“It’s nothing but a saggy old barn, that’s all it is,” Sandy muttered to herself before turning off the engine of her Caravan. She remained in the driver’s seat, studying the shabby wooden structure her family generously referred to as a pole barn. Her eyes took in the warped boards and partially rotted framing of the building that would serve as her summer prison. In happier days, a little girl had helped her dad slap two coats of paint on it. Cracks now lined the 2 x 6 horizontal side boards, and what little paint remained had faded into a nondescript color no one would now describe as yellow. Age catches up with everything, she thought. The grass around the structure, always kept neat and trimmed in the past, had been replaced by a knee-high crop of weeds. Even the fissures in the cracked asphalt drive were full of them.
Sandy climbed out of the minivan, shut the door, and sighed deeply. The dilapidated wooden sign on the front corner of the building revealed fourteen faded letters in two words: “Loucks Ventures.” As if on cue, a wooden shingle slid off the roof and fell on the asphalt a few feet in front of her and directly in front of the sign.
“Ventures. Yeah, right.” The short burst of laughter sounded hollow even to her. There was no way to get out of the work waiting for her inside. A half-dozen slow steps carried her to the rotten front door. She inserted the key and stopped short. How many times had she and her father walked through this door holding hands? She shook the memory back into the past, eased the door aside, and entered the cavernous room.
The building was already old when her father bought it more than three decades earlier. He had no particular purpose in mind for the structure, but the price was right, he explained to both his wife and his daughter, and “a man can always use a place to store stuff.”
And use it he did.
Sandy flipped the main light switch only to discover most of the bulbs were burned out. The few that remained cast just enough light to illuminate the general nature of the task confronting her. For thirty years Tom Loucks had been stuffing the large building from floor to ceiling with items he simply could not bring himself to throw away. They included nearly everything imaginable, from wooden and cardboard boxes, to bags, old appliances, books, file cabinets, furniture, dishes, tools, mason jars full of nuts and bolts, and who knew what else—all the random items a person accumulates over a lifetime. Rumor had it there was even a car buried in here somewhere, the make and model of which depended upon the person doing the telling. One thing was certain, thought Sandy as she eased her way deeper into the barn. It would take all summer—and maybe longer—to sort through this place.
Sandy drew a deep breath and took a step back as if she’d been assaulted. The stench of mold and rot was stronger than she had expected. She swallowed to stifle the frustration welling up inside her before kicking the nearest box in disgust. Then she kicked it again so hard her foot crashed through it. “Calm yourself, girl,” she said aloud. She had work to do, and anger wouldn’t get the job done. But a plan would, and she needed to settle on one.
She scanned mound after mound of old boxes and black plastic bags, all bulging with contents unknown. “One box at a time … one bag at a time.” She could do this. One stack at a time. She looked up and realized she would need a twenty-foot ladder just to reach the top of some of these mountains of junk.
Sandy offered to have it all hauled away, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it. “There are things your father treasured buried away in that building!” she scolded. “He wasn’t crazy, Sandy. He only saved what needed saving, and there are lots of valuable antiques and other things in there.” The elephant in the room rarely acknowledged, and never fully explored, was the mountain of debt her father had left behind. “Promise me you will look through everything,” she pleaded. “Promise me.”
“I’ll do it for you, mom. Yes, I promise.”
“I promise.” The words echoed in the barn even though they existed only in her head.
“I hate you, Tom Loucks, for leaving this to me!” For years, Sandy had referred to her father as either Tom or “my mother’s husband.” Even his death hadn’t changed that barb of disrespect.
And so the daughter, faithful to her mother, was left with the daunting task of opening each box and every bag, looking at every item, and determining what could or should be saved or sold. She decided to attack the stack of boxes off to her right and move down the length of the west side of the barn, one pile at a time. But without the ladder, how could she begin?
She put a hand out and pushed the stack gently. It wavered. With no concern for their contents, and without much if any thought, she lowered her shoulder like a Walton Center High School linebacker and smashed into the cardboard tower. The first tower of boxes she assaulted, however, was reinforced from behind with other stacks of similar boxes. She watched in dismay and as the stack she had rammed with her left shoulder, as if in slow motion, toppled toward her. She tried to jump out of the way but fell to the floor as the boxes fell all around her.
Stunned but uninjured, and still sprawled on the floor, she clawed her way back a few feet in case any other boxes decided to come down. None did. She reached over to her left and shook the nearest box. Next, she extended her foot, tapped another, and gave it a kick. The box slid several feet. They were much lighter than she expected. Frowning now, she twisted and pushed a third box with her foot with the same result. Sandy scrambled closer and pulled at the faded brittle tape sealing it.
“Leaves! Leaves?” She looked up as if expecting her father to be in the rafters above her. “You saved tree leaves?” She shoved her hands into the box, grabbed a handful of the moldy reddish brown leaves, and threw them as hard as she was able. “What was wrong with you, Tom Loucks? Were you absolutely nuts?” Screaming, she picked up the box and hoisted it above her head. She was about to throw it when a voice interrupted her.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
It was a male voice coming from the doorway. “Are you okay?”
