Spring Rain

by Gayle Roper

  Greg pushed himself away from the car. “Before I went home and fell into bed, I wanted you to know what we’ve learned. There’s an APB for Molino throughout the state. In the meantime, we’ll do our best to keep an eye on you. Just be careful, okay? And, Bill, stay close to home.”

  Leigh took a couple of steps forward, and Clay’s hand fell to his side.

  “Thanks, Greg,” she said, reaching to shake his hand.

  Greg took her hand, smiled briefly, and climbed into his car. He wasn’t even out of the drive before Bill turned to Leigh.

  “I want to go to Mike’s. Nobody’s going to grab me over there. It’s dumb to even think they might.”

  Leigh blinked. “Uh, I don’t think so. You heard Mr. Barnes.”

  Bill opened his mouth to protest, but Clay beat him to the punch. He laid a very heavy hand on Bill’s shoulder and squeezed. “Bill, I have an idea for a great Easter gift for your mother. If she says it’s okay, will you come with me and see if you agree? Mike can come along too if he’d like. We’ll stop at his house so he can ask his mom if it’s okay.”

  Leigh didn’t look delighted with the idea, but she didn’t say no either. With Bill’s rebellion momentarily quelled, the three males climbed into the Grand Cherokee, Bill pulling Terror into the backseat with him and Mike. Clay felt pleased with himself as he turned the key in the ignition. He’d averted a confrontation. Maybe this parenting wasn’t so hard after all.

  He waved to Leigh as they pulled away. She smiled weakly back. Obviously she was still hiding behind her stone princess persona. He’d figured out how to keep Bill safe for the time being. He’d figure out how to get back in her good graces.

  He settled back in his seat, pleased with himself. Life had never been more complicated, but it had also never had more possibilities.

  Twenty-six

  CLAY WALKED INTO the kitchen later than usual on Good Friday morning, intent on getting a cup of coffee and some food. He was surprised to see Leigh there. She had been avoiding the house—and him—since Monday night, living in her stone tower across the yard.

  It was amazing the emotional distance of one small yard.

  “Am I glad to see you,” he said, probably with more enthusiasm than was wise under the strained circumstances.

  She gave him a frightened-doe-caught-in-the-headlights look and headed straight for the door.

  Her flight at his mere presence in the same room angered him. “Running away, I presume.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, her face flushed. “Yes.”

  Her voice was low and strained, and he regretted his temper. “I’m sorry.”

  “Um.” She grabbed for the doorknob.

  “Leigh, don’t leave. Please.” She looked wonderful in shabby jeans and a long sleeved, red T-shirt with bleach stains all over one cuff. Her hair had been pulled back on the sides and held with some kind of little combs.

  “I’ve got stuff to do,” she said vaguely as she pulled the door open.

  With one hand he grabbed her arm and pulled her back into the room while the other pushed the door closed. He slid his hand down her arm and laced his fingers through hers. “Have a cup of coffee with me. Please. I don’t want to drink alone.”

  “Turning into a solitary drunk, are we?” She smiled a real smile, and when he squeezed her hand, she squeezed back.

  “I miss you, sweetheart. I miss your company and your sweet spirit.”

  “I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m right here.”

  He shook his head. “Not in the ways that count.” He reached out and traced the line of her hair from temple to comb. He felt a fine tremble go through her at his touch. Encouraged, he said, “Have dinner with me tonight.”

  “I’ve had dinner with you several nights since you came home.”

  “Yeah, me and Mom and Bill, maybe David and Ted too. You know that’s not what I mean.”

  She looked at him with sad eyes. “I don’t know, Clay. It’s probably not a good idea.”

  He pulled her close, wrapping their joined hands behind his own back. He slid his other arm about her waist, both to keep her from bolting and to enjoy her closeness. “What’s wrong, Leigh? Tell me. I’m going crazy here trying to figure this out.”

  Carefully, carefully he disengaged their interlaced fingers and placed his hand on top of hers, still behind his back. He pressed her hand against him just above his hip. He waited a couple of seconds until he was confident she was comfortable with what amounted to her embrace. Then he released her hand and slid that arm about her, his fingers meeting at the small of her back. He took a step until they were mere inches apart. When her free hand came up and rested on his other hip, he felt hope soar.

