The Missing Piece (Inspirational Love Story)

by Carol McCormick

  But no sermon came to his relief. Instead, Pastor Jacobson said, “I've been called away to officiate a funeral. I'll be gone for a few days, so if you need more paint or other supplies let my secretary know and she'll write out a check to the hardware store for you. Now, let me help you pull those bookcases away from the wall.”

  By the end of the second day the library walls were painted eggshell white. It was quite an improvement to the old room, but Dylan’s whole body ached from the continuous rocking motion and the twisted positions that he was forced to assume while painting. All that he needed to do now was move the shelves back in place and put the books away. That, he would do tomorrow.

  The thought reminded him that tomorrow was also Wednesday, the day that he’d been dreading because of the electric bill payment. He had no one to turn to for help and he was too embarrassed to borrow the money, even though it would only be a few days loan. His pride wouldn’t allow him to admit that he was so broke. Not only because of his circumstances, but because he’d foolishly wasted most of his previous paycheck.

  The secretary was still at her desk when Dylan walked by her office. He paused for a moment and then stepped inside. Mrs. Graham looked up from her ledger and smiled. “Hello, Dylan. What can I do for you?”

  Hesitating, he stared out the window as though in a trance. It’s only a loan, he promised the quivering leaves on the aspen tree. I don’t know what else to do right now. I have no other choice. I swear I’ll pay it back, he vowed within his heart.

  “Dylan?”

  He shifted his weight from right foot to left. “I need a few more supplies for the library. Pastor Jacobson said that you’d give me a check for the hardware store if I needed anything.” The words tumbled out in rapid succession.

  “Of course, Dylan.” The secretary tugged the desk drawer open, pushed aside a box of paperclips, and then lifted the checkbook out. She clicked her pen and filled in the name of Parks Hardware Store and then signed the slip of paper. “Let me know in the morning how much the supplies were so I can write it in the ledger.”

  “I will. Thank you.” Dylan promised as he walked out the door.

  Parks Hardware smelled of freshly cut lumber and turpentine. The elderly man behind the counter lifted his pencil from his pad and looked over the top of his bifocals. “Need any help?”

  “Just looking for now. Thanks.” Dylan walked up and down each aisle to the left of the room and passed an assortment of merchandise not the usual fare for a hardware store. He felt like he'd stepped back in time to a nineteenth century mercantile. The cupboards were old with big heavy latches that made loud clicking noises when they were opened or closed.

  Jars of beef jerky, pretzel logs, and peppermint sticks lined a sturdy shelf on one side. An old wooden pickle barrel sat on the floor next to the counter, while bolts of cloth lined a shelf along the wall like colorful books waiting to be plucked from their places and read. Above the counter, straps and buckles and fishing tackle dangled from hooks on a pegboard wall. Dylan half expected Ma Ingalls to walk in from the prairie with a basket of eggs looped over her arm to sell to Mrs. Olsen.

  To the right of the room, he found the usual assortment of items stocked in a hardware store: tubes of caulking, hammers and boxes of nails, paint, saws and nuts and bolts. Dylan walked to the back of the room and picked up a few boxes and turned them over to study more carefully. After examining three or four more of them, he chose a cordless drill. He carried it to the register and placed it on the counter.

  The clerk set his coffee stained mug on the counter then removed his glasses and wiped them on his shirttail. After holding them up and examining them in the light, he put them on the tip of his nose before ringing up the cost of the drill. “That will be $91.52,” he said, bracing his knobby hand on the counter.

  Dylan scrawled in the amount on the blank check, then picked up the drill and walked out of the store.

  * * *

  The package didn’t feel right beneath his arm when he arrived at church the next day. Not because it was bulky or boxy or heavy, but because having the drill reminded him of the ever-widening hole in his soul. He hurried to the storage closet and set the box behind some cleaning supplies on the floor.

  Dylan worked with quick energy, folding drop cloths and pushing bookcases back against the walls. He stacked the books on the shelves and slid bookends under each row then put the supplies away. No one came by today to practice the piano or to meet with the Pastor since he was away. He was grateful that he was alone and that the morning sped by quickly, and although he brought his lunch to work, he couldn’t eat it, because his stomach felt full of knots.

