Don't Kill The Messenger

by Joel Pierson

  I look at her face, see the insistence there. I can barely make eye contact. “I don’t know if I can promise you that.”

  “Well, you have to. Because if you don’t, I’m gonna make you pull over right here, and I’ll hitchhike the rest of the way to Ohio. Promise me.”

  “I promise,” I say quietly.

  In the minutes that pass, we both try to regain our calm, find our composure. “I’m still hungry,” she says. “If you want to get off at the next exit, we can get that lunch we both wanted.”

  In northern Virginia, several miles further up the road, we get off the highway, this time without accompaniment, and find a sit-down family restaurant where we can have some lunch. By now, the initial shame of the recent altercation is starting to ebb in me, slowly earning a place in my memory as something I’ll regret for the rest of my life. The thing that will stay with me the most is the man’s unwavering calm. He stood there patiently while a stranger accosted him in front of Denny’s. Sure, he’s a bail bondsman, so I’m certain this isn’t the first time he’s been threatened. And I imagine on the sliding scale between genuine threat and complete pussy, I fall closer to the latter than the former.

  But Rebecca was right—he could have killed me, and it would have been self-defense. I got so caught up in the self-imposed role of being white knight and protector that I completely disregarded my own safety, which in turn would have jeopardized hers too. But what else could I do? If this man had been a legitimate threat to us, there’s no telling what he might have done.

  I have to ask myself at this point, am I being this protective of her because of the message I was tasked to deliver to her or am I being this protective of her because I’m falling for her? I have no good answer; in fact, I’m not even convinced that I am falling for her. What she said earlier about my sexual history was right on the money. For me, sex always followed love. But not last night; I was willing to put aside my principles and just feel. Still, the feelings were so strong and the bond that emerged between us was so powerful that it makes me wonder if I really am falling for her.

  And if I am, what then? Barring anything earth-shaking today, we will be in Ohio tomorrow, and I’ll have to drop her off, let her get back to school. Much as I would like to stay with her, I don’t suspect the assignments will stop, so I’ll be on the road again. Still, I can’t regret the intimacy we shared last night. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.

  It is at this moment that I leave my own thoughts and become aware of my surroundings, realizing to my dismay that I have been sitting at the table with a fork in my hand and my mouth slightly ajar for several minutes while I had this internal argument with myself. Rebecca, ever the model of tact and discretion, is doing the wave-your-hand-in-front-of-the-eyes-of-the-catatonic-person-to-see-if-anyone’s-home gesture. A few nearby diners are watching in quiet amusement.

  She smiles when at last I return. “Welcome back,” she says pleasantly. “You … uh … checked out for a little bit there. I thought you might be getting another message from the spirit world, but you weren’t writhing in pain, so I figured something else might be up. Care to share?”

  “Sorry. Just got a little lost in my own thoughts.”

  “A little? That’s an understatement. I was this close to writing something funny on your forehead.” Her thumb and forefinger held very close together indicate just how imminent my defacement was.

  “I thank you for your forbearance.”

  She downs a breaded mushroom. “What are friends for? So what’s got you so deep in thought?”

  I look at my plate. Chicken pot pie? Did I order this? “The whole Denny’s thing. It’s got me thinking too much. I’ve been in potentially dangerous situations before, since this whole thing started two years ago, but then it was just me. With you along, it changes everything.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “After tomorrow, that won’t be a problem.”

  “No, I didn’t mean it like that. You have nothing to be sorry about. I’m glad you’re with me. I just can’t take chances like I have been.”

  “Would it help if I told you I’m grateful to you for protecting me?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Would it also help if I told you I’m a big girl and I’ve done a pretty good job of taking care of myself so far?”

  “I suppose.”

  She reaches out and touches my hand, inviting me to look her in the eyes. “Tristan, it’s okay. We’ll get through this. We’ll help that family in Wyandotte, and then we’ll get me to Ohio.”

  “Any idea what happens then?” I ask her. “Where will you stay?”

  “With my father. He’s closer to the campus. And my mother and I haven’t gotten along well for years.”

  “How will your father feel about you coming home again?”

  “I don’t know. It’s been a long time. Once I get enrolled again, I’ll live on campus, so I won’t see much of him. I kind of think that’s the way he’d want it.”

  “Am I dropping you off in the middle of a bad situation?”

  She hesitates before answering. “I really don’t know. Things between me and my father have never been what you would call warm.”

  “You’re not going to be in any danger there, are you?”

  “No no, it’s nothing like that. I’m still his little girl. It’s just going to take some re-adjustment for a while.”

  After lunch, we get right back in the car, put the top down again, and make the commitment to get to our destination. We are still almost five hours away and we have a little more than seven hours before the Harbisons’ house, hopes, and dreams are all going to come crashing down.