  He was totally unprepared for the tear that slid from the outer corner of her eye and bled down her cheek. “Leigh!” Without thinking he leaned down and kissed it away, tasting both her salt and her pain.

  She made a strangled sound deep in her throat, and her head fell forward so that her forehead rested on his chest. He cupped the back of her head and rested his cheek lightly on her hair.

  They stood like that, bodies touching only where her head lay on his chest, but he was conscious of a near-painful yearning to pull her to him and never let her go. He wanted the easy camaraderie that had been developing between them. He missed her laugh, her humor, her quick mind, her compassionate heart. He missed her.

  “Leigh,” he whispered, tilting her chin up. He kissed her, a gentle kiss that contained all the longings of his heart. At first she held herself apart, those careful inches between them maintained. Then with a soft cry, she melted against him, her arms tightening around his back. He held her close and tasted her tears.

  Too soon she broke the kiss and pulled away. He caught only a glimpse of her anguished face as she pulled the door open and raced across the yard. He didn’t try to stop her, stunned as he was by the depth of his response to her.

  No wonder he had never gotten serious with Emilie or any other woman. For him it would always be Leigh and only Leigh. The question was, would she come around for him like she had with Mama, or was he one of the kittens? And was he having dinner with her tonight or not?

  Lost in thought, he climbed the stairs to Ted’s room. The sight of his brother brought him up painfully.

  Ted lay on his back, arms resting beside him. His hospital bed was raised, and pillows were stacked behind him to ease the pressure on his lungs. His eyes were closed, the dark lashes resting on pale cheeks. An oxygen canula forced pure air into his nostrils in the effort to make his breathing easier. Even though he appeared to be sleeping, he coughed frequently, ragged, croupy coughs that made Clay’s hair stand on end.

  There was no question: When the home health nurse came, she’d call David and recommend Ted be in the hospital before the morning was out. The pneumonia had taken root, and home care wasn’t sufficient to dig it out.

  Oh, God! Don’t let him die! Please don’t let him die!

  Mom sat slumped in the chair beside the bed, watching Ted breathe. Her own breath was timed to his as if by following the same rhythm she could guarantee that his would continue as steadily as hers. Clay knew she’d been here all night. She was still wearing her nightgown and robe, and her hair was in disarray from where she’d pushed her hands through it in despair.

  “Mom.” He walked to her, lowering himself to kneel beside her. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Why don’t you take a break for a few minutes?”

  She glanced at him and smiled wanly, reaching out and pushing his hair off his forehead. “I’m afraid to.”

  He nodded. Every time he left the room, he was afraid too, afraid Ted wouldn’t be here when he came back.

  “He’s not going anywhere just yet.” Please, God, may that be true. “Visit the bathroom. Take a shower. Go make some of your terrible coffee. Take a quick walk by the water. Whatever will help you most. I’ll be here, and I promise to call you if there’s any change. Besides, the home health nurse will be h
ere soon.”

  Finally she let herself be persuaded, leaving the room with a backward glance at the bed and a dubious one at Clay.

  He made shooing motions with his hands. “Go. We’ll be okay.”

  Clay collapsed into the chair she’d just vacated and stared at Ted. He felt so helpless whenever he was in this room. He hated helpless!

  He got up and studied the chart on the wall. Maybe they had forgotten some medication. If he could figure out which one it was, he could give it to Ted, and he’d be all right. Clay compared the chart with the various bottles and vials littering the bureau.

  All dosages checked off and accounted for.

  He sighed. It would have been too easy a resolution.

  Maybe more of that vitamin and nutrient-laced drink they were always forcing down him. Clay went to the box stowed in the corner and pulled a can out. He popped the top and stuck in one of those bent straws. When Ted woke up, he could drink it.

  “Sit down already,” a barely audible voice said. “You’re driving me nuts.”

  “Ted!” Clay rushed to the bedside. “Here. Drink this.”

  Ted just closed his eyes. His face spasmed.

