Beneath a Southern Sky

by Deborah Raney

  Natalie perked up at the sound of Cole’s name and began banging her chubby fists on the plastic highchair tray. “Da-da-da-da-da,” she sang plainly and happily.

  The effect on Vera Camfield was devastating.

  Daria tried to ignore Natalie’s happy chattering. “We… Cole has asked me to marry him, and I said yes.” She tried to put a cheerful inflection in the words.

  “I had a feeling this was going to happen,” the woman spat.

  Daria looked at her, shocked, near tears, and uncertain how to respond. “I know this isn’t easy for you, Vera—”

  “So,” Vera cut her off, “you’re just going to marry the first man that comes along, is that it?” She twisted a tattered paper dinner napkin in her hands.

  Jack Camfield sat silent now.

  Daria fought to remain calm. “Vera, I love Cole very much. I haven’t made this decision rashly.”

  “Do you have any idea how this hurts us, Daria? Any idea whatsoever? Did Nathan mean nothing to you? How do you think this will look to our friends? Our son is barely cold in his grave and you have just gone on with your life, as though he meant nothing to you.”

  “Vera!” Daria hadn’t meant it to come out so harshly. She took a deep breath and forced her voice down an octave. “Nate has been dead for a year and a half. Oh, Vera, you know I loved Nate—more than I ever thought it was possible to love another human being. But he’s gone! He’s not coming back, and I have to go on with my life. I don’t want to raise Natalie alone. She needs a father. And Cole loves her like his own.”

  Vera recoiled as though she’d been slapped.

  From her chair, Natalie started her happy litany again. “Da-da-da-da.”

  Daria cringed inwardly at Natalie’s chatter, but she reached out and put a hand on Vera’s arm. “I’m sorry, Vera. But surely you do want Natalie to have the influence of a good man in her life. Do you want me to be alone for the rest of my life? I love Cole. He’s a wonderful man. I’d like for you to get a chance to know him.” Daria knew she was whining, hated the way her voice sounded in her own ears.

  Vera softened a bit, let out a tremulous sigh. Or maybe it was merely defeat Daria heard in her voice. “All I’m asking is that you not rush into this, Daria. You’ve only known the man for a few months—”

  “I’ve known him for almost a year, Vera,” Daria interrupted. “Yes, we’ve only been dating for four or five months, but I worked with him before that. In some ways it’s better, because I saw him exactly as he is—kind and loving and full of integrity.”

  Daria knew from Vera’s vacant stare and the tight fold of her arms across her breast that she had shut her out.

  Daria turned to Nathan’s father. “Jack?”

  He sighed and put a protective arm around his wife. “We can’t tell you what to do, Daria. You have to decide that for yourself. We only want what’s best for you, and for Natalie. It does seem that this is a bit hasty. I”—he cleared his throat—“I just hope that this won’t change the relationship we have with Natalie. She’s all we have left of our son.” He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose noisily.

  “Oh, Jack and Vera,” she said, humility tingeing her words. “Of course you’ll still see Natalie. I would never keep her from you. I want her to spend time with you. You’re her grandparents. She loves you!”

  “We appreciate that,” Jack said and reached to squeeze Daria’s hand. “We care about you.”

  Daria felt tears well in her eyes and she looked up, trying to hold them back. There was a long, awkward silence, and Natalie started crying.

  Vera got up. “Is my baby fussy?” She reached to scoop the little girl from her highchair.

  Jack cleared his throat again and said, “I suppose we should get on the road pretty soon.”

  They played with Natalie for a few minutes, then started to gather their things to leave.

  Not wanting to leave anything unsettled, yet not wanting them to think that they had swayed her decision in any way, Daria went to her desk drawer and pulled out one of the wedding invitations she had been addressing. The envelope on top bore the Camfield’s name in Daria’s flowing script. She carried it into the living room where they sat.

  Handing it to Vera, she told them, “We would very much like to have you at the wedding.” It was a lie, and she immediately felt guilty. Under the circumstances, having them at the wedding would cause everyone to feel uncomfortable.

