“He went through this gruesome description of what it would be like to die in a fire. It was … awful. I could almost smell the smoke and feel the heat as he spoke.”
Tracey reached out and laced the fingers of her right hand through Sandy’s left. “Why did you buy those matches, Shadow?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never wondered.”
“Wondered?” The pitch of Tracey’s voice shot up an octave. “Are you saying what I think you are saying?”
“Shhhh,” cautioned Sandy. “Keep your voice down!”
“Have I ever wondered what it would be like to burn down a building with me in it?” Her voice shook in a combination of anger and fear for her friend. “No, I can’t say that I have.”
Unable to look Tracey in the eye, Sandy stared down at her coffee cup. “Remember when we were in The Vanguard together, and we were competing at Geneseo for …”
Tracey squeezed her friend’s hand and cut her off mid-sentence. “Don’t change the subject. You know you can tell me anything.”
“Alright,” replied Sandy, lifting her eyes to meet Tracey’s gaze. “I want options. That’s all.” Her usually soft and smooth voice had taken on an unexpected edgy and forceful tone. “I’m sick of not having options in my life. I stayed in Walton Center even though my dream was elsewhere. I have been teaching at the same school I attended for what, eighteen years? I stayed home to help my mom while my brothers were off to bigger things and brighter futures.”
“But Shadow, you have a lovely family, a good career, and Steve,” Tracey answered.
“What about Steve?” she shot back. “At least one of us got our dream. He has exactly what he always wanted—a successful small-town law practice, a nice little home, and a family and a wife. Why is it I’m always part of making everyone else’s dreams come true while mine remain … dreams?” Sandy put her head into her hands and covered her eyes with her palms.
Tracey leaned back in the booth, her mouth open in dismay. “Shadow—where is this coming from?”
Instead of replying, Sandy lifted her head and stared out the café’s plate glass window lost in thought.
Tracey leaned in again. “I’m not judging you, Shadow. Put yourself in my position,” she pleaded, folding and unfolding a small paper napkin as she spoke. “My best friend just casually told me she’s contemplating turning herself into a roasted marshmallow, and that she harbors a lot of resentment about the way her life is unfolding. Now she’s surprised and withdrawn because I’m alarmed.”
Sandy stood quickly, knocking a fork to the floor. “I have to run,” she mumbled, digging in her purse for her wallet. “We’ll talk soon.” She glanced at the ticket, threw a five-dollar bill on the table, and walked away without another word.
“Wait! What? Shadow!” called out Tracey.
Tracey rested her elbows on the table and her chin between her cupped palms. Outside, her best friend climbed into her minivan and pulled away from the curb. Tracey bent down and picked up the fork. She had to help her friend, but she had no idea where to begin.
Chapter 9
Sandy was about to unlock the barn door when the sound of a loud engine caught her ear. It had been a long week, and the last thing she wanted or needed was a visitor.
She turned and watched as a bright blue, late-model Ford Mustang pulled into the parking lot. With the engine still running, a young man in his mid-20s stepped out and walked in her direction, slowing down to give the sprawling pole barn a good once-over. When he got within a few feet, Sandy realized he had a long blond ponytail running in front of his left ear halfway down his chest. The stranger flicked it behind him, smiled, lifted his sunglasses, and asked, “Are you Sandy Richards?”
“Yes,” she said, taking a sip of water from a bottle of Crystal Springs. “Can I help you?”
He grinned and nodded. “You’re the executor of Tom Loucks’ estate, is that right?” Without waiting for a reply, he added, “So this is the place giving everyone such a fit. Heh.”
Sandy’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I’m his daughter. And what fit are you talking about?”
“Never mind,” he replied, reaching inside his light jacket to withdraw an envelope. He handed it to her and she took it. “Consider yourself served, Mrs. Richards.”
“Served? What!” shrieked Sandy, her eyes darting back and forth between the envelope and the ponytailed man. “What is this about? Served with what?”
“I’m sorry,” he shrugged, looking like he actually meant it. “It’s just a job, lady. I gotta save for college.”
With that, the process server trotted back to his car and climbed in. Sandy chased after him, waving the envelope in one hand while crying for him to stop. The muscle car fishtailed out of the parking lot well ahead of her with a heavy metal tune blaring out of the open windows.
Sandy turned the envelope over and read the front. It was addressed to her parents. Her eyes slowly moved up and left to settle on the sender:
Property Tax Division
Illinois Department of Revenue
PO Box 19033
Springfield, IL 62794-9033
She let out a groan and, with deliberation the school’s biology teacher would have appreciated, carefully opened the letter along the top. Sandy’s hand shot to her mouth to stifle a cry.
Re: 30-Day Notice to Auction Sale
Dear Tom and Dorothy Loucks
A lien has been filed against the property listed above for unpaid taxes for the years 1992-1994, and for tax returns that have not been filed or were not filed properly. Penalty assessments have also been issued, and a judgment against you was entered by the Attorney General.
