A Rush of Wings

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “You’re leaving now?” His tone was dry.

  “I called Ms. Walker. She’ll give me a ride.” Noelle wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  Why was she so stubborn? Couldn’t she see he would help? Lord? What more could he say? He went to the cupboard under the bookshelf and pulled out the pine box he’d fashioned. He had intended to rub in an oil finish, but there wasn’t time for that now. He set it on the table beside her. She looked puzzled.

  “Open it,” he said.

  She did. Inside were her paints, brushes, and the easel he’d repaired. Sudden tears glittered in her eyes.

  He cleared his throat. “I picked them up when I went back for Aldebaran. I’m afraid the pictures were ruined in the rain.”

  She didn’t answer for a long moment, then whispered, “Thank you.”

  His spirit stirred. Maybe now … “Noelle…”

  Tires ground on the gravel outside and she turned away. “There’s Ms. Walker. Will you please get the door?”

  Rick lifted the wooden case and her bags as she gripped her crutches. He opened the door and let her out. Ms. Walker sat in her Land Rover, popping her gum. This was wrong. It had to be. Give me the word, Lord. Just give me the word.

  The night was still and so was his spirit. The rest of him was anything but. He carried the tote and bag and put them into the backseat. He wanted to jerk them back out and carry them and Noelle right back upstairs. But God knew better, and if Rick acted against that belief, it would certainly be worse.

  Noelle eased herself into the front seat. “Thank you, Rick. For everything.”

  He took the crutches and slid them into the back with her bags. He’d done all he could. So he nodded, then watched the Rover turn and the taillights disappear. When the cold penetrated his woolen shirt, he went inside. Marta sent him a hopeful look, but he shook his head.

  “I have pie straight from the oven,” she said.

  He smiled. “Thanks, Marta.” If only pie would help.

  CHAPTER

  19

  Shack was a generous term for Ms. Walker’s rental. One week there was like solitary confinement in the most dissolute penal system in America. Noelle looked around the cramped area that housed the tattered couch, single lamp, lumpy bed, and kitchen. Well, kitchen stretched the definition: a white gas oven that practically blew up when she lit it, a tiny refrigerator, and a Formica table with one foot missing and two vinyl chairs.

  She sat down in the peeling chair, dropped her elbows to the table, and wept. This place was hideous and ugly and dirty and cold. Why hadn’t she told Rick what he wanted to know? Her anger flared, and she shoved back from the table. She reached down and threw her shoe at the spider on the wall, then sighed.

  Yesterday she had made her way on crutches to every business in town that stayed open through the winter. No one needed extra help when they scaled back for local business only. No one needed a hobbled woman with no work experience.

  So where did that leave her? Thanks to Rick’s gift, she could paint and hope that the gallery in Boston would sell her watercolors. Ms. Walker had sent off the last of her work, then closed up and left town, leaving a post-office box address at which she would accept any new work.

  Noelle reached for the case Rick had made, ran her fingers slowly over the smooth wood. His eyes had been so gentle when he presented it, and regretful. Would she ever understand him? But that didn’t matter anymore.

  The ranch had been a haven for a time, but she no longer needed it or him. She had a new place and a means to support herself—if the paintings did as well in Boston as in the local gallery. Of course, at Ms. Walker’s shop the tourists were looking specifically for local art. In Boston she would be competing with a much higher quality of artists and myriad styles and themes.

  What if nothing sold at all? Noelle looked around her. In this depressing place it was easy to imagine complete meltdown.

  Michael was on fire. He’d won the case. Even at second chair, it was his work, his finesse, his points that turned the jury. William was thorough, but Michael had been brilliant. And William knew it, demonstrated by his nudge when they walked out together with their client to the whirring cameras, the microphones shoved into their faces. William was putting him first.

  With his breath turning white in the cold, Michael accepted the spokesperson’s position, while William pushed Burton Wells through to the car. Michael raised a hand to quiet the barrage of questions. He wanted to make a fist and punch the air in victory, but he straightened his coat and looked gracious.

