by Mic Roland
“The past couple days, it was such hard work for him to breathe that he was sweating. I tried to make him as comfortable as I could: damp cloths on his forehead, fanning him. He kept telling me not to worry, saying he would be okay.”
Martin gave the woman a curious-skeptical look.
“Oh, he didn’t mean he would be able to breathe better. Not that kind of okay. That he knew where he was going. He knew his end was near. We all did, though no one wanted to talk about it. But, he wasn’t worried or scared. He knew that to be absent from the body was to be present with the Lord. He wasn’t afraid of his end. I wasn’t afraid either, I guess. I just didn’t want it to be so soon. We’d only been married fifty one years. It wasn’t enough. I wanted more.”
Margaret put her arm around the little woman. She looked up at Margaret with a little smile.
“I wanted more,” she continued, “but I am glad that he’s not suffering anymore. Now it’s like he kept saying: he’s okay now.” She sniffed and smiled. “He’s probably up there now, saying: ‘I told you so,’ and doing that silly little victory dance of his.” Her chuckle-engine started that time.
“Did Eugene have a favorite Bible verse?” Martin asked. “I could read that.”
The little woman stared into the distance as she thought. “He had so many passages he liked. He was especially fond of the book of Isaiah.”
“Okay. Isaiah.” Martin’s smile sagged. That was a very large target from which to quickly find the ideal comforting verse. He still had his stupid plan to just start talking. It worked once. While he turned in his little pocket Bible to find Isaiah, the little lady’s companions lifted a rolled-up rug tied with twine. Two young men struggled to get the roll into the trench. They laid it beside where Ruby had just been covered up. When they climbed out, Martin had found what he hoped would be a suitable passage.
“God told Isaiah to tell his people, ‘Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.’ “
Martin looked over the top of his Bible, at the roll in the trench. “God did not mean that nothing bad would ever happen to His people. Bad things happen all the time. In fact, a lot of the rest of God’s message through Isaiah was warning His people that bad times were coming. He was trying to reassure His people that he was not trying to wipe them out, but to shake them out of their rebellious pride, to bring them back to Him. That’s why he told them, ‘Fear not, I am with you.’ Not because nothing bad would ever happen, but that He would be there, waiting for them if they returned.”
“Eugene…” Martin looked at the little lady.
“Rowell.”
“Eugene Rowell was not afraid. He knew God was going to be there for him: not just to heal his lungs, but that Eugene would have an eternity of free breathing. Eugene looked forward to that day, which I guess, was yesterday.”
“Rest easy, breathe easy, Eugene Rowell.” Martin closed his Bible. The little lady snuffled vigorously into her handkerchief. The two young men asked to borrow Martin’s shovels. He nodded.
The little lady hugged Martin around his waist. “Thank you,” she said. “Eugene would have liked that. It means a lot to me that someone spoke for him today.”
“You’re welcome.” Martin noticed that the crowd of mourners was larger than when he started. The third group of people had slowly gathered around, mingling with Eugene’s people. As the young men shoveled earth over the rug roll, a round-faced woman approached Martin and touched his sleeve.
“Excuse me,” she said, eyes downcast. “I hate to impose on you, and this is really hard for me.”
Martin guessed that she wanted him to say a few words over her lost loved-one too. He could see the large black plastic shape behind the mourner’s legs. He felt exhausted after laying Ruby to rest. He felt emotionally drained by the pressure to be an impromptu pastor for his household and then Eugene’s wife. He did not think he had anything left.
Yet, her sad face looking at him felt like an indictment. Was his exhaustion somehow better than hers? The words were not coming easily for the round-faced woman, so Martin waited with a patience that exhaustion sometimes gives.
“I’d like it if you might say a few words for my Keith.”
“I could do that.” Martin tried not to sound tired. It would probably sound condescending. He was simply tired. “Could you tell me a little bit about him? It would help me figure out what to say.”
“Sure, but where to begin.” She stared at the ground for a few moments. “Keith was always a do-er. He worked hard all his life, providing for his family. He was a good man, but…” She began to sniff. “He did have a temper sometimes: didn’t like anyone telling him what to do.” She smiled at Martin, as if to make her statement light-hearted, but her eyes told a different story.
“I tried to tell him it didn’t look safe.” She looked away. “I’m afraid that my saying that made him stay up there. He could be so stubborn. Like I said, he did not like anyone telling him what to do. He was chopping on some old cedar fence so we could burn it in the fireplace. But something must have slipped. The ax cut deep into his leg. We tried to clean the wound. My son, Tyler, is the safety monitor for his shift at work. He helped his unit’s medic in Iraq.” She smiled briefly with pride. “We used alcohol and bandages, but it got infected. At first it was all red, then it started to turn black. Keith began to run a very high fever. We couldn’t cool him down. Yesterday, he laid there, sweating and mumbling, then he just went limp.”