  So he took care of business instead. Dylan removed the box from the closet and carried it back to the hardware store. He thought that if he made good time, he could finish his afternoon shift early. That way, he could reach the service desk at the grocery store to pay his bill electronically by the five o’clock deadline.

  When he walked inside the hardware store, the clerk peered oddly over his glasses. Dylan didn’t notice the smell of cut lumber or turpentine today. Didn’t notice the pickle barrel or pretzels or peppermint sticks in the mercantile-like setting either. All he was aware of was the box on the counter and the receipt that he gave to the knotty-handed man. “I need to return the drill.”

  The clerk jutted his head back a mite and scowled. He picked up the box and turned it over, then asked, “Something wrong with it?”

  “No, nope, never even opened it. Just don’t need it after all.” Warmth radiated up Dylan’s neck as he raked his hair back to smooth it.

  “Normally, I’d return the check,” the man said, scratching his head, “but I’ve already deposited it in the bank. You already knew that though, didn’t you?” The man glared at Dylan and punched a key on the register, and when the drawer popped open, it jabbed the owner in his stomach.

  Strange…Dylan felt the blow.

  SEVEN

  Dylan reached up and rubbed his forehead, but the throbbing didn't go away. The merciless vice-grips clamped to his skull were determined to dislodge his brain. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath as he planned his ascent from the bed.

  With premeditated movements, he slowly rolled off the mattress and wobbled to the bathroom where he grasped the rim of the sink, steadied himself, and then splashed cold water onto his face. He pulled a towel from the rack and wiped his face then stared into the mirror at his bloodshot eyes and bottlebrush hair, hoping to remember something from the night before. Bits and pieces of the previous evening flashed through his mind like a strobe-light, blinking glimpses of chaos and confusion with glimmers of guilt and shame.

  Think! Think! Think! You fool! What did you do last night? Unable to recall much of the previous evening, he resigned himself to defeat. All he recalled was getting out early, doing the math and then seeing he’d have a few dollars left once the electric bill was paid. So he stopped by Sam’s to have a few beers before making the electronic payment. The next thing he knew, it was too late to pay, and after that, a blur.

  Dylan opened the medicine chest and shook three aspirins into his hand then tossed them into his mouth. The aspirins made him gag. Water would help, you fool, he concluded before turning on the faucet and filling the glass. Then, after staggering back to his room, he collapsed onto the bed.

  Rays of golden sunshine streamed through the window and spilled across his pillow, warming him with soft light as he lay atop the sheets. Drifting between semi-consciousness and sleep, words formed in his mind. Words that he’d heard long, long ago: Awake thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light. Dylan covered his eyes with his forearm to block out the sun and to silence the voice, but it softly came again. Those who are spiritually asleep are unconscious, and therefore they are powerless. Dylan moaned in agony as he rolled over and drifted in-and-out of sleep.

  Strange dreams came. Dreams of standing on the brink of eternity with his fee
t balanced on the edge of a swirling vortex of torment. Darkness and sorrow behind and below him, life and love and peace before him. He longed for the sweet life, wanting it, reaching for it, but it was so far away. Too wide to jump, too deep to descend, and too high to climb back up, even if he could scale the chasm.

  Unable to go forward, not wanting to go back, he suddenly felt his feet slip beneath him as the foundation became a thick tar-like substance. With nothing to hold onto and nowhere to go but down, down, while clawing and climbing and trying to hold on, words from his past came to his mind. He brought me up also out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings. An incessant rapping sounded, as the memory of a pounded pulpit and a canvas tent loomed in his dreamy horizon. And he heard a muffled voice far, far away calling his name.

  Dylan turned over, tangling in the sheets and covering his head with the pillow, while moaning, “Go away! Leave me alone!”