  The questions came fast, and he answered. “As you know, Mr. Wells was clearly exonerated. We’re very pleased…. The city will have to look elsewhere to solve its case…. Yes, I hope they’ll find Ms. Baker’s assailant…. I have no information on other suspects…. Mr. Wells will be spending time with his family where he belongs. Thank you very much.”

  He stepped down and pressed his way through the crowd respectfully. He loved it. He wanted to smear the grins off every face when they lost, but when they won? The press was his fan club. Whether they meant it or not. He got into his cab. William’s limo had already left. But they were meeting in an hour, and Michael anticipated the congratulations.

  He wasn’t patting himself on the back; he was exulting in overcoming the almost crippling ache he carried inside every day now. William didn’t know. No one knew. Michael had re-created himself so thoroughly that not even William suspected he dreamed every night of Noelle. Dreamed of finding her, holding her, and more.

  She was out there somewhere, and sooner or later she would contact her father. Michael had to maintain his professional and personal relationship with the man whose esteem he coveted as desperately as Noelle’s love. Then he would have both.

  Inside the limousine, William toasted Burton Wells. Their glasses clinked and William sipped the Dom Perignon he kept for such occasions. He was pleased to represent and vindicate an innocent man. And he was humbled by the depth of gratitude he saw in Burton’s eyes. “I guess we’ll both sleep tonight.”

  Burton nodded silently. He’d been a man of few words throughout the ordeal. A class act. Though the circumstantial evidence had shown opportunity, they could prove no motive for Burton to have attacked his young neighbor. There had been racial bias—accusations and innuendos against the only African American in the gated community.

  But not once had they drawn on that for their defense. Burton had not wanted the ACLU or black extremist groups riding this wave. He wanted to be cleared as an individual, not a black man done wrong. He smiled now, an elegant, satisfied smile. “I think we will. Unless, of course, Taniya has other designs.”

  William smiled, then sobered. “There will be difficulties.”

  “I’m prepared for that.”

  “No, you’re not. A verdict of not guilty is not the same as innocent.”

  The lines in Burton’s face lengthened and deepened as they passed the guard station and pulled into the circular drive. “A man in my position is used to suspicion. How can that black man afford a house like this? Did he make his money in drugs?” The tendons pulled tight in his neck. “I will sleep tonight, regardless of what my neighbors think.”

  William nodded. He had done his job well. More than that, Michael had done his. Looking at Burton now, he could well believe this client no longer needed his advice. He held out his hand. “It’s been an honor.”

  Burton gripped it, then grinned. “Right back at you.” William chuckled as Burton climbed from the limo. He glanced at his watch. Nearly an hour before he and Michael were meeting for dinner. He crossed his hands behind his head. “Just drive, John. Tavern on the Green by seven.” The only thing that could have made this evening better was to share it with Noelle. He closed his eyes and tried to keep the hurt and worry from spoiling the moment. Myron Robertson had not found her. Yet.

  Noelle stared out the dingy window. The first of November, and the snow fell in earnest. October’s rent and half of September had tak
en all but twenty-three dollars of her money. She had no phone and would soon have no utilities according to the latest notice. Perhaps it would be a while before they actually disconnected her, but she kept the heat low to limit the debt until she earned something.

  Her leg itched in the cast, and she raised it to the table. It was long past time to have it removed, but she had no transportation back to the hospital, nor funds for a follow-up visit, not to mention the physical therapy they’d expect. Enough was enough. She took the serrated knife from the drainer on the sink and hacked at the plaster until the blade snagged in the wrapping beneath. Then she pulled apart the two halves and scrutinized the small scar at the side of her knee, the shin where the bone had knit, and the withered muscles. Then she scratched the skin red.

  She put her foot on the floor and tried her weight. It hurt a little, but mostly it was weak. She would exercise it tomorrow. Right now she was too discouraged. She dropped to the chair. How had she come to this? Every choice had been hers. Had she used her freedom so poorly, or did forces conspire against her? Forces? Or God?

