The Final Service

by Gary W. Moore

  “Are you kidding?” Steve said as he closed his phone and sat next to Sandy on the sofa. “I’ve been thinking about pizza all day. It’ll be here in half an hour.” He pulled his sleepy wife up by her shoulders and laid her head down in his lap. Like a limp doll, she acquiesced.

  “How’d things go at the barn?” he asked, massaging her temples gently the way she liked.

  “Even worse than I imagined,” she replied, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. “I can’t go back. My mom needs to sell the warehouse, as is, or I just might burn it down.”

  Steve stopped rubbing. “That bad?”

  Sandy sat up and looked at him. “Steve—it’s nothing but filth and garbage. The place is full of mold and mice poop. The lot it sits on is worth more without the building and everything in it.”

  “What can I do to help?” he asked.

  “Nothing. You work all day—oh, and I found a dead raccoon behind one of the shelves. There are vines climbing up the inside back wall, a hole in the roof. A dozen wasp nests in the eaves—some of them are huge! It’s disgusting.”

  “The place has its own eco-system.” While Steve chuckled at his own joke, Sandy scrunched her eyebrows together as if trying to grasp why he would make light about what she was going through. “You’ll get through it, love,” he continued, adopting more empathetic tone. “Try to remember, you’re not doing this for him but for your mom.”

  “Well, I found it completely embarrassing. I had a meltdown this morning and started screaming. I knocked over a pile of boxes, and they fell on top of me. Luckily, there was nothing but leaves in them.”

  “Leaves? As in tree leaves?” he asked.

  “Yes. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Hmm. Okay,” he continued. “But what was embarrassing about that?”

  “Some guy poked his head in when I was having a fit because he thought I was being murdered or something. He rushed in to save me. I told him I’m not savable.” She yawned. “I’m … in … Hell. And once you’re there,” she yawned a second time, “there’s no escape.”

  “What guy?” asked Steve. When she didn’t reply, he leaned over to find the love of his life fast asleep. Soft throaty whimpers came with each breath, the kind she made when she was utterly exhausted.

  Steve kissed her eyelids, cradled her in his arms, and carried her to their bedroom. “Good night, love. You’ll make it. One day at a time.”

  Chapter 7

  The first thought to cross Sandy’s mind the next morning when she realized she was awake was that she was in bed and had no idea how she had gotten there.

  Bits and pieces of memory began forcing their way into her consciousness. Standing in the kitchen. Pouring wine. Laying on the sofa … Pizza … Leaves.

  Leaves.

  “Oh no,” she moaned as she rolled onto her side. Her head throbbed. Every muscle in her body ached. She spotted the folded note on her nightstand taped to a bottle of Tylenol.

  Good morning, Love.

  I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t wake you. You needed your rest.

  Take it day by day. Love always and forever.

  — S

  After throwing a couple tablets in her mouth and washing them down with a gulp of water from a glass Steve had left with his note, Sandy walked into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. “Ugh,” she groaned, turning away. She had considered skipping a shower, but her disheveled hair and stiff back convinced her otherwise.

  Where would she find the strength to go back? While she was waiting for the water to get warm, she slammed down the toilet lid, sat down heavily, and sobbed.

  Later that morning Sandy sat in her minivan studying the pole barn. How hard would it be to light it on fire? Would I die from smoke inhalation before the heat of the flames became unbearable? Would it be painful or over before I knew it?

  Her thoughts wandered to her family and what life might be like for them without her. Her daughters were old enough to be okay with just Steve. He would be heartbroken, of course, but eventually he’d be okay, too. He was young enough and would remarry. Many single women in town would see him as a heck of a catch. Yes, her family would survive. She gripped the steering wheel tightly and closed her eyes.

  Did anyone really need her any longer?

  Today wasn’t the first time she’d imagined this scenario. Death by fire was new, though. She used to imagine ending her life with a pill overdose, but changed her mind because an obvious suicide would be a terrible embarrassment not only to Steve, the girls, and her mom, but to her students and friends. But if this warehouse went up in flames, she thought, and she was trapped inside, it would seem like an accident. Tragic, of course, but an accident nonetheless.