  Vera started to take the card from the unsealed envelope, then apparently changed her mind. She handed the invitation back to Daria. “Thank you, dear, but I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

  Daria searched for the right words, hoping they would come out with graciousness rather than the immense relief she felt. “I understand,” she said finally.

  When the Camfields had gone and Natalie was down for her nap, Daria called her mother and told her about the confrontation.

  “Well, of course they’re hurt, Daria. But don’t let it bother you. They’ll get over it and come to realize that this is best for everyone, especially Natalie. Everything will be fine when they see how happy you are, how good Cole is with Nattie. Don’t let it ruin things for you. This should be the happiest time of your life.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” She sighed heavily, feeling as confused as a teenager. “Why does everything have to be so complicated?”

  “Oh, honey, I think every wedding, every joining of families, has its pitfalls. Just take it in stride. Don’t let it get you down,” she repeated.

  She tried to take her mother’s words to heart, but she couldn’t help feeling sorry for the Camfields. She tried to imagine her own parents’ grief if it had been she who’d died and Nathan who was marrying another woman to become the mother of their grandchild. She could see how it might threaten their relationship with Natalie. She determined then to make an extra effort to allow Nate’s parents to have time with their granddaughter.

  “Oh, Lord,” she prayed, as she hung up the phone, “just be with Jack and Vera. Help them to understand. And God—” She cut short her prayer. She had been ready to pour out her heart to God. A torrent of words was on her tongue, begging release. But something stopped her. A place deep inside her heart recognized that she couldn’t come honestly before God because she had ignored his gentle, beckoning voice, a voice that was calling her even now. There was something he asked of her that she wasn’t willing to give. It dismayed her, but at the same time it caused her to withdraw further.

  Deliberately she turned her mind to other things, allowed her brain to become cluttered with all the tasks, important and mundane, that she needed to accomplish before February fourteenth.

  After that, she promised herself, she would deal with the uncertainties that nagged at her, with the doubts that seemed to creep in when they were least welcome. After that—when she and Cole and Natalie were settled in, when they were a family—then she would square things with God.

  Daria leafed through the hymnal to find the page number the lector announced. She turned to look at Cole who sat beside her, holding Natalie proudly in his arms while they stood to sing the worship choruses. Seeing them together warmed Daria. The love that had grown between them couldn’t have been deeper had Cole been Natalie’s biological father.

  Pastor Greene took the pulpit to begin the sermon, and Cole settled Natalie on the padded seat between him and Daria. The toddler quickly grew restless, wanting to practice her newly acquired walking skills. Ordinarily she looked forward to playing with the other children in the nursery, but she had awakened in a rather testy mood that morning. So when she screamed in protest as they tried to leave her in the nursery, Daria gave in and brought her to the worship service with them. Now Natalie fidgeted in the seat, sliding to the floor and then climbing back into the pew. When she stretched out on her back on the cushioned seat and began kicking the pew in front of them with her black patent leather Mary Janes, Daria quickly picked her up and pulled her onto her lap. Immed
iately Natalie went rigid, stretching her legs to kick the pew again.

  “Natalie, no,” Daria whispered in her ear. “Don’t kick the seat.”

  Natalie stretched out her chubby leotard-clad leg and kicked again, this time harder. The two elderly women in front of them turned their heads to see what was causing all the commotion. One of them smiled sympathetically, but the other frowned with a look of irritation and shifted in her seat as though the kicking was a personal affront.

  Daria rummaged in the diaper bag for something to distract her daughter. She found a Tupperware container of Cheerios, took off the lid, and offered Natalie one.

  “No!” Natalie shouted in her best spoiled-brat voice, stretching to kick the pew again. Muffled laughter rippled through the congregation. It was always funnier when it was someone else’s child disrupting the service.