  Rick’s God. If He existed, He was no doubt as grim and unswerving as Rick, as unyielding, uncaring … Unbidden she recalled Rick’s head bowed in the corner of her hospital room, the warmth and comfort of his grip as he stilled her fears, his payment of her bills—and the look in his face when he gave her back her paints, her livelihood.

  Was he uncaring? Hadn’t he tried to help? It was her own refusal to trust him that had her where she was. But how could she tell him? How could she give substance to the nightmare? He asked too much. She dropped her chin to her palm. Maybe … maybe her paintings would sell in Boston.

  Rick paced to the window and looked out at the snow. December twelfth. He loved winter’s solitude, the physical labor of repairing and building. He liked connecting with neighbors he saw less frequently in the summer when his ranch was in use. In the winter, Bruce and Simon would stop by and they’d play backgammon or brag about their hunting and fishing. In winter he sat by the fire and read, played his guitar.

  Rick looked at it now, leaning against the couch, and thought of Noelle, of the night she’d seen him play, of the way he’d wanted to play for her. In twelve days she would have a birthday. Would she celebrate with friends in town? The people he talked to said she kept to herself. Rudy saw her when she needed paper, which meant she was painting, using the materials Rick had gathered from the mountainside and repaired.

  Maybe things were going fine and she’d found the independence and control she wanted. Maybe his doubts were groundless. He shook his head. She’d made it very clear that she didn’t need his help. So why the nagging concern?

  He paced the room again. She wasn’t far. He could go down and visit, see how she was getting along, how the leg was healing. In a way it was his responsibility to know. He had accepted medical responsibility, at least.

  But then he pictured her wounded face when he tried to get answers. She did not trust him, did not want his help. If he hadn’t forced the issue … But, no, he’d done what he had to. They couldn’t live together on the ranch the way they’d been, not just the two of them, not the way things had developed. If he didn’t interfere now, maybe she’d go home and face whatever had made her run. That thought left a sizeable hollow.

  He forced himself to sit. What was it? Why was he so stir crazy? He glanced at the Bible on the table. Maybe he should have made a better effort. He rested his head in his palms. Then he dropped to his knees and prayed.

  Noelle pulled open the cupboard and groaned. Part of a box of oatmeal and a handful of tea bags … and on the table Ms. Walker’s final notice. Though she had waived the signing of a lease, Ms. Walker did expect to be paid. Both November and December’s rents were past due, but Noelle had used all of her cash. If she didn’t pay the rent by the end of the week, she was out, and nothing had sold. At least no money had arrived from Boston.

  She raised her brows and stared at the table where her paints were spread. Maybe no one liked her work anywhere but here. Her head spun, and she blinked away the dizziness. She limped across the cracked linoleum and sat down at the table. Outside the smudgy window, snow blanketed the ground and fell again, soft and silent.

  She lifted the paintbrush that lay beside the jar and stared at the paper. What was the use? A racking cough seized her and shot fire through her chest. She dropped the brush, staggered to the bed, and lay down, grabbing the covers up as her teeth chattered together.

  Scarcely aware of time passing, she lay with fever raging. Her trembling was so violent her muscles ached from exhaustion. As the sun sent its last, weak rays over the mountain, she dragged herself across the floor to the sink and drank directly from the faucet, then staggered back. She just … needed … sleep.

  Dreams faded in and out of her consciousness. Professor Jenkins stood at the table in her father’s library and drilled her Latin. “The human spirit and part of the divine.” I don’t know it, Professor. It doesn’t exist. “It exists, Noelle, in the beautiful. You must find it … find it … find it…”

  The real Noelle. Morgan held out the eggshells. “Come out. Come out and dance. Dance with me.” I can’t. My leg is broken. I can’t dance. I can’t.

