SEVEN DAYS

by James Ryke

  Rick spent the rest of that night hugging the ground, pretending to be as lifeless as the stones that jabbed into his stomach. He was not sure if it was pure dumb luck, but none of the Agents glanced towards his direction for any length of time. Instead, they had trained their focus towards the bottom of the mountain, where it was most likely someone would venture up. The next three hours marked the longest of Rick’s life. The man’s screams droned on, drilling into his ears like psychotic earwigs. He did not know how anyone could listen to that sound and not be driven mad. The screams ended when the informant was finally executed.

  Rick never told Jaylynn the story. He did make an anonymous tip to Internal Affairs, which pretended to do a full-blown investigation, but the Federal Government had become so corrupt that no real effort went into finding out the facts. Somehow, someone suspected Rick had blown the whistle, and the next day he found a single dime in his mail drawer that had one side painted black. It was as clear as any message Rick had ever received: If you dime us out again, we’ll kill you. After that, he never told anyone else except his father, and even then, he kept most of the details out. That's what humanity has sunk to. That’s what Jaylynn does not understand. Human virtue is dead. Corruption has penetrated the government on every level; ethics is now a matter of perspective; right and wrong are so marginalized that it’s no longer the basis of making sound decisions; everyone wants something for nothing; individualism is championed over the collective good. Rick knew Chad Reagan better than any other Agent in the patrol. Before this, he would have trusted his life with Reagan, but now, who could he trust?

  Rick shook his head, trying to force the bloody memory out of his mind. That was fifteen years ago, and now things are worse than ever. The world has gone mad. His gloomy thoughts carried him through most of his dinner preparations. As he cooked, the sweet scent of honey chipotle-glazed ribs filled the house. The rich smell triggered the saliva glands in his mouth. He glanced at the clock. I better hurry before they—

  “Hello, dear,” said a sweet voice.

  Rick half smiled, half grimaced. He threw a towel over his shoulder and turned around, nodding as he did. “I was just thinking about you.”

  “What a coincidence,” Jaylynn responded, “I was thinking about you.” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

  “Your hands are freezing,” Rick laughed. “Did you slap a snowman before you walked into the kitchen?”

  “If you turned the heat on once in a while, I wouldn’t have ice cubes for fingers. If you’re going to let your wife get frostbite, then you’ll have to deal with the consequences.”

  Rick stared at Jaylynn, taking her all in. She had a natural beauty—one that did not require significant globs of makeup. Most of the time, he preferred her not to put any makeup on—not because it did not enhance her features, but because it put her into a mold of society that she seemed far above. Her hair was brown; her eyes were green. Even though she was a few inches shorter than him, he always thought of her as being as tall as he was. Whenever he looked at photographs of them together, it still surprised him to find out how much shorter she actually was. The size of her personality seemed to add inches to her height.

  Everyone liked her—everyone. Throughout their married life, Rick had noticed that even his own family grew fonder of her than of him. He was not sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him, but invitations to family gatherings and parties always went to her first—Rick was more of an afterthought. That did not bother him though. She was a good person, a kind and generous individual, one that believed that human virtues could overcome human vices.

  Beautiful but naïve.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Rick breathed deep. “Nothing… you?”

  Jaylynn pulled away, brandishing a stirring spoon and waving it towards him. “You had that funny look in your eyes.”

  “Look? What look? That’s just my face. You don’t think my face looks funny, do you?”

  “Hey, Dad,” entered another voice into the kitchen.

  “Hey, David. What no hug for your Dad?”

  The boy frowned. “Sure, yeah.”

  “Sure, yeah,” Rick said in a playful reply. The two embraced. It was difficult for Rick to describe his son—actually, it was nearly impossible. It had been so long since he had really seen him that his features sometimes appeared too young, or sometimes too old. His voice also eluded him: occasionally, it was like Rick’s own voice, deep and masculine; other times, it was juvenile and simple. Several times a week, Rick would attempt to conjure up an image of his son, but his appearance seemed heavily influenced by people Rick had seen earlier that day: a clerk at Walmart that had bagged his groceries; the boy that delivers the newspaper to his house; the kid that spends most of his time at the library; a young man who went house to house selling his services as a gardener. But, none of these images seemed quite right.

  “Smells good. Can we eat or is this just show food?”

  “Show food?” Rick retorted, “What’s show food?”

  “Food you use for decorations,” David answered.

  “Well, no man in possession of two functional huevos would ever spend time making food for show.”

  Jaylynn slapped Rick in the arm. “Honey, watch your mouth. Don’t be so crass.”

  Rick pulled away and rubbed his arm, pretending the strike was more painful than it really was. “Ow, I’m pretty sure that qualifies as domestic violence.”

  “It will be if you don’t sit down and eat.”

  He winked at her again and quickly obeyed. “Tonight, I made for you my special honey chipotle-glazed ribs.”

  “It smells divine.”

  Rick dished out portions to his wife and child before he added food to his plate.

