A Step of Faith

by Richard Paul Evans

  When I reached the top of the screen, I clung for my life with one hand and pulled the dummy from my back with the other, laying him across the horizontal beam that ran the length of the screen. I tied the end of our ball of string to the dummy and threw it down over the front of the screen to McKale and her friend, then shimmied back down.

  When I reached the ground, McKale yanked the string. To our dismay, the string snapped six feet above us, dangling just out of reach. Unwilling to abandon our prank, I climbed the screen again, retied the string to the dummy and climbed back down. This time I carefully tugged the string until Mr. Vertigo fell over the front of the screen, hurtling headlong to his death. I think the movie viewers appreciated our prank, judging by the honking horns and screams.

  McKale spotted a group of people running toward our dummy from the projection house so we ran too, leaving Mr. Vertigo behind to answer for our crimes.

  Two evenings later my dad called me in to his den. “Did you drop a dummy from the top of the Monrovia Drive-in Theater?”

  It was pointless denying my involvement in the affair, as the very fact that he asked meant he somehow already knew. Though I was afraid of getting in trouble, I was more curious as to how he’d found out. “Yes, sir.”

  “How did you get the dummy up there?”

  “I carried it up.”

  “You climbed to the top of the screen?”

  “Yes, sir.” I left out the part about doing it twice.

  “That sounds dangerous.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t do it again. I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

  “Yes, sir. How did you know?”

  “I got a call from the theater. There was a dry cleaner’s slip in the pants pocket. Next time ask before taking my clothes. I still wore those pants.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  He went back to his paper. “You can go.” As I was walking out, he said, “Al.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Did it look real? Like someone falling?”

  “I think so.”

  He nodded. “That’s pretty funny. I would have liked to have seen it.”

  He never brought the incident up again. I think I liked him more after that.

  Two miles from Pevely was the town of Herculaneum, named after the ancient Roman twin city of Pompeii. It was also the city where the fictional character Richie Walters in the musical A Chorus Line was born.

  An hour later I passed through a town called Festus. (The name made me think of the singing deputy of Gunsmoke. I used to watch the reruns with my father.) Festus had a population of 11,643—double that of Pevely—evidenced by the town’s largest edifice: a Walmart.

  As Americans stopped building town squares and piazzas, Walmarts took their place.

  —Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  I was glad to see a Walmart as I was running low on supplies. I bought fruit, a bag of mini bell peppers, a half dozen energy bars, a can of salted peanuts, a dozen flour tortillas, a package of sliced turkey, a bottle of Tabasco sauce, two large bags of beef jerky, Pop-Tarts, four cans of chili, and batteries for my flashlight.

  For lunch I bought a V8 juice and a foot-long sandwich from the deli section. As I waited at the register, a large, unkempt woman stepped in line behind me, setting an industrial-sized bag of cheese puffs and a six-pack of beer on the conveyor belt.

  The clerk was handing me my change when the woman suddenly clutched her chest and groaned out. “Oh, I’m having a heart attack. Call 911!”

  The young woman behind the counter just stood there, frozen, her eyes wide with panic.

  “Call 911!” I said. This time the young woman grabbed her phone and dialed. I helped the gasping woman to the floor in the middle of the checkout aisle. “How do you feel?” I asked.

  “My chest,” she wheezed. “It feels like an elephant’s sitting on it. I can’t breathe!”

  “Try to stay calm,” I said. “Help will be here soon.” I looked back up at the clerk. “Did you call 911?”

  “They’re on their way.”

  “Help me over to the bench,” the woman said.

  “No,” I said. “I think you should just stay here.”

  “No,” she insisted. “The bench.” To my surprise, she climbed to her feet, then waddled to a bench about twenty feet away from the aisle. I followed her, unsure of what to do. Fortunately it was only a few minutes before we heard the wail of sirens. Just seconds later, two paramedics rushed into the store carrying bags of gear. I stood and waved them over.

  As the lead paramedic neared, I saw his expression change. He looked at the woman with unmistakable annoyance. When he got to her side, he knelt down and took her hand, placing a pulse oximeter on the end of her index finger. Then he glanced back at his partner.

  “Ninety-seven,” he said.

  His partner handed him a blood pressure cuff. The paramedic said, “All right, Rosie. You know the drill.”

  The woman pulled up her sleeve and the young man strapped the cuff on.

  “How am I, Doctor?” she asked.

  “I’m not a doctor,” he said. “Hypertensive. Nothing unusual.” He turned back to his partner. “One fifty-eight over ninety-three.”

  As quickly as he had arrived, the paramedic unfastened the cuff and began returning his gear to its bag. His partner just stood there, his arms folded at his chest, his expression dour.

  I watched the incident unfold with confusion. “How is she?”

  The paramedic looked at me with a dull expression. “She’s fine,” he said. “She’s diabetic and has mild hypertension, but other than that, she’s fine.”

  I glanced over at the woman, then back. “Really? But she . . .”

  “Rosie’s always fine.”

  “What do you mean, always?”

  He stood up with his bag, turning away from the woman. “Rosie here is what we call a ‘frequent flier.’ She fakes heart attacks, then tells people to call 911.”