“I’m so sorry,” whispered Martin. Ruby’s dying in her sleep seemed like quite a blessing. He did not need to know all about how Keith died, but he figured the woman was finding some closure in telling someone about it.
“The hard part,” she continued. “is that after hearing the nice things you said about your person, and that lady’s husband, is that Keith wasn’t saved. He…isn’t going to heaven.” Her shoulders heaved a few times, as if to sob, but it was plain that the woman had sobbed herself out too many times. Her well was dry.
“Oh.” Martin felt at a loss. What do pastors say in such circumstances? Where are the words of hope for that? He could not sugar-coat things with the common ‘everyone goes to heaven’ palliative. The woman knew that was not the case. What comfort could he, or anyone, give her?
He had just spoken about Ruby and Eugene having a happy new beginning. This woman realized that her husband was just starting a terrible eternity. Martin felt certain she would feel insulted if he tried the customary saccharine words where everyone turns into angels. She knew that was not true. Nor did Martin want to start talking about the tragedy of hell. She knew that, and did not need lemon-juice poured on her cut. What words did that leave him? There was no middle ground to focus upon.
“I know it’s too late for him,” she began to gush. “Sakes knows I tried witnessing to him, but when it came to God, he was hard-hearted man. Oh, he loved his dogs. But he would get so angry whenever I brought up God: said he didn’t need God. He said it was just stories to milk people out of their money, that he would have nothing to do with a god that let babies die.”
“That sounds like my brother,” Martin tried to commiserate. “He said that too. Once, he told me he would never submit to a god that sent people to hell. That he’d rather spend eternity in hell than be in heaven with a god like that. I don’t think he ever saw the irony. God did not have to send my brother to hell, he was going there all on his own.”
“Still,” she said. “It doesn’t seem right to just dump Keith’s body in a hole and go home. Isn’t there something you might say?”
“How about a prayer for the rest of you?” Martin asked. She nodded and motioned for her group to join her. Two men, who had round faces like the woman’s, dragged the large black trash-bag bundle to the edge of the trench. They rolled it in the trench like jetsam going overboard. They stood ready with their own shovels. The rest of them held hands, bowed their head
s and waited.
It was time for Martin to have some words. All he had, was his stupid plan. With a deep breath, he began. “Lord, please be with these people, to comfort their hearts for their loss. You said, ‘blessed are they who mourn’. Here they are. We don’t know the state of Keith, whether he ever confessed you as his Lord, maybe when he was young,” Martin knew he was grasping at straws, but thought it might salvage some scrap of hope for the woman. Given the prospects for the days ahead, any scrap of hope would be treasured.
“But, he lived angry at you. I don’t know why, but you know, so we leave his fate in your hands. Please be with the others who might be like Keith.”
Martin guessed that the two young men were Keith’s sons and, by the way they rolled their father’s body into the trench, were not necessarily all that sad that he was gone. They might have inherited their father’s anger. If so, their mother was probably worried about them and their fate too.
For her, he added, “Please touch their hearts before their last day. Amen.”
The men shook Martin’s hand, and commenced shoveling. No other words were said. The round-faced woman mouthed a ‘thank you’ but had no voice.
Numbness had replaced exhaustion. Martin turned slowly to gather his shovels and head back to his truck. The women had gone on ahead of him. He paused to look back at the trench. He resolved to prepare some better words in advance, in case there was a ‘next time’. From the size of the trench, it was clear that someone expected that there would be many ‘next times’.
A light rain started to fall.
Chapter 9: Questionable Calculus
The day dawned bright, as if nothing had ever happened. Yet, it had. Everyone in the Simmons house went about their chores without speaking. No one spoke during their breakfast of wheat grits. Margaret had the bedsheets washed as best she could in the big galvanized tub. They hung on the line to dry, which would take a long time, given the coolness of the air.
Dustin was gone somewhere. Martin did not know where. Judy was on watch, pacing around the house, peering into the woods. Everyone was ‘on watch’ to a degree. All ears listened for any sounds that did not belong.
Martin brought up a bucket of water from the well. As he rounded the chicken coop, Susan was there, checking for eggs. “That was nice, what you said for Ruby yesterday.”
“I really didn’t know what to say. It felt awkward.”
“It didn’t sound like it. It flowed and well…it was nice,” she said.
“Thanks.” Martin hoped he would never have an opportunity to do better ‘next time.’
Margaret was packing away the grain mill as Martin came through the back door. “When you were telling me about the meeting on Monday, you said the man talked about two trucks: one on Wednesday and one today,” she said.
“That’s what he said.” Martin shook his head. “But after how things went on Wednesday, do you really think there will be a truck today?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? What if the guy calmed down, or had a change of heart, or his bosses told him to send a truck anyhow? Lots of reasons why there might still be a truck today.”
Martin wanted to argue, but knew she was right. His pessimism was not the best approach to leadership or being the provider.