  “What? Aren’t you hungry,” Jaylynn asked. “You barely took anything for yourself. And, after all that talk of how fantastic your food was.”

  Rick only smiled in response.

  Dinner was pleasant. Between each bite, they took turns explaining some event that had occurred earlier that day, which seemed to be a carbon copy of every conversation that they had over the last six years. David was the most dramatic of any of them and acted out most of the scenes of his life in a charismatic fashion.

  David was unpredictable: sometimes he would sit and poke at his food, refusing to give anything more than one-word answers. Sometimes he would quietly smile, enjoying the interaction between his father and mother, and still other times, he would be an excited kid who could barely be contained in his chair. In truth, David could be just about as different one night from the next.

  As dinner drew to a close, Rick became more despondent. He preferred mostly to watch and listen as his wife and child interacted. He enjoyed every second of the interaction but, eventually, the food disappeared and the conversation slowed to a crawl.

  “We love you sweetie, more than you’ll ever know, but we better be going.”

  Rick tried to speak, but only a half-hearted mumble escaped his lips.

  “Goodbye, Dad,” David said as he pulled his father into his arms. “When do we get to see you again?”

  “Tomorrow? If it’s all right with your mother.”

  Jaylynn nodded, a sad smile fixed to her face. Her eyes looked like they were on the verge of tears. She placed a hand on David’s shoulder and pulled him away from the embrace. “Come on, Dear. We need to go.” She pushed David to the door before turning back to Rick. “This has to stop eventually, Rick. You know that.”

  Rick nodded as she disappeared. He stood and walked to a kitchen cabinet. His movement was now slow and methodical. He never heard the door open—of course, they never did use the door, but he knew that they had gone. He reached up to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of hard liquor.

  They’re gone, Rick thought, they’ve been gone for six years. You can’t bring them back. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. Despite these though
ts, he could not stop the memories that were flooding into his mind. These thoughts collected and pooled together until they were so overwhelming that they forced Rick’s eyes closed. His chest tightened as he sucked in a sharp breath. The bottle of liquor rose to his lips, almost unbidden. You can’t keep doing this.

  TWO

  Isaac Savage frowned as he opened his mailbox. It was early. Too early for anyone to be out collecting the mail, but apparently early enough for the mailman to be delivering it. If Isaac was not a devoted Pastor, he might have cursed the mailman for working this early. No other mail carrier delivered at this time. Most people had no idea when their mail came, nor did they care; they could always pick it up whenever it was convenient. Isaac, however, did not have this luxury. He had to get it before she did. He would tell her—he would have to tell her—but not right now, and not like this. It only took Isaac a moment to thumb through the mail and find the letter he was looking for, the one with the words, “OPEN IMMEDIATELY: TIME SENSITIVE MATERIAL” stamped on the back of it.

  His face sank when he saw the letter—actually, his whole body did. It was as if someone had just snuffed out the last candle of his hope. He closed his eyes and tightened his jaw. Life was about to change, and it was not for the better. I’m a Pastor, my chosen profession, I don’t have a reason to feel down. The Lord is my light, my shepherd; he will guide me; he will protect me. Think of the prophets—think of Peter: “Of the Jews five times received I forty stripes save one. Thrice was I beaten with rods, once was I stoned, thrice I suffered shipwreck, a night and a day I have been in the deep…”

  But, quoting scripture did not lift him up as it had in the past. Come, Isaac, he whispered to himself, you will get through this. He pulled his shoulders back and straightened his spine, as if he was trying to restore air into his deflated body. He shoved the letter into his pocket and rummaged through the rest of the mail. It was mostly junk. At one point, the Federal Government outlawed mass mailers, which brought Isaac’s mail volume down to a trickle, but once the ability to enforce the law disappeared, companies seemed to have doubled their efforts.

  Pastor Isaac Savage was tall and slender. His body was such that he could have easily been athletic, but a life of reading about sports instead of participating in them prevented this. He had run track in High School—he was actually a half-decent hurdler—but since he had graduated, he had never run more than a hundred yards on any given day. His black hair was wavy when it was long, but manageable when he kept it short. He preferred to keep it short but could rarely deal with the guilt of spending so much money at the barbershop. Consequently, his wife, Rosemary, cut his hair most of the time—which saved money but usually ended up in a haircut so bad that afterword Isaac had to stay indoors for several days. Rosemary was good at everything that she put her mind to, and so Isaac was sure she would get better—but she never did.

  Isaac lived with his family in the back of his church where several additional rooms had been added. The church itself was once a marvel, a monument to human ingenuity and cooperation—but that was in 1919 when it was first built. It was the largest building in Sopri County, and people would come for miles to see the three snow-capped steeples that dominated the landscape. The front was built of marble mined from a quarry ten miles to the north; the sides were built with brick and then covered in white stucco. It was an enormously expensive project that had every tongue wagging with gossip. According to legend, the church was funded by a man that called himself Donny McMillan. McMillan had no family and no proper papers, so people had to take his word that he was who he said he was. It was rumored that early on in life, McMillan, a newly arrived immigrant in America, sold his soul to the devil for a scrap of bread and a bowl of water. But the bread was stale and the water was stagnate and caused him more harm than good. After being tricked by the devil, McMillan swore his allegiance to God. Over his life, he accumulated a mass of wealth by some unknown means.