  She looked over at Cole, who was trying to ignore what was happening. Natalie continued to misbehave, and when Cole finally looked Daria’s way, she motioned that she was going to take Natalie out. He nodded and turned in the pew to let her pass to the outside aisle. Daria stood and picked Natalie up in one motion. But the minute Natalie realized that her mother intended to take her back to the nursery, she started bucking in Daria’s arms. She weighed a full twenty-five pounds now, and it was all Daria could do to keep her balance.

  They made it to the wide double doors at the back of the sanctuary, and Daria set Natalie on the floor and took her hand. But the little girl’s hand slipped from her grasp as though it were a wet bar of soap. With a squeal, she toddled down the center aisle, toward the pew where Cole was. By now the pastor had stopped midsermon to crack a joke at her expense. Daria didn’t hear him clearly, since her face was on fire and blood was pounding in her ears—something about him wishing all his congregants were so eager to return to services each Sunday.

  Natalie wiggled in front of the people in Cole’s row and climbed into his arms, but instead of welcoming her, he stood and carried her down the outside aisle. Daria met them at the back doors and followed Cole out of the sanctuary and down the hallway toward the nursery.

  He transferred Natalie to Daria’s arms. “Do you want to try to put her back in the nursery?”

  “Could we just go home?” she pled, utterly humiliated.

  Cole smiled, but Daria could tell that he, too, had been embarrassed by Natalie’s antics. “Is her coat in the nursery?” he asked.

  “No, I hung it up with mine in the foyer.”

  “Okay. I’ll go get them.”

  Daria was almost in tears on the way home. “I just don’t know what to do when she gets like that, Cole” she whined. “It’s like I have no control over her whatsoever.”

  “You just need to keep being firm with her, Daria. Every time you give in, she thinks she’s won.”

  In the seat behind them, Natalie sat in her car seat, sucking her thumb furiously, looking from one to the other as though she knew she was the subject of their conversation—and was rather enjoying that fact.

  “Do you think I should have made her stay in the nursery this morning?”

  He thought for a minute, then nodded. “I do, Daria. You rewarded her fit by giving her exactly what she wanted.”

  “But it didn’t seem fair to leave the nursery helpers with a screaming brat,” she defended herself.

  “I have a feeling she would have stopped screaming almost as soon as we were out of sight.”

  Daria sighed. “You’re probably right. But it’s so hard.”

  He reached across the console and patted her arm. “She’ll learn.”

  Daria knew Cole was right. She did let her daughter have her own way whenever she threw a tantrum, while Cole seemed mostly immune to the little girl’s whims.

  When Cole stopped at the apartment a few minutes later and Daria unbuckled Natalie from her car seat, she couldn’t help but long for the soon-coming day when she would go home with Cole and share the mixed blessing of this stubborn little girl who now smiled up at her with the face of an angel.

  The supper dishes were done, and Natalie was down for the night. Daria flipped on the television set and wandered through the apartment straightening up. While a mindless sitcom droned in the background, she gathered up toys strewn across the floor, piles of magazines she’d yet to read, and stacks of mail that needed sorting.

  On top of a “to keep” stack of magazines lay the newest issue of Brides. Daria smiled even while a mild sense of panic came over her as she thought of all there was to do in the next few weeks.

  With the toys tucked away in their baskets and the magazines neatly stacked on the floor by the sofa, Daria tackled the dining room table. She tossed junk mail into the trash and gathered up receipts and bills to file. As she sorted through a stack of old mail, a familiar sheet of onionskin paper appeared among the envelopes. Daria was filled with a sense of dread she couldn’t quite name.

  She started to unfold the thin sheet of paper, but impulsively put it, along with its envelope, on the stack of junk mail. She carried the whole pile into the kitchen and stuffed it into the wastebasket. The letter sat on top of the heaping container, accusing her.

  On impulse she went to the closet in her bedroom and rummaged on the top shelf until her hand touched an old shoebox. She pulled it down, slipped off the elastic bands that secured the lid, and gingerly opened it. Inside, along with some Gospel Outreach newsletters and some old newspaper clippings, were a dozen black cassette tapes, each labeled in Nate’s sloppy printing. She took the box into the living room and slipped one of the cassettes into the stereo. Pushing the Play button, she sat back on the sofa, trembling.