  “What?” Clay demanded. “What?”

  “Chest hurts.”

  “I’ll rub it with Vicks Vapor Rub,” Clay said, suddenly aware that the room was redolent with its aroma. Mom. She’d always rubbed their chests with Vicks when they were kids. He began looking frantically for the little blue jar.

  Ted coughed. It was a deep, fluid sound that scared Clay all over again. When the coughing jag passed, Ted lay exhausted.

  Clay reached for the phone.

  “Who?” Ted demanded.

  “An ambulance. You need the hospital.”

  “No.”

  “Yes! Ted, you can hardly breathe.”

  “Home.” His eyes were hard and mutinous. “Living will. My call.”

  Clay looked away from his brother, out the window to the beautiful spring day, sun warm and benevolent, breeze light and soothing. He’d walked the shore earlier, praying for Ted, praying for Leigh, praying for Bill, praying for his mother. Praying for himself.

  “Call Pastor Paul,” Ted said, his chest straining with the effort not only to breathe but to talk.

  “What?”

  “Pastor Paul. Ask him to pray for me.”

  “I’ll be right back. I have to get a phone book.” Clay started for the door.

  “Over there.” Ted managed to point to a list posted beside the medicine chart.

  Clay found a list of emergency numbers, everything from the hospital to Pastor Paul. He dialed.

  “Seaside Chapel. Pastor Paul Trevelyan speaking. How can I help you?”

  “Paul, this is Clay Wharton.”

  “Ted.” Paul said the one word, but Clay could hear him coming to attention as he spoke.

  “He’s got pneumonia.”

  “Yes. Julia called me.”

  “He’s in pain and breathing distress. He asked me to call you and ask you to pray for him.”

  “Are you still at home?”

  “He doesn’t want to go to the hospital.”

  Paul sighed. “I never know whether to push him or not. If he goes, he’ll probably have more time, but there’s no guarantee. And he deserves the privilege of dying at home if that’s what he wants. Okay. Can Ted hold the phone, or will you hold it for him?”

  “I can hold it for him.”

  “Okay, then. Put it by his ear.”

  Clay did as he was told, holding the phone beside Ted who lay with his eyes closed.

  “Ted, this is Pastor Paul. I hear you’re not doing very well today.” Paul’s electronic voice was audible in the quiet bedroom.

  “Right,” Ted mumbled. “Hurts.”

  “Ah, Father,” Paul began, “I’m so sorry to hear Ted is hurting today. It hurts me that he’s in pain, and I know it hurts You. Ease his discomfort, Lord. Touch him and relieve him. I ask You to glorify Yourself through Ted.”

  Clay stared at the phone. Glorify Yourself through Ted? Through a man who has rejected God’s standards?

  “Today’s Good Friday, Father,” Paul continued, “the day Your Son gave His life for us. What pain He suffered for our salvation. What love He demonstrated for a sinful people who’ve turned from You. What eternal joy is ours when we believe the truth of this sacrifice. We’ve all sinned, Father. Ted, me, Clay. But Jesus bore it all and more. Thank You, thank You.

  “It’s because of today’s sacrifice made all those years ago that we have the courage to come to You and ask Your help for Ted. Touch his body, Lord. Ease his pain. Heal him if You will, we ask in Jesus’ name. And touch his spirit. May he know Your peace and Your relief. And above all, may Jesus Christ be glorified.”

  The room was silent as the soothing words of Paul Trevelyan’s prayer hung in the air. Ted lay with his eyes closed, but Clay noted his breathing, though still labored, didn’t have the frantic quality it had had after the last coughing bout.

  “Ted,” Pastor Paul said, “you do as the nurse tells you. If she says hospital, you go.”

  Ted snorted.

  “For your mom, Ted.” Paul’s voice was firm. “When it’s inevitable, that’s one thing. Stay home then. But today, well, who knows?”

  “Thanks,” Ted said. “I’ll think about it.” “I’ll pray for you all day. I had planned to stop by this afternoon, and I’ll still do so.”

  “Thanks,” Ted said again.

