July Thunder

by Rachel Lee

  The first tree went over with a crack. Joe started sawing off the limbs, the roar of the chain saw occasionally drowned by a roll of thunder. Sam and Louis helped his dad and the deacon load the limbs into the back of the truck.

  While Joe went to work on the second tree, Sam and Louis were chaining the first to the back of his truck. Driving carefully, Sam hauled the cut timber to the far side of the road, more than a hundred feet from the church.

  At this rate, Sam thought, they didn’t have a chance in hell of finishing a clear-cut.

  He drove back across the road and climbed out of his car as Joe started trimming the second tree. Elijah and Deacon Hasselmyer—Carl, that was his name—finished unloading and came back over, too.

  “Dad?”

  Elijah turned to him, his face tight with worry.

  “We need more help, Dad. Is there any way you can get in touch with the folks from your church?”

  Elijah turned to Carl Hasselmyer. “Carl?”

  “Let me call my wife. She can start the phone tree.”

  Sam spoke. “We need chain saws, trucks, shovels. Tow chains. Tillers of any kind. Brush cutters. Gasoline for equipment.”

  Carl nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thanks.”

  The deacon trotted away, leaving Sam and his father to look at each other. Overhead, lightning forked and thunder rumbled. The chain saw whined as Joe cut another limb.

  Elijah, for the first time in Sam’s memory, looked almost humble. He spoke. “Will you join me in a prayer?”

  It was surprisingly easy to say yes. “Sure.”

  Elijah took his hand, and again Sam was jolted. He couldn’t remember the last time his father had taken his hand, and the touch…well, the touch offered a kind of comfort he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Then Elijah shocked him even more. He turned to Louis.

  “Will you join us, too?”

  Louis’s expression echoed Sam’s surprise. “Are you sure I’m good enough?”

  “The Lord reached out to the outcasts,” Elijah said. “It was to the poor, the lame, the sick and the unloved that he came.”

  Louis reached out hesitantly with both hands and closed the prayer circle. Sam wondered if that had always been his father’s viewpoint or if this was some kind of change in attitude. And for the first time it occurred to him that he and his father might really need to talk.

  Elijah bowed his head. For a moment it seemed as if he were at a loss for words. He stood there, holding Sam’s hand in his right hand, Louis’s in his left. They were, Sam thought, two of the people he seemed least likely to pray with, and it was as if his father was reluctant to launch into one of his patented shake-the-rafters-and-yank-the-tears prayers. Instead, after a long pause, he spoke almost too quietly to hear.

  “Our Father, who art in heaven…”

  Mary watched as Sam tried to bring the spoon of soup to his lips. His hand shook, and soup spilled over the side, splashing back into the bowl and onto the tablecloth. He seemed about to clench his jaw until she reached out and took his hand in hers.

  “Nervous?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I’ve been running a chain saw for hours. I can’t stop shaking.” He let out a grim chuckle. “I wonder how loggers do this every night.”

  “I shouldn’t have served soup.”

  His eyes rose to meet hers. “No, Mary. The soup is fine. It’s delicious. Really.”

  He’d shown up at her door an hour earlier, just after ten, covered in dirt and soot, his hair thick with wood chips and sawdust. He’d apologized for his appearance and the unexpected visit, but she’d shushed him and dispatched him to the shower. Looking through the pantry while she listened to the water rushing through the pipes, she’d settled on a family-size can of chicken noodle soup as the fastest hot meal she could prepare. When he’d returned, looking more like a human being and less like a barroom floor, the soup had reached a thorough boil and cooled to serving temperature.

  Now, it seemed, she’d prepared exactly the wrong thing. He drew the few drops of soup that were left in the spoon into his mouth, then tried to get another spoonful. Once again, muscles that had spent hours adapting to mechanical vibrations continued to quiver. It was, she realized, much like a sailor who comes ashore and, having grown used to accommodating the roll of a ship’s deck, was wobbly on solid ground.

  “Don’t starve because of manners,” she said quietly. “Just drink it from the bowl.”

