Even at a distance, it was obvious the fracas had escalated. Paul, a stout fifty-year-old, engaged in a tug-of-war with Lou Ellen, his eightysomething mother whose name could be found in the dictionary next to words like feisty, spry, and stubborn. Max stood nearby, both arms flailing in an apparent attempt to get between his wife and his son. Peabody, an overweight beagle, raced around in circles, baying.

  The object of their tiff appeared to be a toaster oven.

  Tim parked. Snickers banged against her crate and barked as if to support Peabody. Mom held up her phone. Tim swung out his arm and forced the phone down. “No pictures.”

  “Tim!”

  “I’ll take the phone.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me.”

  “Timoth—”

  “Stay in the truck.” He shoved open his door and ran toward the ruckus. “Stop, stop. That’s enough.”

  Paul jerked the toaster oven above Lou Ellen’s head. Yelling, “Don’t do it, don’t do it,” Lou Ellen hopped and batted at the appliance just out of her reach. “Give me that right now or I swear I’ll kick you out of this house forever this time.”

  No one ever listened to him anymore. Tim swooped between the writhing family members, grabbed the oven from Paul’s grasp, and backpedaled. “Enough. Enough!”

  “He’s trying to destroy it.” Lou’s skinny chest heaved. Her face was red with exertion and her Best Grandma Ever T-shirt was soaked with sweat. “He’s trying to destroy every appliance in the house.”

  “He’s off his meds again.” Max stated the obvious. “He’s gone crazy.”

  Crazy was not PC these days, but parents living with an adult child diagnosed with bipolar disorder with psychotic features could be forgiven for occasionally losing it themselves.

  “They’re sending me messages. They’re emailing me. They’re texting me. They’re talking to me. They never shut up.” Paul flexed massive biceps and lumbered closer. Tim eased back. Paul swiped tears from his face with both oversized paws. “They’re telling me to do things . . . things I don’t want to do.”

  His words ran together so rapid-fire they were difficult to understand.

  Tim edged between Paul and his parents. “Are they telling you to hurt yourself or someone else?”

  His shoulders sagged. “I have to destroy everything. The laptops, the TV, everything. You gotta help me.”

  “I know you feel that way, but—”

  Paul grabbed the toaster oven and smashed it to the ground. His hands went to his oversized ears. He sank to his knees and leaned forward until his whole body lay flat in the grass. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

  “It’s okay, Paulie, it’s okay. We won’t let you hurt anybody, honey. I promise.” Lou’s voice quivered as she knelt and patted his head with shaking hands. Peabody stopped baying and licked Paul’s face. “Nobody is hurting you. Mom and Dad are right here beside you.”

  Tim took Max aside. “I’d say call an ambulance, but at this point, we need to get out of here now. There’s no time. Do you have your stuff packed?”

  Max shook his head. “He dumped the suitcases on the ground. He was sure we’d hidden electronic devices in them.”

  “Grab what you can. Do you know where his meds are?”

  “We found the bottles in the kitchen trash. I think he put the pills down the garbage disposal.”

  Not an unusual occurrence, but the timing sucked. “Where are you going?”

  “To Daphne’s in Eureka.”

  “I hate to impose, but can you take my mom and her dog with you and drop her off at Maddy Gfeller’s? Call the clinic and tell them we’re on our way in.”

  “We should go with Paul. He’s our son.”

  “Let me do this for you. It’ll be easier for him and for you if he doesn’t have to do it in front of you.” This wasn’t their first rodeo or Tim’s. “You know how bad he feels when he comes out of one of his episodes.”

  It took another fifteen minutes to get Paul up off the ground and into the truck. He screamed obscenities and pounded on the dashboard. Tim jammed his foot on the accelerator and raced to Libby’s only mental health clinic that provided limited in-patient services.

  It took a sweet nurse with the face of the Madonna twenty minutes to con
vince Paul he should spend some time “resting.” He climbed into a bed, dirty clothes and boots, and closed his eyes.

  “He’s coming down.” The nurse handed a clipboard stuffed with papers to Tim. “You can start on these. Is his family on the way?”

  “I called Sheriff Brody and left a message.”

  Tim perused the papers. Most of it was beyond his small store of knowledge. The staff here knew more than he did about their frequent flier. Paul was diagnosed in high school after a series of increasingly bizarre incidents that got him suspended four times. He managed two semesters of college before he returned home to hold a job at his father’s hardware store for as long as he took his medication.

  “How is he?”

  Tim glanced up at his boss’s voice. His face gray with fatigue, Emmett trudged down the hallway.

  “They gave him something to help him sleep. His doctor is on his way.”

  “Dr. Rollins is a good guy. Nice of him to come to Libby ahead of schedule.”

  “The nature of the beast, I reckon.” Tim held out the clipboard. “Have a seat. Did a Hummer run over you?”

  “I made the mistake of going by Colleen’s to make sure she and the kids were getting out.” He plopped into the navy padded chair next to Tim and stared at the clipboard as if it were a coral snake. “She had a meltdown.”

  “About the evac?”

  “No, they were packed and ready to roll out to my in-laws in Missoula. About the divorce settlement. I feel like a country music song. I’m going through the big D and I don’t mean Dallas.” He slapped his cowboy hat on his lap and ran his hands through thinning auburn hair. “She got the house, the Suburban, child support, maintenance, and the kids. The carcass has been picked clean. What else does she want?”

  “Your soul to rot in hell?” Tim’s attempt to inject levity into the conversation met with an eye roll. “I imagine she wants you to feel as bad as she does.”