by Dana Pratola
“Okay.” I looked up at the clock next to the small color TV that had apparently been part of the store’s original construction. The sound was never on and it stayed tuned to a talk show channel with closed captioning.
“And what do I do Sunday? Church? He’ll be there.”
“He’s always there,” I reminded her.
“Not as someone who asked me out. Now when I see him, I’ll be thinking, I’m going out with him on Friday.” She flapped her hands around like a bird in a puddle. “What do I do? Do I sit near him? Do I mention Friday?”
“Why don’t you let him make the first move?” I asked. She nodded vigorously. “Hey, I need you to meet me for lunch.”
“Don’t I always?”
“Please be on time today. I need to talk to you, but I have to run to the bike shop first.”
“Going to visit Wally?” Eliza asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Funny. He has my bike and said it would definitely be done by lunch. I leave at two today. I don’t want to go get it alone.”
“I don’t blame you. That guy gives me the creeps.”
“Just be here,” I said.
“I’ll be here.”
CHAPTER 6
My phone rang at eleven o’clock. I knew it was eleven because I asked the caller, “What the hell time is it?”
“Eleven,” Barry said. “Pastor Swift asked me to contact you, to let you know they’ll be there around noon.”
They’ll. Plural. Pastor and his flock were on their way over and there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop it.
“Uh, sure, fine.”
I had at least better shower. After my crying jag and tossing all night on this springy couch, I must look like a horror show. There’s no telling how long I cried. Maybe half an hour, maybe an hour and a half. All I know is by the time I stopped, my nose was running, my head throbbing, my eyes heavy as lead, and I felt a whole lot worse. So much for catharsis.
I considered popping one of my pills to put an end to the pounding in my head. Instead, I felt through the piles of clothes Ben had left next to the couch, found a pair of jeans, underwear and a shirt, then headed up to the bathroom.
I knew the shapes and smells of the body wash and shampoo, so showering was a breeze, but I had to forego washing my hair until the doctor gave the all clear. Ben would take care of the wounds later when he came. The best I could do in the meanwhile was to ditch the hospital issue shower cap, toss the bandage, wash my hands with the shampoo, then run my wet fingers through my hair hoping to transfer some of that clean scent.
At least I could brush my teeth, which made me wonder if I’d have teeth at all if Toby had kicked me in the face. I might not be alive to care. I told myself I was thankful to be here. I’d never been very friendly with a mirror anyway, so I brushed my hair, careful to avoid my incisions. I hoped my hair grew back over the scars, but if I let that bother me, I’d depress myself all over again.
I stopped at the top of the steps. I don’t know why. It was eerily silent, as though the house itself held its breath. Waiting. Then again, maybe it was just me. I couldn’t help but wonder how long I’d have to wait for my life to restart. This dramatic pause had gone on long enough. Anger wasn’t helpful, neither were tears.
The word acceptance fluttered through my head, but that was impossible. In my opinion, nothing short of the finality of death had to be accepted. Every other thing could be fought for, struggled with, sorted through, as long as there remained a spark of life and a drive to accomplish it. I would see again, somehow. It might take all my time, every dime I had, probably most of my sanity, but I wouldn’t stop until I saw the light of day again.
There were glimmers of hope. I mean that in the literal sense. I still had that brownish hazing around my periphery that I had since the hospital, and though I couldn’t say it got any brighter, unless I was crazy or had succumbed to wishful thinking, it seemed a little … more. And, if I stood in front of the window during the day, I could tell where the sun was, not just the heat, the light, too. Though still blind as a new kitten, it was something. Now if the headache would just end, that would be great.
True to his word, Pastor and his entourage approached a short while later. I couldn’t miss the squeaking of the leaf springs on the church van and heard more than one vehicle besides. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Pastor Swift, I did. Ugh. I’d just have to grin and bear it.