  McMillan believed that if he could build and complete a massive church dedicated to the Lord that he might wrest his soul away from the clutches of the devil. The church took nine years to complete and McMillan’s entire fortune. By the end of the project, McMillan was growing desperate. He had been diagnosed with tuberculosis and was only given a short time to live. He was forced to tighten his budget for building materials so he could hire more workers. The church finally reached completion. On the day of the dedication, as a massive bell was being hoisted to the highest steeple, McMillan walked beneath the bell and raised his hands in the air, praising God with fiery vigor. But, one of the things McMillan had cut costs on was the pulley system, and, unfortunately, the massive bell far exceeded the load capacity. It went up ten feet before it came tumbling down, crushing McMillan’s frame beneath it.

  The bell had supposedly never been moved and still had the body of McMillan trapped inside but, Isaac was sure, that portion of the legend was not true. The bell was now positioned in front of the church, where it rested on a stone foundation. It seemed likely to Isaac that if somebody were going to go through the trouble of hoisting the bell up so they could install a stone foundation, they would also recover McMillian’s body at the same time. Since McMillian’s demise, the ownership of the church had passed from one unfortunate person to another, bankrupting each in turn. Isaac was no exception, having purchased the building at the height of the real estate market. He was upside down on his property within a matter of weeks.

  Isaac looked at his church. The marble face of the building was still impressive, but it desperately needed to be cleaned and polished, an expense that Isaac never had the money for. The familiar arched doorway was faded and worn, beaten down by the dozens of faithful churchgoers. The stucco walls were in desperate need of repair, as evidenced by whole sections that were crumbling into shards of rubble and dust. A small creaky porch extended out from the doorway and down two steps before it leveled onto the ground. The porch had been painted several times in an attempt to add some life to the dying church, but no painter ever took the time to sand the wood down to its original grain, resulting in a rough and inconsistent texture. There were at least a dozen spots where leaves had stuck and dried to the wet paint, making them permanent fixtures to the building.

  Isaac, the eternal optimist, saw the potential of the building—something that his wife just could not do. “This building has promise; it has a history,” he would repeat to her often. He started sanding the arched doorway by hand, believing that with enough sweat equity, he could give the entire building a facelift. After half a board, Isaac soon discovered that his vision was far bigger than the strength of his elbow. He then purchased an electric sander. This doubled his efficiency but, even then, the boards had so many layers of paint that he only completed three more before he quit for that day. The sander was placed just inside of the garage, as if Isaac would get back to sanding with it at any moment, but it had sat in that same position for several years.

  So many projects demanded more of Isaac’s attention: The toilets consistently backed up; the wiring was old and not dependable, making the lighting tentative at best; drains were constantly being clogged; the old appliances were each on their last leg; the heater went out several times a year, and the air conditioner only seemed to function in the winter; the rooms were drafty; the windows were outdated and inefficient; the benches in the forum squeaked like a chorus of mice, and the pipe organ was missing three keys. This last issue caused a rift in the church. The missing keys of the organ were the essential notes to several of the congregation’s favorite hymns; consequently, Isaac had to change his music selection to much older and obscure songs that did not use the popular keys. One lady claimed that “there’s no point in singing if we can’t sing Amazing Grace.”

  Despite members constantly threatening to leave the church, they rarely did. It was Isaac’s gift of words that always kept them coming back. He was a master of rhetoric. When he knew the topic well, his words flowed as smoothly as a cent
ury-old river. He was not one of those over-the-top “hell and damnation” preachers that were dripping in sweat by the end of every fiery sermon. He was an energetic speaker—a direct speaker—and his words were firm, but there was an addictive gentleness to them as well. His words were so excellently executed that they floated in the air like angelic melodies. When Isaac spoke, his congregation listened.

  He passed underneath the large arched entrance and through the solid oak double doors. His footsteps echoed as he stepped into the main chapel. The rich smell of the church greeted him. It was this smell that convinced Isaac to buy this church instead of building a new one. The scent was thick and ancient, like wood that had been thoroughly soaked in linseed oil. It reminded him of the time he spent living on a boat as a child. It did not smell like seawater, but a mixture of air and sky that was impossible to describe. Nothing new could recreate that smell. The chapel had three sections of benches and consisted of twenty rows. In the front, there was a pulpit and a massive Bible wrapped in red leather. Behind that were two dozen cramped seats dedicated to the choir, and behind that was the old organ, installed in 1955. Old windows, most of them still containing the original, blurry glass, stretched up high above the benches into large arches, like windows to heaven.