  “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.” The light was so bright it hurt her eyes. “The truth. Tell me the truth, Noelle.” Rick’s eyes probed. He held the guitar and sang words she didn’t know. She felt her resolve crumbling. No. No….

  Rick banged again. If she didn’t answer that, he’d kick the door down. He had tried yesterday with no luck, but he would bet she wasn’t out in today’s snow. Maybe she meant to ignore him, and she had the right, but…

  Noelle opened the door, and he couldn’t help but stare. Her eyes and cheeks were hollow, her lips cracked. Her hair hung in strings. The bones of her hand on the door stood out, skeletal through her skin. The flannel nightshirt and leggings hung on her, and her lips and fingernails were blue.

  He hid his shock and held out the envelope. “This letter came for—”

  “Thank you.” She snatched it and shoved it into the pocket of her nightshirt.

  That was it. He’d done what he had to, brought her mail, and she was obviously not welcoming him inside. He started to turn, then pushed the door wide, shoved past her, and went inside. His breath formed a cloud. “Noelle, it’s cold as a tomb in here!” And the place was a hovel.

  “I’ve had a cold and been in bed.” She coughed and held her ribs.

  Rick looked hard at her where she stood, shivering and clammy. “Your power’s off?”

  “I keep it low.”

  He reached for the light switch and flicked it up. Nothing happened. He crossed the room, pulled open the cabinet, then the refrigerator. He spun. “What’s going on?”

  Again a cough racked her. She slumped against the wall and sank to the floor. “Just leave.” She closed her eyes.

  Rick yanked the cover from the bed and wrapped it around her. She didn’t fight him, and he wasn’t surprised. She was weak and limp as a kitten as he lifted her and carried her out to the truck.

  But when he slid her into the seat, she seemed to come to. “What are you doing? I didn’t ask for your help.” She coughed again as he tucked her legs in.

  His anger surged. “No, you didn’t.” He shut the door and walked around, forcing composure. Even so, he didn’t look her way when he climbed in. The sight of her feverish eyes, hollow cheeks, the blue tinge of her lips…

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Dr. Bennington.” He started the engine and headed for the small, gray Victorian house up the hill from the highway on Bragg Street.

  “He’s retired.”

  “How do you know?”

  She coughed, a deep, hollow hack. “Rudy told me months ago, when I first came.”

  “He sees almost as many patients now as he
did in regular practice. People just don’t bother him with inconsequential stuff.” But her condition was hardly inconsequential. Had she no sense at all? He parked in front of the white wrought-iron fence.

  He scooped up Noelle and carried her up the porch steps and into the back room of Dr. Bennington’s home, sharp with antiseptic air. He was so angry it made him shake, but he set her on the examining table and backed off. Calm down. This isn’t about you. You did what you had to.

  But he kicked himself anyway. And he ought to kick her. Well, not literally. But what did it take? How stubborn could she be?

  Dr. Bennington hung the stethoscope on his neck. “How long have you been coughing?”

  “I’m not sure.” Her voice was weak.

  The doctor listened to her breathe. “Umhmm.” He examined her leg, feeling the muscle tone with his slightly palsied hand. “This leg isn’t looking so good either.”

  Noelle didn’t answer. Her eyes had closed, and she lay wheezing on the table. She looked as though a breeze would blow her away. The doctor clamped Rick’s shoulder. “Step out now while I examine her.”

  He waited outside, the floorboards lamenting his pacing feet until Dr. Bennington joined him. “How is she?”

  The doctor kept his gravelly voice low. “Pneumonia. Dehydration. The fever’s wasted her, no doubt, but I don’t think she’s eating well. Is she anorexic?”

  Rick shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d guess just broke.”

  Dr. Bennington made a note on his chart. “I injected an antibiotic that should kick in with a bang. You’ll have to fill this prescription elsewhere.” He handed him the slip. “I’d say take her to the hospital for an IV, but she’d probably pick up a worse infection, and those young scalawags wouldn’t know pneumonia from tetanus.”