  I looked at the woman, who seemed oblivious to our talking about her, then back at the paramedic. “Why would she do that?”

  “Because she can,” he said sharply. “It’s a rush for her. She gets a lot of attention and feels powerful that we all have to come running. And every time we do, it costs the taxpayers five grand.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “I wish I were.”

  “Can’t you do something about it?”

  His eyebrows rose. “Like what? You tell me. Even if we knew it was her, if we didn’t respond, some ambulance chasing lawyer would sue the city. The worst part is, last week while we were playing her game, a man on the other side of town had a real heart attack. Some bystanders kept him alive for nineteen minutes, four minutes short of what it took us to get to him.”

  “You’re telling me that she killed him.”

  “We can’t say that for sure, but he sure as hell would have had a better chance of living if we’d been there.”

  I turned back and looked at the woman with disgust. “Did you know that? This game you play cost a man his life.”

  She scowled at me. “You think just because I’m poor I’m not entitled to the same care everyone else is?”

  “This has nothing to do with rich or poor,” I said angrily. “It has to do with need.”

  “It has to do with crazy,” the other paramedic said.

  “I have problems,” the woman said.

  “Clearly,” I replied. “You’re an awful person.”

  She just stared at me, her mouth gaping like a fish on land. I went back and got my groceries, then left the store.

  Drama aside, the rest of the afternoon was decent walking as Festus gave way to more rural landscape. Physically, I felt better than I had the day before, giving me hope that perhaps the worst was over. As night fell, I reached the Good News Church, a golf course, and Mary’s Market, where I stopped for hot coffee. I pitched my tent and camped in a gully on the side of the road.

  Every time I
thought about that woman at Walmart, I wanted to slap her.

  CHAPTER

  Eighteen

  We cannot enslave others without enslaving a part of ourselves.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  I had set up my tent on a slight incline and woke the next morning with a crick in my neck, which I tried to release by cracking it, but it didn’t help much.

  I walked back to Mary’s Market and bought some yogurt, coffee, and a giant homemade blueberry muffin. I sat on the curb outside the store and ate my breakfast, then set out for the day.

  The morning sky was clear and brilliant blue, and I walked on a smooth road of light-colored asphalt. I was on the “Great River Road” which, technically, was still U.S. 61 South.

  Two and a half hours later I reached the tiny town of Bloomsdale, and stopped at the side of the road at the not-so-cleverly named Roadside Park. I ate an early lunch of tortillas stuffed with sliced turkey, bell peppers and hot sauce, then laid my map out over a picnic table. Twelve miles ahead was Ste. Genevieve. I packed away my food and pressed ahead, eager to reach the historic town before nightfall.

  Ste. Genevieve, named for the patron saint of Paris, was founded in 1735, more than a quarter-century before America declared its independence. I passed through a neighborhood of small, nondescript houses, built close together, to the town’s historical district, which was quaint and pleasing.

  There were several bed and breakfasts in the center of town, but one in particular caught my eye:

  The Southern Hotel

  An Historic Bed & Breakfast Inn

  Innkeepers Mike and Cathy Hankins

  I rang the buzzer and a pleasant looking woman wearing an apron opened the door.

  “Good evening, may I help you?”

  “Do you have any vacancies?”

  “Yes we do,” she said, pulling the door open. “Come in and I’ll show you what we have available.”

  I stepped inside. The foyer was wood-paneled and adorned with beautiful paintings, shadow boxes, and wall hangings, which included several patchwork quilts.

  “Come into the parlor,” she said.

  I followed her through a set of saloon doors into the parlor and carefully set my pack down.

  “We just had these doors put in,” the woman said. “These front rooms were used as a saloon until prohibition time, so we thought it would be a nice nod to the history of the place.”

  The parlor had a two-person settee and several wingback chairs upholstered in red velvet. There was a bookcase full of old-time parlor games and a large fireplace with a walnut mantel.

  “What is your name?” she asked, holding up a pen.

  “Alan Christoffersen.”

  “Alan,” she repeated. “My name is Cathy. When we’re done, you can park your car on the side of the house.”

  “I don’t have a car.”

  She looked at me quizzically. “Oh? How did you get here?”

  “I walked.”

  “From where?”

  I was more tired than talkative so I just said, “St. Louis.”

  She still looked impressed. “That’s a long way. You must be tired. Let’s get you a room. We have three rooms available for tonight, and they’re all the same price. Would you like to see them before checking in?”

  “I’m sure one of them will be fine,” I said.

  She nodded. “I think you’ll be pleased.”

  I handed her my credit card and she ran it through a machine, then handed it back to me. “Let me tell you a little about the house.” She pointed to a framed picture above the fireplace mantel. “That’s the Valle family, the home’s original owners. They had seven children and fifteen slaves.”

  “Slaves?”

  “Yes, the home is more than two hundred years old,” she said. “That nonsense was still going on. The slaves slept on the top floor. Actually, in one of the rooms we have available.

  “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the dining room.” She led me across the parlor to the dining area. “Breakfast is served at eight o’clock and nine o’clock. We’ve won awards for our food, so come prepared to eat.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” I said.