  “Duh,” he said with an embarrassed smile. “I guess that chain saw shook my brains around, too.”

  “You’re just tired, Sam,” she said as he lifted the bowl to his lips. “Will you be able to save the church?”

  “I hope so. It’s an incredible amount of work to clear an eighty-foot firebreak around a building. When I left, we were maybe a quarter done. The next crew of volunteers left their headlights on so they could work all night.”

  “Are you sure that’s safe? I mean, working with power equipment is hard enough in full sunlight.”

  He shrugged and took another sip of his soup, sucking a noodle between his lips. “I don’t see as how we have a lot of choice. Not unless God wants to dump a pile of rain on us to put that fire out, and He seems to be letting us handle this on our own.”

  Mary nodded, stirring her own soup absently. “Well, you’re not going back tonight. I won’t let you.”

  His eyes fixed on hers. “I have to, Mary. They need every hand we can get out there. We finally got through to the spotters at about six, and they said the lightning had sparked off three other fires. If they get together and start pulling draft before we finish that firebreak, the fire will sweep right down this valley.”

  “Sam, you’re exhausted. You can barely feed yourself. If you go out there, all you’ll do is get hurt.” She bit off the word again.

  “I’ll be careful,” he said, lifting the bowl to his lips again. As he went to return it to the table, however, his quivering hands betrayed him, and it dropped with a thud, splashing the hot liquid onto the tablecloth and into his lap. “Damn!”

  Mary was up and moving even before his curse crossed his lips, grabbing a dish towel and running it under cold water. “Here,” she said, handing it to him and returning to the sink for another towel to clean off the table. “Use this to wipe yourself off before you burn.”

  “It’s not that hot,” he said, dabbing at his trousers.

  Mary whirled on him, her eyes flaring. “Damn it, Sam Canfield, stop fighting me when I’m trying to look after you! You may think you have to prove your manhood to your father, but you don’t have to prove it to me!”

  She regretted the words as soon as she’d said them, knowing they’d cut too close to the quick. And knowing even more that they weren’t deserved, not over this incident. Her eyes fell. “I’m sorry, Sam. That was cruel.”

  “Damn right it was,” he said. He rose to his feet, dropping the towel on the table. “I’ve got to get back.”

  She stepped between him and the door. “Sam, no! You can’t even hold a bowl of soup, for God’s sake. Let someone else be a hero for tonight.”

  He drew up short, looking down at her, his eyes steely in his fatigued face. “I’ve got news for you, Mary. I’m no hero. Not at all. I’m just doing something that needs doing, like a couple hundred other people are doing out there right now. I don’t get any special exemption just because I’m Sam Canfield.”

  “But they’re all going to take time off to sleep!”

  “They’re all going to take time off to go back to work. In the mine.”

  She looked at him, something inside her shriveling. He was furious with her, she realized. And it was all because she had shot off her mouth. She was fatigued, too, from worry and fear for him, but that still didn’t excuse her. “Sam, I said I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted.” But nothing about him softened, and he started to pass her on the way to the door.

  “Sam?”

  He paused.
>
  She bit her lip, fearing the pain she was opening herself up to with the question she was about to speak. “Sam…why did you come here tonight?”

  His back was to her, and for endless seconds he didn’t move. “I wanted to see you.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Then please don’t go.”

  He shook his head. “Mary, this isn’t working. I’m too tired. You’re tired.”

  “Exactly. So crash for an hour or so. I promise to wake you up. I’ll even set the alarm if you want. But you need some rest.”

  Finally he turned to face her. “All right,” he said. “I’ll crash on the couch. But only for an hour.”

  “Good.” That much at least made her feel better. He couldn’t leap right back into firefighting with nothing but a bowl of soup in his belly and no rest. She got him a blanket, then left him alone in the living room. Returning to the kitchen, she decided to use the time to make him something heartier than soup. A couple of thick sandwiches. He was going to need them.

  And then she wondered why she hadn’t just let him go when he’d been ready to. Because he was just going to go anyway, eventually. Now was as good a time as any.