  But the pounding continued, louder and louder with more frequent blows. “Dylan! Dylan! Are you okay?” the voice asked from beyond. Dylan lifted the pillow and slowly sat up, listening again, while holding his tousled head with a shaking hand. He stood and wrapped himself in the sheet like a toga and pulled it close to confine the unwashed smell and alcohol that exuded from his body. He shuffled to the window and then peeked through the kitchen curtains.

  Pastor Jacobson stood at the window looking back at Dylan.

  There was no way to pretend he wasn't home now, so with much hesitation Dylan unlocked the door and opened it, just enough to speak through the crack, as he stood behind it clutching his sheet like a shy schoolboy.

  “Dylan, are you all right? I was concerned when you didn't come to work today. It’s almost eleven o’clock.” Dylan cleared his throat and then coughed into the sheet. “I think I have a touch of the flu. I’m sorry I didn't call, but you know I don't have a phone.”

  “I know. That’s why I came over. Do you need anything from the store? Aspirin? Cough syrup? I can bring you some chicken soup.”

  “No, but thank you anyway. I’ll be okay.”

  “Well, I hope you’re feeling better soon, and I’ll see you back at the church when you’re up to it. I will be praying for you.”

  “Thank you,” Dylan said, as he watched the minister walk to his car and drive out of sight. It wasn’t until after Dylan had shut the door that he noticed the eerie silence in his house. The familiar hum of the refrigerator was gone. He flicked on a light and nothing happened, so he flicked it again and again. He hobbled into his bedroom to find that the bright red numbers on his alarm clock were blank.

  Dylan was powerless.

  The daylight waned and night came to swallow him up in darkness. Bard Road boasted nothing so simple as a streetlight in front of his house or anywhere else nearby. The trees surrounding his home with their full umbrellas of leaves blocked any glimmer of light from the moon or the stars. His misplaced flashlight could not even serve as a focal point or beacon of hope to illuminate his way.

  Dylan felt the table next to his chair, his fingers fumbling on top of objects, knocking things over and onto the floor, touching cold ashes and empty cups before finding a book of matches. He struck one and lit the air, then slowly waved the fire left and right like a miner in a cave until the heat grew too intense and he shook the match out.

  Another match flared and hissed the air. The groping ceased, the lost now found by the blaze of a single light. The cigarette tip glowed orange as he inhaled the flame and then blew it out, extinguishing the only light in his life, leaving him in darkness with his haunting past.

  “I hate the steel mill, Lorraine! It’s like being encased in a tomb all day, the stifling air, the stagnant work.” Dylan raked his fingers through his hair as he paced the same five steps again. “I feel like a robot doing the same job over and over again every day. I just go out with the guys once in awhile to relax and unwind, that’s all.”

  Lorraine stood next to the kitchen table with one hand resting on her basketball-sized belly, the other resting on the back of a chair while she bit her lower lip. “The baby will be here soon. I just think you should be more careful about how you spend our money.” She looked down and circled her stomach with the palm of her hand and then gave it a reassuring pat. “And it's not just once in awhile, Dylan. It's been every night lately. I never see you anymore.” Lorraine looked up at him. Her tears sparkled like diamonds as they trickled down her cheeks. “You work, go out, and come home to sleep. I’m lonely here all by myself.”

  She walked to the window while wiping her face and then folded her sweater across her chest. “Why is January always so cold?” She seemed to speak to the window now. “It’s like living in Siberia. I don’t have a car to drive anywhere, and I can’t even go outside for a walk because the snow is so deep.” She turned to Dylan with her hands balled and pumped them at her sides. “I'm so bored here when you’re not home! I can't do this anymore!” She turned her face away and brushed a finger to her cheek.

  Dylan lowered his head and then glanced up at her, wondering how he ended up with such a beautiful woman. And as though the thought awakened new appreciation, Dylan sprang forward and caught Lorraine’s wrist and gently pulled her into his arms. “C’mere, you.” He held her close and lifted her chin with a gentle finger then whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  Her lips felt soft like the velvet petals of a rose when he kissed her. And in the next instant, he swept his arm beneath her knees and carried her to the sofa, where he sat down and cradled her close to him on his lap. She drew her knees up and leaned into him as he cupped his hand on the back of her head and gently laid it on his shoulder. He rocked her like a little girl, back and forth, back and forth, with a gentle swaying motion, shushing her crying, wiping her tears and smoothing the length of her hair. He stroked her arm and kissed her lips then softly whispered in her ear, “I’ll cut down on my nights with the guys, okay?”