  Clay lifted the phone. “If you’re coming this afternoon, you’d better call first to see if he’s here or at the hospital.”

  “I’ll be praying for you too, Clay,” Paul said. “I’m glad you’re there.”

  Clay hung up the phone and sat staring at his twin. He absolutely hated seeing him so ill. He hated that he couldn’t fix it. He hated that Ted hated him.

  “Stop staring.”

  Clay jumped. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “With you boring into me with your X-ray vision?”

  “You’re breathing more easily.”

  Ted nodded. “Paul’s got a great pipeline to the Lord.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me to pray for you?” Clay was as startled that he’d asked the question as Ted was by the question, but Clay realized he was offended that Ted had ignored him. And hurt. Deeply hurt.

  “You?”

  “Yes, me.” Clay’s tone was impatient. “I pray, you know.”

  Ted fluttered his hands. “I know. But I didn’t know if you’d pray for me.”

  Clay flinched. “I pray for you every day. Every single day. I always have ever since I can remember.”

  Ted looked stunned.

  For some reason his reaction made Clay mad. “What? You think just because you make me mad I don’t love you? I do, and watching you so sick is eating me up inside.”

  In answer, Ted shut his eyes.

  Clay stared at the pale face before him. Here he was pouring out his heart, and Ted closed his eyes. Closed him out!

  “Read to me.” The request came in a reed thin voice.

  After a moment of silence where he struggled with his own labored breathing, Clay said carefully, “Sure.”

  He pulled the Bible off the bedside table, knocking a small blue bottle onto the floor. The Vicks. He picked it up and put it back. Fat lot of good that would do at the level of illness they were contending with. What had he been thinking?

  He flipped through the pages until he came to Habakkuk 3. He read as slowly and dramatically as he could the verses that he read to himself frequently, the verses that were to him the only possible solution to failure.

  “Even though the fig trees have no blossoms, and there are no grapes on the vine; even though the olive crop fails, and the fields lie empty and barren; even though the flocks die in the fields, and the cattle barns are empty, yet I will rejoice in the LORD! I will be joyful in the God of my salvation. The Sovereign LORD is my strength! He will make me as surefooted as a deer and b
ring me safely over the mountains.”

  After a moment of silence, Ted said, “Again.”

  Then, “Again.”

  After the third reading, Ted remained silent, and so did Clay. He stared at the verses, seeing again the barrenness of his life, the failures that ate at him. Leigh and the hurt he’d given her. And he’d thought that pained him before! His son and the ten years he’d lost, they’d lost. His brother and the gulf that his own pharisaical pride had built between them.

  “The Sovereign LORD is my strength! He will make me as surefooted as a deer and bring me safely over the mountains.”

  He glanced at Ted, still lying with his eyes closed. Safely over the mountains undoubtedly meant something far different to him. But to Clay it meant that despite all the errors, all the conscious and unconscious mistakes, all the sin, God was still there for him and always would be. He would bring him safely to what? Not success. Men thought of that as the opposite of failure, but spiritually speaking, no, it wasn’t the answer. Reconciliation.

  Suddenly, as clearly as if she were beside him, he saw Leigh.

  “Now get this,” she was saying. “This is the important part. It was Esau, the wronged brother, who rushed to embrace his twin. He threw his arms around Jacob and kissed him. Then the brothers wept and reconciled.”

  Safely over the mountains meant forgiving and reconciling.

  Suddenly the tears came, and Clay fell to his knees beside the bed.

  “I’m sorry, Ted. I’m sorry.” He grabbed his brother’s hand and felt his jolt of surprise. “Forgive me! I’ve behaved so badly toward you.” And he threw his arm across Ted’s chest in the closest approximation he could give to an embrace, burying his head in the hollow of his brother’s shoulder.

  It was a minute before Clay realized that Ted was utterly still, totally unresponsive.

  Oh, dear God, he doesn’t want my confession! You might have, but he doesn’t.

  Embarrassed and full of sorrow, Clay pulled back. “I’m sorry,” he began, only to freeze at the startled, no, make that appalled expression on Ted’s face and the trancelike look in his unblinking eyes.

  Oh, Lord, I killed him!