  With an aching heart, she began to make sandwiches.

  Sam didn’t exactly sleep. He was too wound-up. But he lay in some sort of netherworld, his thoughts running around in circles while his body relaxed bit by bit. With his eyes closed, it was almost as refreshing as sleep.

  Or would have been if it hadn’t given him so much time to think.

  Mary’s accusation wouldn’t leave him alone. He should have been able to brush it off as words born of fatigue. He’d certainly never felt insecure about his masculinity. Never. It was something he didn’t even think about—or hadn’t since high school.

  But Mary’s comment had struck hard, as if she had caught on to something he hadn’t recognized himself. Could he feel as if he had something to prove to his father still?

  Well, of course he could. In those terms, it wasn’t even a surprising comment. He’d never been able to please the man, and with someone like that, you either kept continuously trying or you gave up completely. He thought he’d given up years ago, when he left home.

  But maybe Mary was right. Maybe he hadn’t really given up, and his father’s return to his life had awakened all those old fears and feelings.

  It wasn’t a thought that made him feel good about himself. After all, he liked to believe that he had matured over the past years.

  Cripes, he probably needed a shrink to help him through this. How did you deal with leftover feelings and reactions that went back so far in your life? How did you get past the knee-jerk reactions and responses when you were hardly aware of them? When they seemed so right?

  “Sam?”

  Mary’s voice drew him out of his uncomfortable reverie.

  “Sam, it’s been an hour. Are you sure you don’t want to sleep longer?”

  He opened his eyes, knowing he wasn’t going to sleep tonight. He had to save that church. Maybe Mary was right. Maybe he just wanted to prove what a man he was to his father. He didn’t know anymore, and he was too tired to sort it out right now. All he knew was, he couldn’t let that church burn.

  “I’m fine,” he said, and managed a smile. God, she was beautiful, even with fatigue drawing her face. Beautiful and intelligent and…uncomfortable. What was bugging her? “I’m sorry I got so steamed before.”

  “It’s okay, Sam. I have no business popping off like that. I’m no psychologist.”

  He sat up and reached for her hand, drawing her down beside him. Then he gave her a hug and dropped kisses on her cheek. “I’m feeling like a bear. It’s my fault. But my arms aren’t shaking anymore.”

  She smiled at him and kissed his cheek back. “Good. And I made you some sandwiches. You can eat them here or take them with you.”

  “Thanks.” He brushed a tendril of her hair back from her cheek, then hugged her again. He couldn’t remember that it had ever felt so good to hug anyone. Not ever. He just wanted to sink right into her embrace and forget the rest of the world even existed. But that wouldn’t save the church.

  “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  “Sure. Listen, just stop by here when you take your next break. I don’t want to be worrying when you’re safe at home, okay?”

  “I promise.” But he noticed she didn’t invite him to stay with her. Maybe his reaction had turned her off for good. The idea pained him, but he didn’t know how to pursue it, especially right now. This wasn’t a good time for a heart-to-heart. Not with that fire raging.

  So he let go of her, hard as it was to do, and accepted the sandwiches and bottled water she offered, and got out of there as fast as he could.

  Because he was in danger of forgetting his duty. In danger of forgetting everything. And all for Mary.

  It wasn’t a happy state of mind.

  17

  Morning brought dreary skies and worse news. Several of the fires had joined up, creating a wall of flame to the west of the church, and that wall was marching east, toward them. Fire was also spreading toward the subdivisions a few miles north, and most of the fire-fighting effort was being concentrated there.

  “Of course it is,” Elijah said, when a deputy gave them the news. “People’s homes are more important than one church.”

  Elijah appeared exhausted. He’d caught a few hours of sleep on a church pew during the night, but even in the rosy dawn light he looked ashen.

  “Dad,” Sam said in his best I’m-the-cop-and-I’m-in-charge voice, “you’re not looking good. You need some real rest.”

  “I can’t leave while my people are trying to save the church.”

  There were about fifty of them now, all members of the congregation, few sure what to make of Joe and Louis, who were working as hard as ten men. They took their cue from Elijah, though, and were at least civil.