  Lorraine’s shoulders suddenly sagged. She went limp right there in his arms, and he knew that he’d said the wrong thing. His words like downy feathers caught in the breeze, once released were hard to retrieve.

  And then they were gone.

  He wrote to her about his plight the day she went away. About the foot of snow that fell while he was holed up in the mill. He wrote and told her what happened after he’d dug his car out at four o’clock that afternoon.

  “I’ll meet you at Charlie’s,” Harry said in passing.

  Dylan brushed the snow from his windshield. “Can’t make it tonight.”

  Harry stopped knee deep in a snowdrift with his lunch cooler clutched at his side and a befuddled look on his mottled face, as his bulbous nose grew redder by the minute. “Why not?”

  “I’m going home. Probably something you should try.” Dylan brushed the last of the snow from his window.

  “My old lady’d keel over if I came home this early. Hey, now there’s an idea. A real brainstorm.”

  “Yeah, your brainstorms usually leave a path of destruction in their wake.”

  Harry laughed as he hoisted his two hundred pounds into his 4x4 and slammed the door, knocking most of the snow from the window. He flicked on the wipers and sent a spray of snow up in the air before he barreled out of the parking lot.

  Dylan only meant to ask for help when he walked into the bar. Harry had a chain in his 4x4 and Charlie’s Tavern wasn’t too far from where Dylan’s car was half in, half out of a snow filled ditch. He only meant to have one beer to chase the chill away, while Harry finished his own tall one. But the place was so warm and the night so cold and the overturned shot glasses kept lining up in a row, promising free drinks for the evening.

  No, he didn’t mean to stay at all.

  Harry had just opened a tin of snuff and tucked a pinch between his cheek and gums when Dylan pushed his sleeve above his wrist and nearly fell off the barstool. Shuffling his feet, he righted himself and slapped his hand on Harry’s back and grab
bed a wad of quilted flannel then yanked him off his seat. “C’mon, buddy! I need your help! NOW!”

  Harry hooked a chain under Dylan’s back bumper then acted mighty pleased when he stood with his fists on his hips and said, “Like a real live tow-truck driver.” Dylan rubbed his freezing hands together then dug snow from the tires. The cold stung his fingers and toes, but he kept shoveling, knowing that soon, he’d be home in a warm living room with Lorraine curled up in the crook of his arm, after a hot supper of meatloaf and gravy covered mashed potatoes.

  The tires spun and made whirring sounds as Dylan rocked and Harry pulled. Once the snow released its icy grip, Dylan made a beeline for the end of Bard Road then took three deep breaths before walking into the house and flipping on the light.

  “Lorraine? I’m home, honey.” He blew warm air into his cupped hands as he stomped snow from his boots, scanned the kitchen and smelled. No aroma of meatloaf and gravy lingered in the air. No blue television hue glowed from the living room entrance. No light from the bedroom welcomed him home, nor did Lorraine pad through the kitchen in fuzzy slippers and silky robe to greet him at the door. What awaited him there was a note on the counter that said she'd waited until nine.

  He thought that maybe she was playing a trick or trying to scare him to teach him a lesson, so he called out again and again, “Come out, come out, wherever you are…Lorraine?” He searched around inside the house then looked outside for prints in the snow. “Lorraine? LORRAAAAINE?” he shouted into the wintry night before he closed the door in fear.

  It was half-past eleven when he got the call and ran back into the night. Between the late night summons and the winter wind, his senses sobered fast. He breathed in gulps of arctic air while his heart hammered in his chest and his footsteps pounded across the hospital parking lot. He searched for the elevator and when he found it, he punched lighted buttons with the side of his fist in rapid-fire succession to speed things along.