  The tape wound silently for several seconds, and then there was a scratchy sound like static. She sat, staring far beyond the stereo speakers, waiting. The static continued, but suddenly Nate’s voice filled the room.

  “Uh, it’s June fifteenth,” he said in his soft, matter-of-fact “taping” voice. “We’ve been here almost five months now, and we’re adjusting well to the climate. It’s been raining for almost three days straight, but we’re staying pretty dry in the hut…”

  At those words, Daria recognized the sound she’d mistaken for static as one of the torrential downpours they’d had that first rainy season in Timoné. Over the rain and Nate’s quiet voice, a bird squawked. She closed her eyes, transported.

  Nate’s voice droned on. “Daria’s been making some progress with the kids here, just getting to know them mostly, learning their names, but she has plans to start formal lessons soon. They really seem to have taken a liking to her and follow her all over the village. I’ve been calling her the Pied Piper.” He chuckled, then cleared his throat and continued, his voice serious again. “I’m working with Anazu, trying to get a feel for the best way to reach the other villagers. I’m still far from fluent in Timoné, but from what I can make out he thinks they—”

  Daria jumped up and turned off the stereo. She couldn’t stand to hear any more. It hurt too much, hearing Nate’s voice so clearly, hearing his laughter and the jungle sounds that had been such a familiar part of their lives together. She had forgotten about him calling her the Pied Piper.

  Dry eyed, she opened the tape deck and removed the cassette, dropping it back in the box with the others. She went to the desk, took out a label and sturdy strapping tape, crumpled an old newspaper, and packed it around the cassette tapes. At the last minute, she removed the tape she had just listened to from the box and slipped it into an envelope. She wrote Natalie’s name on the front, sealed the flap, and put it in the bottom drawer of the desk. Then she taped the lid securely on the box that held the remaining cassettes, took Evangeline Magrit’s letter from the trash, and copied her address onto a mailing label, which she pasted onto the box. She would mail it from the clinic on Monday morning.

  She threw the letter back in the wastebasket without reading it again, then grabbed some old magazines and threw them in on top of the letter so she wouldn’t have to see the guilt-induci
ng missive anymore. She shook her head back and forth as though she could cast out the thoughts that were churning in her brain. Then, before she could change her mind, she pulled the white plastic garbage bag out of the basket, tied it tightly, and grabbed a book of matches from the drawer beside the stove. She lugged the trash down the stairs and out to the incinerator behind the house.

  Unless it was windy, which it often was in Kansas, Kirk Janek burned the trash every day. Daria had rarely lit it herself, but this time she struck a match and threw it on top. It flared, melted a tiny hole in the plastic, and fizzled out. She lit another match with the same results. Feeling agitated, she tore a hole in the bag and lit a corner of a newspaper that protruded from it. The flame grew and quickly engulfed the contents. Daria closed the door of the incinerator and walked back to the house with a heavy heart.

  CRUX:

  THE CROSS

  Sixteen

  The flames were hot…so hot. He ran to the east side of the hut where the doorway should have been, but it was gone. Everywhere he looked, on all four sides, only walls of flame rose around him. He sucked in a breath and immediately choked on the thick smoke that filled the air.

  He could hear screaming all around him. He had to find the children. They were too weak to get out by themselves. But the smoke obscured his vision. Stretching his arms in front of him, he connected with the rope of a hammock. It swung heavily under his touch, still occupied. Fumbling blindly, he managed to lift the frail body from the sling. He cradled it in his arms and ducked his head. If he ran into the flames, surely he would run through into fresh air. Then miraculously an opening appeared in front of him, a way out. He raced into the light and placed the child on the damp forest floor, gulping oxygen like a drowning man. He knelt over the limp body, and though his eyes were swollen and watering, he saw that it was little Miguel he had carried out. It was too late. The boy was gone.