  We’re able to continue at fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit. With little need for stops or breaks, we make good time, passing through Virginia into West Virginia, then into Pennsylvania. Conversation trickles down to a minimum, as we allow the radio to do the talking for us. I can’t be sure what she’s thinking about, although a few obvious topics come to mind. As for me, I’m doing what I usually do before an assignment: rehearsing what I’m going to say and how I’m going to say it. Dear strangers, you don’t know me, but I’m here to turn your world upside down. I know this sounds crazy, but if you don’t do exactly what I’m about to tell you, horrible horrible things are going to happen. They’re not my fault, so please don’t kill the messenger, and if it’s not too much trouble, please don’t ask me how I know all of this, because I don’t have a good answer, even after all this time.

  The words never come out that way, of course. I always present them with compassion and sympathy, well aware that circumstances drastic enough to warrant my arrival require tact and a soft tone. I often wonder how I would react if the situation was reversed, if I was on the receiving end of such news.

  “There, exit 26.” Rebecca’s words snap me out of my thoughts and bring me back into the moment. “This is our exit.”

  The sign points to a state highway and two towns, one east of us and the other west. I notice that Wyandotte is not on the sign; abandoned towns don’t warrant signage, I suppose.

  “That means we’re six miles from Wyandotte,” I say.

  “And it’s 5:10. What time is the house coming down?”

  “Not until 7:46. We made very good time. Do you need to stop for anything?”

  “No,” she replies. “Let’s just get there. The more time we have with these people, the better we’ll be.”

  I take the exit and head west, based on the directions in my head. The state highway is lightly traveled and mostly nondescript. There are a few businesses here and there, the occasional shack or mobile home, and a lot of trees. Five miles later, we come to the intersection of another state highway. It is the road into Wyandotte, and still no sign is there to inform us of this. I’ve been to ghost towns in Colorado, places abandon
ed for 100 years or more, and each one has been marked with signs directing the curious to come and explore. No such welcome exists for Wyandotte; it’s almost as if someone—or everyone—wanted the place forgotten. The thought disturbs me as I make the right turn, the final mile toward Wyandotte, Pennsylvania and the task of telling William and Virginia Harbison that their lives are about to change forever.

  Chapter 10

  “You doing all right?” Rebecca asks as we make our way toward the town.

  “A little edgy; the usual. How about you?”

  “A little bit, yeah,” she admits. “But mostly okay.”

  Any signs of life that were apparent on the feeder highway are gone now on the road to Wyandotte. We see a few boarded-up stores as we approach. Grass grows wild and unkempt. Weeds own the landscape. At last, we reach the edge of town, where we see an old wooden signpost bearing the carefully carved and painted words “Welcome to Wyandotte. Our pride, our home.” The sign is decades old and has fallen into such disrepair that it looks as if it is about to fall over at any moment. The state’s green sign with the town name and population is gone, the final confirmation of the place’s demise.

  On long-deserted buildings, graffiti tells the tale of those who have passed through: Wes & Kelli ’93. Steelers rule. TC + RL 4-eva. Class of 2005. Then, on the road ahead, we see large words spray painted on cracked and pitted asphalt, words that send a chill through me: Welcome to hell.

  Rebecca sees it too and her expression falls. “Tristan …”

  “I know. I see it.”

  “I don’t want to be in hell. Why is it hell?”

  “I guess somebody didn’t enjoy their stay.”

  “This is starting to creep me out. Where’s their house?”

  “On the 200 block of Spring Street,” I reply.

  Without even pausing to think about it, she says, “Turn right at the park up here.” I am astonished by her words, and looking over at her, I realize that she is as well.

  “Now how would you know that?” I ask her, making the right turn.

  “I don’t know,” she replies honestly. “I just know that this is where Spring Street would be. Do you think some of your abilities are rubbing off on me?”

  “Anything’s possible. But it would be a first.”

  The streets of Wyandotte do indeed paint a hellish picture. Every house is abandoned, many of them dilapidated, ransacked, crumbling. Some have been lost to fire. Children’s toys litter the sidewalks, broken, rusted, worn away by years of disuse. The streets themselves are in need of repair that will never come. Cracks and potholes and discarded items make an obstacle course that keeps me on my guard as we approach the Harbisons’ house. Then, up ahead, I see it—the only occupied home in the entire town. It is by no means elegant, but compared to everything around it, the one-story home is an oasis. It looks cared for. Signs at the perimeter politely warn trespassers away. As we park at the curb, I only hope that the homeowners will view us as visitors and not trespassers.

  I put the top up and we get out of the car, looking for signs of the inhabitants. There is a car in their driveway, an older-model Ford, which I hope is a good sign. As we are making our way up the driveway (calmly and with no sudden moves), the front door to the house opens and a man in his early sixties steps out. “You folks lost?” he calls to us.

  “No, sir,” I reply. “Are you Mr. Harbison, by chance?”

  “I don’t know if chance has anything to do with it,” he says, “but I’m William Harbison. Do I know you?”

  “I can’t imagine you do. My name is Tristan, and this is Rebecca.” There’s no need for pretense or masquerade this time. “We’ve driven here from Atlanta because we were asked to deliver a message to you.”

  “That’s an awful long way to deliver a message. We do have a telephone, you know.”