Still holding the box, Sandy swiveled her head to find a handsome young man standing a few feet inside the building. He stood about six feet tall, with light, closely cropped brown hair and penetrating brown eyes. His olive-colored T-shirt, snug perhaps to highlight his fit body, was tucked into a pair of khaki pants that were in turn tucked into a pair of black boots.
“Ma’am?” Her quick head toss and roll of her eyes signaled her level of displeasure. At least she hoped it did. “Did you really just call me ma’am?”
The stranger smiled. “Would you prefer I call you miss?” She met his smile with a silent glare. “I heard a scream,” he continued. “I didn’t mean to startle you or intrude. I was afraid you were in danger.”
“And you came to save me?” she said with as much sarcasm as she could muster.
The stranger nodded. “If necessary, yes.” His eyes wandered slowly upward from her face to well above her head. “You’re not going to throw that at me, are you?”
Only then did Sandy remember she was still holding, arms fully extended, a filthy cardboard box. When it dawned on her how silly she must look, she dropped it as if it had suddenly overheated. Not knowing what to do with her hands, she attached them firmly to her hips.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he grinned. “So … do you?”
Her eyebrows knit together as she cocked her head at the mysterious visitor. The loud sigh she blew ruffled the hair framing her face. “Do I what?”
“Need saving.”
She averted her eyes as if she’d just spotted something interesting on the filthy floor. Her features visibly softened. “Only from myself, apparently,” she whispered.
“How can I help?”
“You? You can’t help.”
“How do you know?”
“My mother’s husband died. He left all this for me to sort through, dispose of, and clean up. Not to mention he left her with large debts. I’m hoping to find things of value to sell—to help her. I don’t think that’s going to happen, though. So … I’m a little angry, and I gue
ss just indulging in a little pity party.”
“You said he was your ‘mother’s husband.’ I take that to mean he was your step-father?” asked the stranger.
She looked away for a quick moment for returning to meet his gaze. “He was my biological father.”
“I see,” he replied. “Why are you so angry?”
“What business is it of yours?” she asked, lifting her hands from her hips to turn her palms face-up. The stranger simply looked at her without answering. “Why do you think?” she finally replied, waving her arms toward the stacks of boxes, bags, cabinets, and other countless items crammed into the barn. “He left all this for me to deal with. I have no idea why he did this to me.”
Instead of leaving, as Sandy believed he would, the stranger asked, “Do you mind if I sit for a few moments?” He pointed to a dust-covered folding chair leaning against the front wall.
“Why would you?” she asked. “I didn’t scream because I was in trouble, and I don’t need your help.” Once again he remained silent, locking his deep brown eyes onto hers. There was something about his stare that was both unsettling and comforting at the same time. “Sure. Pull up a chair,” replied Sandy as she wiped her dusty hands on her denim shorts. “This should be quite a show. You can watch me have a total meltdown while I dig through thirty-plus years of garbage.” Who was this guy and why was he here?
The stranger walked into the shadows and unfolded the rusty brown chair, sat down, and leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. “What did you mean when you said your dad ‘did this’ to you?” The question was sincerely asked, as if he really wanted to understand.
“Well, I didn’t do this to myself,” she snapped back, letting her sarcasm get the best of her once more. “I don’t know,” she added. “Apparently, God hates me.”
At that, the stranger’s eyebrows shot up, and he scratched one side of his head before resting his chin in the palm of his right hand. “God hates you?”
“If there really is a God, yeah, probably.” Sandy wiped a bit of cobweb off one eyebrow before continuing. “If you’re going to repeat everything I say, I may ask you to leave. Right now, I can’t stand being around me, and I certainly don’t want to listen to some stranger repeat all the awful things I’m saying. To go back to your question, if He exists, I am not one of His favorites. Would you do this to someone you love?”
“So … you believe your father and God are co-conspirators working against you? They left this barn full of stuff because”—he paused, turning his hands over—“they hate you?” The stranger adjusted his chair. “This should be interesting.”
“Interesting?”
The man laughed. “Are you going to start repeating me now?”
“Are you staying?”
“Would you deny me a place to rest after my willingness to rescue you from danger?” he asked, his expression changing from inquisitive to mischievous in the space of a second.
“No, of course not,” replied Sandy. Is he flirting with me? she wondered. “What was your name again?”
“Again?” He flashed another wide grin. “I don’t believe I’ve told you. Just call me Sam.”
“Sam,” she repeated as she inspected him from head to foot. He looked a few years younger, she thought. He was also handsome, but was missing a small clump of hair on the side of his head.
“And you’re Sandy.”
Now it was her turn to be surprised. “And I’m sure I never mentioned my name,” she said, taking an involuntary step backward as she folded her arms across her chest. “How do you know my name?”
“Small town,” he said with a broad smile.
“Under different circumstances, I’m sure it would be a pleasure to meet you, but I have work to do,” she added, standing ramrod straight and taking a step toward him. “I only have this summer to clean up this fabulous inheritance.”
“Inheritance is an interesting word,” continued Sam, ignoring what was obviously intended to be his dismissal. “What’s the hurry?”