Not wanting to appear a complete invalid, I opened the door, bracing one hand on the door jamb. Vehicle doors closed, the church van door slid open and closed, footsteps shuffled forward, voices raised in greeting, and I was hugged more than I’d ever been at any one time in my life. I recognized everyone’s voice, though a couple people told me their names anyway, at a greater volume than usual.
The men were easy to deal with, warm, mostly matter-of-fact. It wasn’t in the typical man design to be overly emotional, which I appreciated now more than ever. The women…. Sister Martin’s misery-laden tone effectually conveyed her feeling that my fate had somehow been sealed and she was doing her best to cope with it. Didn’t make me feel great.
Sister Joyce was more optimistic, however, assuring me God can do anything, and offering to let me stay in her basement apartment until such a time as the Almighty chose to move, “no matter how long it takes.” I had a vision of myself as Mr. Will, that blind caner from Places in the Heart. No thanks.
I thought I’d stick with Sister Hernandez. I usually didn’t go in for the fiery, raise the roof prayers, but this time we were talking about me. She took hold of me at once, rebuked everything that came to mind, binding the enemy, loosing the Holy Spirit, and thanking God for healing already delivered. Her prayer was quick and forceful, like the wind from a passing express train. I just hoped the answer came as fast.
To my surprise and relief, it wasn’t so bad having the church family around. Not only did they bring food, and lots of it, but because having them here felt like being in the center of a security blanket being held up on all sides so I wouldn’t fall. Like firemen catching a jumper.
Whether from the emotion that knowledge stirred, or the power of the Holy Spirit moving through the house, tears suddenly stung my eyes. I wasn’t the type to admit I was afraid or that I needed anyone. Not my father, not my friends, no one. I gave them room to flow in and out of my life as they pleased. I’d never utter the words, “Don’t go,” or “I need you.” Kind of sad? I guess some would see it that way.
I had no way of knowing who was watching, so I pressed my fingertips to my eyes and muttered an excuse about allergies being bad that day. I saw shadows where my fingers touched. That was good, right? I also noticed the headache had gone, at last.
“Are you all right?” Sister Hernandez asked, placing a hand on my shoulder as she sat next to me on the sofa.
I tried a smile. “Yeah, sure. Just a little out of it I guess.” I would admit to anything rather than my present emotional upheaval.
“Something’s wrong,” she insisted. “What is it?”
Aside from being blind? I heard Lamont Stewart in the other room reciting the lore of the terrible tragedies associated with the house. Why not go with that?
“I slept pretty bad last night,” I said. “I’m beginning to wonder if this place really is haunted.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Sometimes I feel like I’m being watched,” I told her truthfully. “And a few times I heard things.”
“What kinds of things?” she asked.
“Just something moving around. Rustling.”
She chuckled. “It’s probably mice.”
My silence must have told her I didn’t think it was mice.
“Now you know the devil has no place where a child of the King is,” she said. “Light and darkness can’t share the same space and Light always has the authority. Always. If you think there’s something here, you rebuke it right off. Tell it that it has to go in Jesus’s name.”
I nodded beca
use that’s what I’d planned to do.
“And sometimes you have to tell those things a dozen times. They can be stubborn, thinking they have a right to a place because they got here first. They keep trying to come back.”
“Right.”
“You be more stubborn,” she said. “They have to go, in Jesus’s name.”
“Right,” I repeated.
Someone called her name and she got up. Pastor Swift took her place.
“You look like you can use some rest. I’m going to round up the troops and get out of your hair,” he said. “First we’re going to pray.”
He gathered everyone around me, hands touching my back, shoulders, arms, and head, voices raised and lowered as they prayed, Pastor leading. We prayed for my sight to be restored—obviously—for my faith to be strengthened, and for my protection. Then for me to meet people who would help me become all God intends for me to become. People who will draw me to, not push me away, from God. And then he went back to that protection thing. Oddly, it made me a little uneasy. Was there something happening in the spirit realm that required a double order of protection?