  Cathy led me to the staircase and we walked all the way to the top floor. At the top of the stairs I noticed another steep stairway leading up to a hatch door in the ceiling.

  “Is that the attic?”

  “No, that’s the belvedere,” she replied. “It’s a rooftop structure designed to give you a view. It comes from an Italian word meaning good view—at least that’s what Mike told me. You’re welcome to go up, but it’s hotter than heck. This time of year we just call it the sauna.”

  “I’d like to see it,” I said.

  Cathy frowned a little. “I was afraid you would.”

  I followed her up the creaking stairs to the trap door, which she pushed open, and light and heat flooded down on us. She was right about the “sauna.” I followed her through the hatch and climbed up into a small room, which was hot and humid enough that it was difficult to breathe. The octagon-shaped structure had windows on all eight sides giving an unobstructed, 360-degree view of the city.

  Cathy turned to me. She was panting a little and perspiration beaded on her face and neck. “During the Civil War, the Union Army occupied the building. This was their lookout. As you can see, they could keep an eye on the entire town from up here.”

  The heat prohibited us from spending much time up there, and my underarms and back were damp with sweat when I climbed back down to the cooler floor below. Cathy led me into a room near the stairway.

  “This is the Quilt Room,” she said. “It’s one of the rooms where the slaves were kept.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It was pretty standard to keep slaves in the attic at the time. They slept up here during the winter when heat would rise from the fireplaces, and they stayed downstairs in the cellar during the hot summers. But there’s other evidence.” She pointed across the room to a ball-and-claw-foot tub. “If you look under the tub, you can see the metal ring that slaves were chained to at night to keep them from escaping.”

  I walked over to the tub and leaned over it. “Over here?”

  “You can see it better from the floor. You’ll have to get down on all fours.”

  I got down on my knees and looked underneath. Six inches from the wall was a large, rusted metal ring secured to the floor. “They chained people to this?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  The idea of it sickened me. I didn’t want to stay in the room.

  “As I said before, the original owners had fifteen slaves. Two of their slaves were assigned just to chopping wood and keeping all the fireplaces going. There was also a tale that they owned a very large slave who was fathered out to other slaveholders in the area. Some said the slave was buried in the home’s cellar after he died. A few years back, Mike let an archeologist dig in there for his bones, but he didn’t find anything.”

  We walked through two other rooms. I chose the third, the “Buttons and Bows” room, which featured a shadow-box button collection from 1720, a working fireplace, two tubs, and a black and white wedding photograph accompanied by the bride’s actual veil. The room was wallpapered with golden fleur-de-lis over a rose-colored background. The bed was unlike any I’d seen before: polished rosewood with four posts and a canopy extending over just half the bed.

  “This kind of bed’s called a half tester,” she said. “It was made in 1775. They’re hard to find.” Cathy pointed to the two bathtubs, standing side by side in the corner of the room. “Those are made of cast iron and porcelain, the combination really keeps the heat in. Whenever we have couples staying in this room, we hear that the woman gets the longer tub and the man gets stuck with the shorter one.” She smiled at me. “But you’re lucky—you won’t have that problem.”

  I let the comment roll off of me. I followed her back downstairs, retrieved my pack, then said goodnight and went back up
to the room. I filled up both of the tubs, one for soaking my dirty socks and underwear and the other for me. After a long, relaxing bath I rinsed out my laundry and hung it over the radiator, which wasn’t on but was still the best surface I could find for laying out my things. I climbed into bed and went to sleep.

  The next morning I slept until seven-thirty. My headache was back, a dull ache near my incision. I collected my washing, which, fortunately, was dry, dressed and packed, then, taking my backpack with me, went downstairs for breakfast. There were two couples in the room, but neither of them acknowledged my entrance.

  Cathy greeted me as I entered the dining room. “How did you sleep, Alan?”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “You can sit wherever you like,” she said.

  I chose a small, round table away from the other guests. Across the room from me, a tall, walnut-cased grandfather clock chimed the hour.

  “I think you’ll enjoy this morning’s breakfast,” Cathy said. “It’s our guests’ favorite: crustless quiche with sausage, and our special cream cheese blackberry muffins.”

  “It sounds delicious,” I said.

  She smiled. “Trust me, it is.”

  A few minutes later she returned with my plate, then left me alone to eat. I ate slowly, not in a particular hurry to get back on the road. In spite of a good night’s rest, I still felt tired. A half hour later, Cathy emerged from the kitchen.

  “How is everything?” she asked.

  “As good as you said it would be.”

  She smiled. “Well, I didn’t mean to boast.”

  “You should,” I said. “How’s business?”

  “Pretty good. We’re not going to be buying the St. Louis Cardinals anytime soon, but we enjoy what we’re doing.”

  “That’s better than owning the Cardinals,” I said.

  “I’ll have to take your word for that.”

  “My wife would really like it here,” I said.

  “Then you’ll just have to bring her next time,” she said. “Excuse me. I need to check on the oven.” She walked back to the kitchen, but returned a few minutes later with a basket of hot muffins.