  Sandy took a deep breath, exhaled loudly, and shuttered at the dark thoughts consuming her. “My God, what I am thinking?” She started the minivan, slammed it into reverse, and backed out of the parking lot. It was already hot outside, and she needed something cold. Now.

  The wall of cool air that greeted her when she opened the door and stepped into Berkelow’s, the local grocery store, instantly refreshed her. What would the warehouse be like? “Hell,” she muttered as she opened one of the cooler doors. “It’ll be just like the hell it is.”

  “Excuse me?” asked an elderly lady standing just behind her. “Did you say something?”

  “No, just singing a song,” she said as she reached in and grabbed a bottle of diet peach Snapple. One of her former students, a red Berkelow’s apron tied loosely over his street clothes, waited behind the checkout counter. Sandy put her tea on the check-out counter. “Hello, Paul.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Richards. Will that be all today?”

  Instead of answering, Sandy stared blankly into space, clutching her purse tightly against her chest. An awkward silence lingered.

  “Uh, Mrs. Richards? Did you forget something?”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry Paul, I have a lot on my mind. I’ll be right back.”

  Sandy walked away from the counter and down aisle 4, where she found another of her students busily stocking a shelf while humming a tune. He looked up and smiled when he saw her.

  “Hey Mrs. Richards! How’s your summer going?” asked Demetri with his own unique brand of enthusiasm. “Can I help you find something?”

  “Hi, DT,” she replied, calling him by his nickname. “That’s quite a haircut,” she said. Demetri had always been one of her favorites, and everyone knew it.

  Demetri’s face broke into a sheepish grin while he rubbed one of the nearly shaved sides of his head. “Yeah,” he replied, brushing back the reddish brown mop on the top that had fallen over his forehead. “Things got out of hand the other night.”

  “I like it. It’s you,” she answered. “Do you …” She paused and stared down the aisle.

  “Do I what, Mrs. Richards?” When she didn’t answer, Demetri asked, “Are you okay? You look sort of pale.”

  “I’m fine,” she shot back. “Just a lot on my mind. Do you have any matches?”

  “I didn’t know you smoked, Mrs. Richards.”

  “I don’t—and you better not either!” She shook her index finger at her student. “Or chew.”

  “I don’t,” he replied, pointing down the aisle. “You’ll find matches just around that end cap, on the left side.”

  Ten minutes later Sandy inserted the key into the corroded lock and pushed open the barn door. Hoping to catch a rare breeze, she left the door open when she walked inside. After a few seconds surveying the first tall stack dead ahead, she sighed loudly and shook her head. It was as if all her work the day before had never happened.

  “You came back.” The familiar voice was right behind her.

  “That makes two of us,” she replied, turning slowly around to face the stranger. He was dressed in what looked to be the same clothes he had on the day before: an olive-colored T-shirt, khaki pants, and shiny black boots.

  “Good for you.”

  “Yeah,” she responded sarcastically.
“Good for me.”

  “My dad always said, ‘You don’t have to be the best, to be the best. You just have to be consistent.’” He laughed.

  “Your dad?”

  “Yes, my dad. He had a saying for every situation.”

  “I don’t get it,” she replied shaking her head. “You think I’m trying to be the best at something?”

  “No, but you have a big job here,” he said, casting his brown eyes from one end of the building to the other. “If you work consistently at this every day, you’ll get it done. Right now, I suspect all this,” he gestured with his right hand at the stacks of boxes, “is already beating you. “Am I right?”

  Sandy remained silent. Just who is this guy?

  “I suspect you’re not a quitter.” Sam continued. “You’re better than that. I believe you can beat this building, this mess.” He looked deep into her eyes, so intensely Sandy felt she could not look away. “There are too many people in this world who simply give up. They walk away from their problems. Even worse, they become so overwhelmed they make the mistake of believing they just can’t go on.” He paused. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “No, not really.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “A drink. Tea.”