I can honestly say I felt more positive by the time they’d all gone, and not because they’d all gone. They’d taken with them not only the commotion of conversation and moving around, not just the sounds of foil being drawn and crimped over leftovers, water running, the refrigerator opening and closing, but also that massive nebulous presence of despair that had been straddling my shoulders. It was gone, giving me room to breathe, to focus on what I needed to do with my life in order to move forward, leaving me surprisingly grateful for their visit.
Despite the prayers, I still wondered if God would heal me. Well, not so much if as when. There were times in the Bible promises were given, but came to pass much later. Years later. In some cases, decades. Mr. Will popped into my head again. I knew nothing about caning chairs, so I decided to develop an interim plan, how I would cope as a blind person until God healed me.
First, I needed to get a decent grasp of this blind phone thing so I could go online and research … something. Maybe I’d look into getting a guide dog. Trooper and Tracer at the ranch were more tools of the trade, really good for corralling horses and herding cattle, but little else.
I hadn’t eaten much with the throng here, now with the house eerily silent once again, I was suddenly starving, so I recounted my steps to the kitchen and attempted to rummage through the leftovers without making a total mess. I found the paper plates beside the plastic utensils on the counter where Sister Chambers said she’d leave them.
When I pulled the refrigerator door open, cool air swept my face, and with it the aroma of fried fish. Hot or cold, it smelled like a good idea, so I lifted the corner of the first tray I came in contact with and crept a finger inside. Potato salad. Goes great with fish. I pulled the container out and put it on top of the fridge, found the fish and brought it out to join the salad, then brought them to the counter to fix myself a plate. Easy as pie.
That reminded me, there were at least three different pies. Those I would have to find by smell, but right now, I dug into my food with ravenous abandon. When I finished a minute later, I put the trays in the left side of the fridge, where I would know to find them later, then retraced my steps to the living room, and took my phone out to the porch.
Lowering myself onto the porch deck with my feet settled two steps below, I inhaled deeply of the fresh, sweet air. The combination of the cool breeze and the fullness in my stomach made me feel something I didn’t think I would again. Hopeful. Things could turn around for me. Possibly.
*****
Wally had gone over my bike carefully. Apparently, it was from the forties, still in pretty good shape, and somewhat of a collector’s item even considering most of the parts had been replaced. It didn’t matter to me where the seat or pedals had come from, only that it got me away from him quickly, and where I needed to go quietly.
Thank God Eliza had been there, chatting incessantly, strategically positioning herself between us whenever he moved. Except for one terrifying moment when she’d stepped out onto the sidewalk to say hello to someone, leaving Wally to edge closer. He’d gotten as far as clearing his throat, preparing to ask me out, I was sure, when Eliza burst back in to resume blocker duty.
I suffered through another awkward minute after he’d told me there would be no charge for the repair, when the three of us stood silently gawking at each other. It seemed he was trying to telepathically transmit to Eliza his wish to be alone with me. Whether or not that was actually the case, Eliza stayed, allowing me to escape without having to refuse him. Once that line of request and rejection was crossed, we’d never go back to our tense, apprehensive, clumsy friendship.
For some reason, I avoided mentioning Josiah moving in to Eliza. Well, for two definite reasons. Partly because it would have taken longer to discuss than the time allotted for my lunch. Mostly because I came to my senses. I tried never to bring up my living arrangement with Eliza.
She hated that I lived at the Wagoner place and couldn’t stay with her and her mom, but the lease specifically stated no overnight guests. She did have me to dinner pretty often, and when she could, let me wash clothes, even shower, rather than rouse the water company’s suspicion by spiking the water usage at the house. If she got caught, we’d all be staying at the Wagoner place.
Even though I assured Eliza this living arrangement was temporary, she kept trying to find me someplace to go. I absolutely forbade her to tell anyone at church. I knew someone would insist I come to their house to live. They’d feed me, see to my needs, keep me company and make me feel safe. You can see my dilemma. There was no way to repay that.