Her dad had been ignoring tax notifications and not filing his returns? She began pacing up and down the edge of the driveway and continued reading:
Collection Action We May Take: Seizure
We are authorized by law to attempt to collect the debt. Therefore, on July 10, 1995 at 9:00 a.m., your property will be put up for auction and the proceeds utilized to …
The letter and envelope fluttered as one to the ground. “No. No. No!” she said over and over, walking in small tight circles through knee-high grass bordering the parking lot. A wave of nausea swept over her and she fell to her hands and knees, vomiting what was left of the eggs, bacon, and toast she had eaten with Tracey at the Blues Café.
And then she wept.
The water in the bottle was warm, but she used it to wash the bitter taste from her mouth. She pulled out her phone and called Steve, but the message went to voicemail. Only then did she recall he was in trial all day and unavailable.
Sandy sat in the grass for a full fifteen minutes staring at the letter beside her. Two weeks. She had only fourteen days to sort through this old barn before it and everything in it would be sold to some stranger.
She picked up the letter and envelope and walked unsteadily back to the door. She was about to insert the key when the door eased open on its own with the lightest of touch.
“You’re late.” A figure stepped out of the darkness into the broad beam of sunlight streaming through the front entrance.
A wave of irritation rose inside her. “How’d you get in here?”
“Good morning to you, too,” he teased. “You should be more careful. The door was unlocked. I arrived a couple minutes ago thinking you were already here.”
“Look, why do you keep coming back? You know I have work to do.” Her mind went back to Tracey’s comments an hour earlier in the Blue’s Café. “And that I’m married.”
Sam’s eyes opened wide at the last comment “Oh I am fully aware of that—the married part. After yesterday, well, I thought I would check in on you.” His eyes took in the vomit stains on her t-shirt, the red rings around her eyes, and the letter in her hand. “You seem in need of a friend. What’s wrong?”
“You don’t know me. How can you possibly know what I need?”
“Well, life’s a mystery, that’s for sure. But you’ve been crying,
and I have a suspicion that letter has something to do with it.”
Sandy silently handed him the envelope, which he opened as he moved a few steps back and sat down in the same folding chair against the front wall. “Hmm,” he said several times as he read through the legalese. “Hmm.” When he finished he looked up at her, his eyes filled with visible pain. “I can see why you were crying now. This puts a lot of stress on you and your mom.”
“Yup,” Sandy began. “Life is hard. We all make choices and we have to live with the consequences—even when your dad doesn’t bother to pay his taxes. You know,” she added, “I bet they might come and take my mom’s small house, too.”
“Maybe your husband can do something,” he suggested. “He’s an attorney, right?”
She nodded and her thoughts fell back to her earlier conversation with Tracey. “Where do you live?”
Sam tilted his head toward the door. “Around the corner.”
“The old dam in the river is around the corner. When you turn the corner, you cross the bridge,” she shot back. Sam didn’t answer. “Are you a troll living under the bridge?” she asked in a mocking tone.
“Nope. Not a troll.” He looked up and slowly turned his head to take in the mounds of boxes, bags, and other items stacked high around them. “In truth, Sandy,” Sam said standing up, “I came back today to help you.”
“Well, that would be a change,” she replied. She immediately regretted the sharp tone in her voice. “I need help,” she began again, softening her voice. “I would appreciate any you can give me.”
“It may not be exactly the kind of help you expect.”
“I’ll take whatever help I can get,” she replied before turning back to her work.
Sandy crab-walked backward, dragging a half-dozen crushed cardboard containers to the front of the barn to throw away that evening. She dropped the load where it belonged, straightened at the waist with a groan, and clapped her canvas-gloved hands together. Puffs of dust exploded into the hot air that hung heavy and still inside the old pole barn.
Sam smiled. “You seem to get quite a kick out of that.”
Sandy sat down with a sigh onto the stack of cardboard. “Leaves and more leaves. What a surprise.” She shook her head slowly. “Today I have found several boxes of moldy old clothes I would be too embarrassed to offer to the Salvation Army, more boxes filled with newspapers, magazines, and other junk—all of which looked like it was soaked before it was boxed,” she continued, “and of course, leaves.” She coughed a couple times to clear her throat. “I stopped counting the plastic bags full of them.” She took a long drink from her bottle of lukewarm diet tea, wiped her chin, and studied Sam. “Do you actually do anything?” she asked.
“I’m here to help,” he replied.
“Works for me.” Sandy stood and pulled down another box. When she opened it and found nothing inside but more leaves, she stifled a scream and shoved the cardboard container behind her.
After fifteen minutes of silence broken only by a few grunts of effort and groans of dissatisfaction, Sam broke their silence. “Your intensity amazes me. Tell me about yourself.”
“About me?” she replied looking up. “Only if you promise to begin working instead of just talking about it. And,” she added with a grunt when she shoved a large box ahead of her, “this is going to be a boring conversation.”
“I suspect not.” Sam leaned forward and rested his elbows on a stack of boxes, his chin on his hands.
“I’m a wife, mother, and teacher. Not much more to tell.”
“You’ve told me what you do. Now tell me who you are.”
Sandy was opening a large black bag when she stopped and cocked her head to look at him. “No one has ever asked me that. I’m not sure I know.”
“What grade and what do you teach?”