  “The tea is in your hand,” he said, nodding toward the bottle. “What’s in the bag?”

  When Sam eased closer, Sandy let the top of the bag fall open to reveal its contents. His eyebrows rose and he whistled through his teeth. “I wouldn’t bring anything flammable into a place like this. What if you got trapped in here?” He walked in slow measured paces, looking back and forth as if seeing the inside of the barn for the first time. “A fire would spread quicker than lightning.” He pointed toward the mountain of boxes lining the near side wall. “And because there are probably no chemicals in here in any quantity, well, smoke from wood, cardboard, and such would fill your lungs. But it wouldn’t kill you. Not right away.”

  Sandy cocked her head as she listened, her mouth slowly falling open as she grasped the meaning of his words.

  “The burning sensation, well that would be unbearable,” Sam continued. “You might collapse near where the fire started.” He looked around the floor and pointed. “Like there. Right there.”

  She looked at the area he indicated and in her mind’s eye saw her own body lying on the dirty floor.

  “Smoke and heat like that incapacitates a person. You’d be unable to run from the flames, but you would be fully aware of what would be happening. The burning in your lungs and the lack of oxygen is paralyzing. But you would still be awake when the flames reach you.”

  Sandy gripped the plastic bag tightly and twisted it in her hands. “Stop, please,” she whispered, looking straight down at the floor.

  “You might even smell your burning flesh before you died. Your last moments of life would be indescribable in their agony.”

  Sandy lifted her eyes to look into his. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Sam just smiled. “We should get those matches out of here.” When she didn’t reply, he added, “I think they’re dangerous. What do you think?”

  She slowly extended her hand holding the bag.

  “Well, I don’t want them!” he laughed. “Why don’t you throw them in that dumpster I saw outside when I came in today?”

  The burning in your lungs and the lack of oxygen is paralyzing.

  “Who are you?”

  “I already told you. I’m Sam.”

  “Sam who?”

  “Just Sam,” he shrugged.

  “Just Sam,” she echoed, turning away from him to walk outside and toss the bag of matches into the brown metal dumpster Steve had rented and delivered early that morning. When she stepped back into the gloomy barn, it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust from bright sunshine to the shadowy interior.

  “Sam?” She called out, walking deeper into the pole barn. “Sam?” The only voice she heard was her own bouncing off the rotting wooden walls. What the heck is with this guy?

  Sandy took a large swig of her tea, grimaced because it was already warm, and began opening boxes.

  Chapter 8

  For Sandy and Tracey, Wednesday breakfasts were a summer break tradition. The morning interludes allowed the two friends to stay in touch and, in the right private setting, share professional ideas without having to worry about being overheard by other teachers or students. Their preferred out-of-the-way place to converse and catch up was their favorite booth in the Blue’s Café at the corner of West Station Street and South Fraser Avenue in Kankakee. The local eatery was nothing much to look at from the outside, with its plain washed brown brick front, blue canvas awning, and red and blue sign crowned with a Pepsi bottle cap. But the food was always good, especially the homemade pies and the biscuits and gravy. And the service always came with a smile.

  Anything you wanted to know about the events of the area could be learned by simply listening at Blue’s. The morning gathering of local bankers, businessmen, and lawyers left nothing to the imagination. If it was happening in Kankakee County, they were discussing and dissecting it—loudly.

  At Sandy and Tracey’s table, the first fifteen minutes of conversation was dominated by Sandy, who described the interior of the old pole barn and the monumental size of the task her father had left to her. Tracey, of course, empathized and offered her help. They were midway through their bacon and eggs when Sandy got around to confessing that a stranger had been keeping her company in the barn. “I just might put him to work,” she added. “You would think he would offer to help, right?”

  “Whoa, what?” said Tracey, bursting out laughing. “Is he hot?” she asked, leaning forward to whisper the question.