Not that they would accept it. Still, I would feel obligated, and with my pay what it was…. I know. Pride, right? Well I’d manage until I had enough to move, or until something forced me out. Might be someone. Anyway, with Eliza’s head all full of Charles, the whole conversation had been avoided.
I rounded the curve at the bottom of Clinton Road, speeding up to begin my ascent of Unger Hill to the house. It was a fairly steep incline in a car, but on a bike was another matter. Halfway up, the church van came over the top of the hill from the opposite direction, loaded with people. Pastor Swift tooted the horn as he passed, as did Steve Cobb, following in a maroon car, also loaded.
I waved back, relieved. That meant they’d already had their visit with Josiah so I wouldn’t have to find somewhere else to hang out until they left. That was, if everyone had left. I pedaled harder, eager to make the top and give my legs a break.
A minute later the roof of the Wagoner house became visible. Terrible, terrible things had happened there, so legend went, yet I was in danger of coming to think of the place as home. At least until Josiah had invaded my space. Sneaking around so those outside didn’t discover me caused enough stress, now I had to worry about being discovered by someone inside! One of us had to go.
At last my bike crested the hill. easing the tension in my legs as I coasted. The house came into full view. All clear. Well almost. The front door opened and Josiah stepped onto the porch. My first reaction—stop for fear of being spotted. My second—a sigh of relief, remembering he couldn’t see me. Immediately followed by—a sting of guilt for that relief.
I doubted he’d heard me approach from this distance, but just to be sure, I got off the bike and walked it closer. He had something in his hand, poking at it. I walked to the edge of the property, checked for any sign of cars or people, then crossed through the tall grass. The ground was still damp from the soaking rain yesterday, though not so soggy that the tires left tracks.
At the back of the house, I leaned the bike against the clapboard under a small lean-to where I guess residents used to keep garbage cans or something. After finding the back door locked, I sneaked around to the front. If not for the possibility someone would come by, I would just sit out here until Josiah went in, but staying out of view was imperative, and if I
stayed in back, I wouldn’t know when he went inside.
The stairs were out as a possibility, so I crept to the side of the porch farthest from Josiah where he wouldn’t feel the vibration or hear me. I rubbed my palms on my shirt to make sure they weren’t slippery, then wrapped them around two balusters, giving a gentle tug to see if they made noise when pulled. They didn’t, so I hiked a foot up between the deck and bottom rail—thanking God it was only three feet off the ground—and imagining myself a sloth, pulled myself up, hoisted my other leg over the rail, and lowered my toe to the porch deck.
There wasn’t so much as a creak as I found my footing and swung my other leg over, but my heart thrashed in my chest and I had a feeling in my throat as though I might unwillingly emit an unruly squeal of some kind. I’m not cut out for this kind of tension!
I paused to catch my breath—practically impossible—and riveted my eyes to Josiah’s profile. Something was different. He had removed his bandage, but something else, too. He looked a little…lighter. More relaxed. Hopefully, that meant less alert.
The journey across the ten or so feet of planks toward the door was one of the most excruciating of my life. I used every muscle in my body, each one tensed with the exertion of maintaining this snail’s pace. No doubt I would be sore tomorrow. I inched closer. Two feet. Five feet. His phone said something in a mechanical voice, but focused on my mission I couldn’t make it out.
He turned then, facing me, looking at, though not seeing me. My heart gave that pathetic tug again. Much harder when I saw what he was doing. He leaned back, reaching into his front pocket, pulling out a silver money clip. He slipped a bill out, then returned to his original position and took his phone in his other hand.
As I watched, he held the phone over the money. The phone vibrated. He adjusted the position of the money. Again, the phone vibrated, though not as much this time. He did this repeatedly, moving his money hand, holding the phone steady, until finally, it didn’t vibrate at all.