“Even if it’s just more of their cheap starchy meal packets, it will be something,” she continued. “With Ruby g…” she had to stop and breathe deeply. “With only five of us now, what we have will last a little longer, but still not long enough. Anything has to help.”
“Okay, okay,” Martin held up his hands in surrender. “You don’t always have to be right, you know.” He smiled at her.
“But I am, aren’t I?” She winked.
“Don’t let it go to your head. I want to fill one more bucket, then go up and see if there’s a truck.”
Martin rummaged in the shed, making considerable noise.
“What are you doing, Mr. Simmons?” Judy peeked through the door. “You’re making an awful lot of noise.”
“Looking for that wagon,” he said without looking up. “Might need it for hauling home some possible FEMA boxes. Margaret said she had it back from the Walkers, but I can’t find it.”
“Was it red with yellow wheels?”
“Oh, you’ve seen it. Great. Where is it?”
“Dustin had it. He tied it to the back of his bike and rode off.”
“Rode off where?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Oh whatever.” Martin grabbed Margaret’s mountain bike. “I’ll just have to balance the stupid boxes as best I can, I guess.”
As Martin approached the general store, there were knots of people standing in the parking lot talking. There was no black Escalade, white Suburban, or more importantly, no truck.
“So, no truck?” Martin asked a nearby man in coveralls.
“Nope. That guy over there said he heard it got hijacked by a mob in Nutfield. Pulled the driver out of his cab and ransacked the trailer.”
“Nah,” countered another man. “I heard they never sent a truck, cuz FEMA’s already run out of food. That big warehouse of theirs in Portsmouth got hit by looters, or something.”
“Or,” weighed in yet another man, “That Quinn guy still has his panties in a bunch. Landers isn’t saying what he’s heard.”
“He’s been too busy this morning to get a word in edgewise,” said the first man.
“Busy doing what?” Martin asked.
The man pointed across the highway to Town Hall. Landers and Candice stood on the front steps with clipboards. A crowd of people ringed around the stairs. “I heard that the school ran out of propane last night. The selectmen are trying to find homes for all the people who were staying in the shelter.”
“Ah yep, and Candice, she’s been a helping right along. She likes that helping stuff, don’t she? Looks like about half of ‘em are placed. No idea where, but Haddock’s minivan’s been carting them off to somewhere.”
“So, you guys are just standing around waiting for a truck you don’t think is coming? Martin asked.
“Man’s got a point there, Rich. Why are we hangin’ around here?”
“Why, for the excellent companionship, my boy. That, and there ain’t nothing on the TV.” They all laughed. Martin shook his head, mounted the bike and rode back home, empty-handed.
“No truck,” Martin told Margaret as he hung his coat over a dining room chair. “Lots of theories as to why, but they all still add up to no truck.”
“Rats. I was kind of counting on another box or two.”
“Really? You said you didn’t like it: how it was cheap filler food.”
“I know, but it has its uses. Judy is about due to come off of watch soon. It will be time for lunch too.”
“Okay. I see I’m up next anyhow. Might as well start now, seeing as how I’m already dressed for it.”
Martin walked around the house slowly. He had the carbine’s sling cinched tight, so it would not rattle. He peered into the woods, carefully scanning through the bare branches and leaf litter, looking for any sign of movement. There was nothing. He could not see all that far into the woods as it was. It was more a matter of listening.
He paused, standing near the back wall of the house, letting the big wall gather faint sounds for him. In the distance, perhaps beyond the pines, he thought he could hear the sound of a squirrel thrashing around in the leaves. For awhile, he wondered if it was a college kid foraging where they were not supposed to — on his land — but decided that the rapid rhythm of the leaf rustles better fit the tempo of a bounding squirrel. That might be tomorrow’s supper, he thought.
At the front corner of the house, he noticed that the spot beside the juniper bush was a handy vantage point. From that spot, he could see up the road both directions, until trees obscured the view. He could see the road behind the shed and the first two woodpiles. Toward the Oldham’s house, he could see across the swamp all the way to the highway, now that the leaves were off
the scrubby trees.
From beside the juniper, he could see up Baldwin’s meadow road. The other nice thing about the juniper bush was that if he squatted down between it and the garage, he was sheltered from most winds and would be nearly hidden from view. He could hunker down under his heavy brown blanket for a long night watch, snug and invisible.
His ears perked up. The crunch of tires on gravel told of a vehicle coming. It was probably passing the substation. From the sound, it was not something large — a car perhaps. He unslung the carbine and gave the magazine a tap, just to be sure it was seated.
Down the hill rolled a light blue minivan. He did not recognize it. The minivan slowed, blinker on, to turn into his driveway. Do bad guys use their blinkers? He did not want whoever it was to see him emerge from his new hidey-hole, so he stood up and took a few steps sideways before they completed their turn in.