  “Tracey!” Sandy felt the blood rise in her cheeks and looked around the edge of their booth to make sure no one had heard.

  “Come on. It’s me—your partner in crime since grade school,” Tracey prodded. “Besides, we’re just a couple of old married women. Share.” When Sandy met her gaze without replying, Tracey nodded. “Okay. Your silence says it all. He’s hot. When can I meet your mysterious stranger?”

  “He’s not mine and he’s not really a complete stranger anymore, Tracey.” Sandy was sure by now her face was as red as her girlfriend’s T-shirt.

  “Look at you!” Tracey reached across the table and poked Sandy’s forearm. “You are blushing! Do you like him?” She paused. “I’m living vicariously through you, girl. Describe him—and don’t leave out a thing.

  “No, I don’t like him—not like that,” shot back Sandy, who offered a slow shrug of the shoulders and tilted her head to the side. “He’s hard to describe. Kind of tall, brownish hair—bad haircut.”

  “Bad haircut?”

  “Well, not exactly a bad haircut. A chunk of hair is missing in the front, near where he parts it.”

  Tracey grimaced. “That’s weird.”

  “Yeah, it is a little,” admitted Sandy. “He is about six feet, well proportioned. That’s about it, really.”

  “Don’t give me that. You know what I really want to know,” pressed Tracey, who smiled as she opened her mouth and filled it with a large bite of scrambled egg and toast.

  Sandy used a forefinger to trace the wet circle her glass of orange juice had left on the table. “I’d say he’s … attractive.”

  “So he’s hot.”

  Sandy rolled her eyes. “Are we back in middle school?”

  Tracey’s head bobbed like a lovesick teenager. “Girl, we never left. We teach there, remember?” The observation triggered a mutual smile. Though neither said a word, each knew what the other was thinking.

  Both were born to teach, but Sandy wanted to get away—far away. For years she had her sights set on California. Blue sky and sandy beaches were about as far away from Walton Center as she could get. Reality, however, intervened and the only job offer she received was at the school of their youth. Sandy reluctantly accepted, telling herself she would move west after one
year. And then Tracey, who was hired by the same school a few weeks earlier, introduced Sandy to the new lawyer in town.

  A Chicago boy, Steve Richards had been raised by a single mom in the Logan Square neighborhood on the north side in an apartment above the Terminal Restaurant. The young attorney with the Northwestern law degree thanked Tracey for the introduction, confiding to her after just two dates that Sandy Loucks was “the one.” “I have always dreamed of running a successful one-man practice in a small Midwestern town,” Steve explained, “meeting a local teacher, falling desperately in love, and raising a family.” Tracey, of course, immediately shared all this with Sandy.

  Their thoughts were interrupted when a waitress carrying two carafes of coffee, one regular and one decaf, stopped by the booth and asked, “Can I get you gals more coffee?”

  Sandy was mixing half-and-half into her fresh cup when she leaned forward and whispered, “He came back yesterday.”

  “And?” Tracey stared at her, her own spoon hanging in midair.

  “And what?” Sandy stared back.

  “Fine,” Tracey sighed with an exaggerated roll of the eyes. “Keep it a secret.”

  “I stopped by Berkelow’s for a bottle of ice tea yesterday,” began Sandy. She hesitated before continuing. “I bought some matches.”

  “Matches for what?” asked Tracey just before finishing her last bite of toast. “You don’t smoke,” she said between chews.

  Sandy visibly stiffened. “It’s not a crime to buy matches, is it?”

  Tracey looked at her friend for several seconds. “No,” she answered slowly. “But the last time I checked, arson was still a crime. Will they let us meet for breakfast on Wednesday mornings at Stateville?” She cut short her laugh when she saw the look on Sandy’s face.

  Her eyes were rimmed with dark circles, her brow furrowed in worry. Sandy lowered her voice another notch. “He asked me what I had in the bag. I told him—matches. It was like … like he knew.”

  The conversation had taken a sharp and sudden change in direction. “Shadow, talk to me.”