  “Then go sit in my car. Roll up the windows and breath some air-conditioned air for a while. This smoke isn’t good for anybody.”

  And it was getting thick. Sam’s eyes were burning, not quite as badly as if he were cutting an onion, but badly enough. And every breath he took was making his chest feel raw inside. He’d begun to wear a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, annoying as it was.

  Elijah looked as if he were going to argue, but after a moment his shoulders slumped. “All right. For just a few minutes.”

  Sam didn’t argue with him about how long. He figured once his dad sat down in the SUV and started breathing air that was relatively smoke-free, exhaustion would probably knock him out.

  They had a complete circle around the church cleared now. Men with shovels were digging up dirt to bury stumps. Another man with a small tiller was walking slowly back and forth, turning the dirt and burying the pine needles and dead leaves. They were a long way from an eighty-foot barrier, but it didn’t look as hopeless as it had yesterday afternoon.

  People were getting tired, though. Dangerously tired. Mary was right; they needed to be extra careful dealing with the chain saws. No building was worth having someone lose a limb, much less his life.

  Pulling out a whistle, he blew on it. Break time. They all needed to sit and rest. Have a drink from the fountain and tap inside. He just wished he had some food to offer them.

  Reluctantly, it seemed, or maybe just wearily, saws were turned off, tools were dropped, and groups of people straggled toward the church hall.

  They needed more helpers. They needed food. And nobody was about to give up, as near as he could tell.

  Miraculously, almost as if his thoughts had summoned them, several trucks arrived carrying older women. They climbed out and began toting ice chests and covered bowls into the parish hall.

  “The church looks after its own.”

  Sam turned his head and saw Carl Hasselmyer. “You set this up?”

  Carl shook his tired head, a smile lighting his grimy face. “The missus did. Knew she would.”

  Remembering
all the church suppers he had attended as a child, Sam realized he wasn’t really surprised. The women had probably been working most of the night to make food. They didn’t look as exhausted as the men did, but their eyes were red-rimmed and weary.

  The food had an energizing effect, though. The hungry and fatigued men began to perk up. To talk a little, to move a bit faster. Sitting at the long picnic tables in the church hall, they gorged on food and water and began to sound more like a social meeting than a fire-fighting team.

  Soon the church’s urn was full of fresh-perked coffee, and the women were delivering large foam cups of coffee to all the people at the tables. Sam accepted a cup for himself and found it thick and strong. The caffeine jolt was just what he needed.

  Unfortunately the arrival of breakfast had caused Elijah to abandon Sam’s SUV. Now he wandered around the hall, talking to everyone, expressing his appreciation at how hard they were working. Joining in prayer circles one after another. Eating nothing and drinking nothing.

  At first Sam felt irritated: Elijah needed to take better care of himself. The man was getting up in years and didn’t have the resilience anymore to work himself nigh unto death.

  But as he stood there drinking his coffee and eating a fresh-baked cinnamon roll, he realized something else: Elijah had always been this way. Always ministering and taking care of his flock, whatever the self-sacrifice. And for the first time, Sam realized that it was not selfishness on Elijah’s part.

  His father felt called to the ministry. Maybe he’d made some mistakes prioritizing in the past, or maybe Sam had simply wanted more than he’d had a right to.

  No. He shook his head at that and looked down into his coffee. Maybe the Catholics had it right, he thought. Maybe a man who wanted to devote his life to the ministry didn’t really have room for a family. Maybe if you were Elijah, and didn’t see it as a nine-to-five job, you ought never to marry.

  But that didn’t make Elijah a bad man. Or did it?

  Fatigue was clogging his brain so badly that Sam gave up trying to sort through it. He grabbed another cup of coffee and another roll, and waited for the caffeine to hit his system. All he knew was that Elijah’s dedication was real. Apostolic, even. Heck, the Bible never did say what happened to Mrs. Simon-Peter and all the little Simon-Peters. They must have existed, since Peter’s mother-in-law was in the Bible.