“It’s a small town, right?” When Sam nodded slowly, she added, “Then you must know I’m a teacher, and teachers have the summer off. If I wanted to clean or pick up something, I could do that at home. Instead … here I am.”
Once again Sam remained silent, tilting his head slightly as he looked at her.
“You must think I’m rude and ungrateful,” added Sandy quickly. “I’m really not.” She paused. Was that still true? “At least I didn’t use to be …”
“So what changed?”
“Look,” she answered, her tone one of complete exasperation. “I don’t have time to give you all the gruesome details of my life. I have a lot of work to do. So if you don’t mind …” Sandy gestured toward the barn door.
Sam remained right where he was sitting and ignored her invitation to leave. “I am still waiting to hear why you think your dad did this to you, and why you think God hates you.”
“How can that be unclear to you?” she asked incredulously. “You do see all this garbage, right? My father spent years collecting it, and he knew mom was not well enough to go through it. He knew my brothers lived out of state. He knew my husband was always swamped at work.” Every word brought the emotions hiding deep inside her welling closer to the surface. She used her dusty thumb to wipe away an unexpected tear. “Who else was going to do this other than me?”
“I think I see your point,” replied Sam. “So, what’s your plan?” he asked, looking around at the various stacks surrounding them. “Because you’re going to need one.”
No kidding, she thought. “Well, it’s pretty obvious, right? I need to start in one spot and go through every container, every bag, every box, every file cabinet, everything … and determine what has value and what doesn’t.”
“By the look of things,” he replied, standing up and turning around slowly in a circle to view the entire barn, “that could take you all summer.” He sat once more, the mischievous grin back in place.
She twisted her face into something resembling a crooked smile. “Good one.”
“So was your dad—what do they call those folks? A hoarder?”
“I suppose so. Look, why would he save all his garbage?” she asked, gesturing toward the boxes nearest her feet. “Look at what I just found. Leaves. In every box I’ve opened so far.” She kicked one, and it tumbled several feet. “See what I mean? It might as well be empty. But he took the time to jam it with leaves, tape it shut, and stack it here.” She paused a moment before lowering her voice. “My greatest fear is that I will waste my entire summer combing through boxes and bags and find nothing but a virtual forest—without the trees.”
If she was hoping Sam would provide her with insight as to why any man would do such a thing, she was disappointed. He returned her gaze with a look of sympathetic understanding, but without a single word of wisdom.
Sandy turned away from the stranger, grabbed the nearest box, used her nail to slice through the rotting tape, and found nothing but leaves. She pushed it aside. Another box, this one taller and longer looked more promising. She repeated the process with the same result. She shoved it next to the other open container. A third try yielded the same result.
“I don’t think your dad did this to you, Sandy. And I’m certain God does not hate you.”
At that, she spun around as fast as she could and took two quick strides toward the chair, stopping just three feet away. “Oh, really?” she spat, her voice rising with emotion. “Then why am I here surrounded by all this?”
Sam remained seated and didn’t blink an eye. “Sometimes things just happen,” he offered. “You may never know why. People can be unpredictable. Life is unpredictable. Sometimes events we think are catastrophic are actually blessings in disguise. We never know until they play out. And how they play out, well, that is partially dependent upon how we respond to them.”
“How we respond? Are you kidding me?” she laughed. “Exactly how am I supposed to respond to this build
ing full of worthless stuff that, according to the World of Sam, could be a blessing to someone? I’m sure it’s not a blessing to me.”
“Things are rarely as they appear on the surface.”
“Knowing Tom Loucks, all of this is exactly what I expected,” she said, turning to walk back to the stack where she left off. She opened another box. “Ah, this is new!” she exclaimed. “Leaves!” She ripped open another. “Wow, look! More leaves.” She pulled down a large black garbage bag and tore open one side to let the dry foliage fall to the ground at her feet.
“Are you going to sit there and play philosopher, or are you going to help me dig through all this valuable stuff,” she demanded. When he failed to reply, she turned around to ask again.
The folding chair was empty.
Chapter 6
Steve arrived home shortly after six that evening, happy to see his wife’s minivan parked in the garage. “I’m home!” he announced walking through the garage door into the kitchen. “Sandy?”
A trail of dirty clothes began just inside the master bedroom, sprinkled here and there on the way to the bathroom, which was still fogged over from the steam of a hot shower. He found her sound asleep on the living room couch. Her blonde hair soaking wet and an empty wine glass two feet away on the coffee table.
He leaned over, kissed her forehead, picked up the goblet, and retreated to the kitchen. Using his flip phone, he punched up Monical’s Pizza. “I’d like to order a pizza for delivery please … Yes, a large pepperoni with extra onions, thin crust.”
Steve’s voice roused Sandy, who pulled herself up into a sitting position. “Steve?” When she realized what he was doing, she pulled herself to her feet and walked unsteadily halfway to the kitchen. “I’m so sorry, honey. I fell asleep,” she mumbled. “I’ll cook something.”
Steve appeared around the corner and waved her off, pointing at his cell. “Ok, great, thirty minutes. Extra crispy. Perfect.” She nodded drowsily, stumbled back to the living room, and dropped down onto the leather sofa with an exhausted moan.
The Final Service Page 4