  Rebecca shoots me a quick told-ya-so glance, and it elicits a smile from me. “I was asked to deliver the message to you and Mrs. Harbison in person. Would you mind if we came inside for a couple of minutes?”

  He assesses us visually, deciding whether our story checks out and whether we look dangerous. Apparently he believes that it does, and we don’t, because he opens the door for us and says, “Come on in.”

  The interior of the house has the same no-nonsense, no-frills quality as its exterior. It is home to this couple, who do not have to worry about neighbors, relatives, or even casual visitors—except today. The Harbisons are tidy without being fastidious, and they have a love of books, Hummel figurines, and religious décor. As I look around the living room, I try very hard not to picture everything in ruin in two hours’ time.

  Mrs. Harbison meets us in the living room. “Hello,” she says, apparently quite surprised to have people calling. Part of living in a ghost town, I guess. “I’m Virginia.”

  “I’m Tristan, ma’am,” I reply, “and this is Rebecca.”

  “Ginny, these young people have come here from Atlanta. They have a message to give us.”

  “Won’t you have a seat?” she says. “I’ve made iced tea. Would you like some?”

  “That’d be great,” Rebecca says, and I nod in agreement. Inside, though, I am tied in knots over what I have to tell these people. On the journey, it’s a concept, words to be spoken, but once I meet the recipient, put a face to the name, it complicates things beyond measure.

  Ginny Harbison brings us each a glass of tea and then joins her husband on the couch. Rebecca sits on a wing chair, facing them. I choose to stand; it’s easier to fidget that way. God, I hate this part. “Mr. and Mrs. Harbison, what I’m about to tell you might be hard to believe but it’s very important that you understand two things: First, what I have to tell you is entirely true. And second, I swear to you that we mean you no harm. We’re here to help you.”

  The couple look at each other warily. “Son,” Mr. Harbison says, “if that’s the warm-up, I don’t think I’m looking forward to hearing the pitch. You’d best say what you came here to say.”

  I pause long enough to take a breath. “At 7:46 tonight, there’s going to be an accident. Important structural components of your house will fail, and the house is going to collapse. I’m very sorry.”

  Mrs. Harbison stands in disbelief, her face riddled with shock and fear. Her husband, interestingly enough, receives the news with resolute calm. “That can’t be!” she cries out. “That’s not possible! Why would you say such a thing?”

  Mr. Harbison puts a calming hand on her shoulder. “Ginny, be calm. It’s going to be all right. We’ll get through this.”

  I look directly at him. “Then you do believe me?”

  He nods. “I’ve seen the bowing of the joists for about a year now. I’ve suspected that the support beams were rotting, but I couldn’t get behind the drywall to see them.”

  “You knew?” Ginny asks, astonished. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to worry you, Mother,” he says to his wife. “Not until I could be sure. Besides, we don’t have the money to fix it, even if contractors would come out here.”

  She is near tears. “William, what are we going to do?”

  “We can help you,” Rebecca chimes in, standing. “We have two hours. That’ll give us time to get things out of the house—heirlooms, anything that’s irreplaceable. As many of your possessions as we can carry to safety.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” William says. “I accept your offer. We should probably get to it then, since time is short. You’re sure about that time, 7:46?”

  “Very sure,” I answer.

  “All right then. Wouldn’t want to find myself buried under rubble at 7:15.”

  And so the race to clear the house begins. With no storage shed and no trailer truck available, our goal is to get as many possessions as possible into the front yard until the Harbison
s can figure out what to do and where to go. I silently wish that they would consider their large collection of books to be replaceable, but no such luck. I quickly find myself boxing up books and carting the ferociously heavy boxes out to the lawn, one after the other. Ginny Harbison concentrates on the Hummels and religious figurines first, while William brings out album after album of photographs, some containing old newspaper articles. Rebecca carries out electronics—their TV, radio, small appliances.

  “We’ll need to turn off the power to the house before 7:46,” I tell the group. “We don’t want a fire on top of everything else.”

  As the unloading continues, Rebecca asks, “How did all of this happen?”

  “It’s an old house,” William replies. “Over time, the support beams have started to give out. I’ve called contractors to come and look at the house, but none of them want to come out here. So I prayed that God would send me a warning if something bad was going to happen. Then the two of you arrived.”

  Rebecca and I look at each other upon hearing this, each pondering the implications of what it means. But there is little time for pondering, with many more objects to be transported outside.

  “Actually, I was talking about the town,” Rebecca tells him. “Why did everyone leave?”

  This time, the Harbisons exchange a glance, one of surprise, based on the looks on their faces. “You mean you don’t know about the smog?” Ginny Harbison asks.

  Rebecca shakes her head. Those words have an ominous quality to them: the smog. I’ve been through smog before, but bad enough to clear out an entire town?

  “I’ll tell you,” William says, “but we have to keep working.” We agree, and he begins his tale. “It was eighteen years ago April. It was a bit warmer than usual, and then a cold front came through, bringing very heavy cloud cover over Wyandotte. You may have noticed we’re in a valley here; that does strange things with the weather sometimes. It certainly did that day. Take a look over here. You see that building on the hill?”