“Four through twelve. Instrumental music. I spend most of my day at the middle school, but I also start beginners in the lower grades and teach high school band. It’s a small district with a small budget. All three schools are on one small campus, so I can do it all.”
“Why music?”
“Why don’t you ask me why I breathe?”
By this time Sam had settled back into the folding chair. Sandy eased her way a few feet closer. She took in the slits of sunlight filtering through the water-stained ceiling, and noticed for the first time the various shades of color pouring in. Her face beamed. “I live to teach. It’s a calling. I’d do it for free if I had to,” she began. “There is nothing quite like placing a musical instrument in the hands of a fourth grader for the first time, and helping them learn the joys of music. The wonderment in their eyes when what they play after hard work morphs into recognizable music is amazing.” Standing, she brushed dust from the back of her jeans and continued, too excited to sit still. “The final time our band plays every year is at high school graduation. The seniors, wearing robes, leave their seats to join the band for one last musical performance. Knowing I’ve played a big role in bringing music into their lives and their hearts, Sam, well … it’s a joy of indescribable intensity. After graduation, some will never play again. Others will continue into college and beyond.” She paused and looked directly at him. “A few will make it their life’s work through teaching or performing.”
“Tell me more about them, the ones who stick with it.” His voice made it clear he was genuinely interested in what was important to her.
“Have you ever heard of the rock band Arminius?” she asked. Sam shook his head. “Robbie Craft is Arminius’s drummer. I taught him how to hold his sticks. Then there’s Candace Stewart. She’s now the music teacher at Mark Twain Grade School in Kankakee.”
“And does Candace bring the same level of enthusiasm and joy to her students?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” beamed Sandy. “She’s a special young woman. She attended VanderCook College of Music in Chicago after graduating from Walton Center.”
“Where did you go to college?”
“VanderCook.”
“So she was inspired by you. She wanted to be just like … you.”
“I don’t know,” replied Sandy, who could feel her cheeks turning red. “She loves teaching as much as I do. I remember the day I taught her how to hold her trumpet and form her lips.” Her excitement was palpable. “I have a couple of former students on full music college scholarships. I have no idea how many others are in college playing music. I can’t keep track of them all. Some stay in touch, others don’t. Sometimes I run into their parents and they tell me how there kids are doing. I love hearing about them.”
A wide toothy smile broke out across Sam’s face. “I can hear it in your voice.”
“There’s an amazing young man named Chris Hill. He played trombone but loved the guitar. He’s a praise and worship leader at Olivet Nazarene University. I’m not sure what a praise and worship leader is, exactly,” she chuckled, “but I hear the students at ONU love him. It may be a cliché, but music is indeed the universal language.”
“Life is enriched through music.”
“Reading and playing music is like reading and speaking another language,” continued Sandy. “Playing an instrument enhances creativity, advances problem-solving skills, and raises IQ. It’s true. I see it all the time. Music is math. Music is science. It’s art. It’s history. Music is a complete language. And if you’re in a competitive marching band, or in drum and bugle corps, it can also be a sport. Drum Corps International is marching music’s major league.”
“The look of true accomplishment is marching across your face,” he replied.
“Is it?” she asked touching her cheeks with both palms. “Yes, it probably is.” She made no attempt to stifle a grin brought about through a fond recollection. “In 1972 I marched and competed with the Des Plaines Vanguard Drum and Bugle Corps in the first ever Drum Corps International Championship. I’ll cherish the experience for the rest of my life.”
“I wish someone had put an instrument into my
hands.”
“I was going to ask you if you played,” she replied. “My students probably don’t remember the first moment I placed an instrument in their little hands and showed them how to hold it and make a sound.”
“Do you remember the first time you held an instrument?” he asked.
She nodded with renewed energy. “I was in fourth grade. My father drove me to Agatone’s Music Store in Kankakee. I still remember standing at the glass counter. My father was talking to a man with a heavy accent. I later learned he was Italian. Mr. Agatone placed a little black case on top of the glass counter. My first clarinet was in that case.” She paused, her eyes screwed shut drawing forth a memory long since buried. “I remember my dad picking up the instrument and handing it to me.” She looked at her filthy hands as if she expected her first clarinet to miraculously appear. “Sam, that magical moment changed my life forever.” The thought brought tears welling up in her eyes. She turned aside and quickly brushed them away hoping Sam didn’t notice.
“Those are wonderful memories, Sandy,” he replied. “Just thinking about your dad giving you that clarinet transformed your face. You’re absolutely radiant.”
She ignored his comment and rattled on. “I played clarinet all through grade school. It wasn’t much of a challenge, so Mr. Higgerson, my music teacher, switched me to the oboe. It was love at first squeak!” Both of them laughed together.
“What do you remember about your first oboe?” he inquired.
“I recall my father coming home from work at the steel mill. He told me he forgot something in the back seat. ‘Shadow,’ he said—that’s what he called me, Shadow—‘can you go get it?’ And there it was, a black glistening oboe trimmed with silver, nestled there in an open case lined with blue.” Still smiling, she continued, “I still have that beautiful little instrument.”
“You still have it? That says a lot about you,” nodded Sam. “I bet your students love you.”
The Final Service Page 6