She fed Diesel from a big bag of Purina, watered him, and then set two glasses on the table and poured. She raised her glass in a toast to Uncle Tommy and cried and drank and talked to him, burning through three glasses of wine.
Uncle Tommy had said that in the war, they were holed up on a farm and a family had gratefully supplied them with eggs, wine, and cheese. The wine was especially powerful, not in the typical get-drunk kind of way, he had once said, but in a life-giving way. Though he might die that day, the young soldier felt all his senses heighten; every color, sound, and image about the farm—especially the young girls—a great work of art.
“I’d drink all the time if I could enjoy that experience again,” he’d like to say. “The world was a masterpiece. Boy, that was something.” He had never again tasted wine so exciting.
She brought blankets and pillows into the dining room and slept on the carpeted floor, comforted by the after-storm breeze through screened windows that moved the curtains. Diesel curled up alongside her.
In the morning both she and Diesel walked the gravel path to the barn, which was home to mostly gardening and power tools. They had stopped raising cattle and boarding horses when Cricket was in high school. She liked horses all right, but enjoyed being on her own two feet. Besides, between flying and hunting, riding horses was time-consuming, like playing golf, an activity truly alien to her. And, of course, she needed time for boys.
After saying goodbye to the Fosters, Tony, Ron, and Sister Marie came in the Barracuda. Three uniformed police officers, including Officers Davis and Catalano, arrived early in the APC, bringing along Father Derringer and Deacon Bob.
Showered and in a black dress that reached mid-calf, with high heels, Cricket directed the men to the backhoe, and Tony dug a grave quickly for Uncle Tommy under a large maple surrounded by tall grass that hadn’t been cut in weeks. Sister Marie read from the Old and New Testaments and sang “The King of Love, My Shepherd Is.” Father Derringer had to stop several times during his homily in order to stay composed and on track, having been one of Tommy’s lifelong friends and close to Paul Hastings, whom he also spoke of with affection. At eighty years old, Father Derringer was still pastor at Saint Matthews due to a shortage of priests, serving at the bishop’s request for another year.
With eggs and bread brought by the officers, Cricket and Sister Marie, along with Ron, made breakfast for the crew. Officer Davis, talking with Tony at the kitchen table, looked up and asked Cricket her plans.
“I’m headed north. Possible flying gig. Maybe I can help Woodburn survive the winter by scouting for the bad guys.”
She wanted to add something else but was afraid to express it. Yes, she saw how they could survive the coming winter, and rough justice was part of the equation. But something was gone from her after cutting up the kid she shot. And last night she had seen it in the faces of those who had executed the teenager like an animal, an animal in need of shooting. Something was missing. The light from their eyes? The wives who had looked away from their husbands? Even Ron and Tony shifted their gaze when she eyed them, nervous to make too deep a connection.
Father Derringer was seated at the kitchen table and didn’t look up when she approached and thanked him for attending. He cupped her hand in both of his and said a quiet prayer that felt like a needle of grace slid quietly under the skin. Only Sister Marie looked at her with unabashed love, not holding back a dime’s worth of affection.
She looked to Officer Davis, who fought to keep that fierce light of love in his eyes, especially forgiveness. But for how long with hell sending forth its denizens? She thought how frightened the Fosters were, even after a neighborhood victory that kept them from becoming pieces of meat. What is it, Dad? What’s missing?
Sister Marie found her deepest expression in God. Cricket couldn’t feel that. She felt that last night had put her at odds with that humble, clear voice from the Good Book. But what she heard in the distance was Uncle Tommy adding his voice to her father’s, informing her that something good and right would enable her to survive winter, more attacks, death and destruction.
Officer Davis broke her reverie. “Be careful. We’ll do our best to look after your place while you’re gone.”
She walked up to each man and gave a long hug.
“Officer Davis, any of you are welcome to make this ranch your home. Move your families in, move five families in. Whatever it takes to survive.”
She changed into jeans, boots, Claire’s black vest over a white sleeveless blouse, untucked. Cricket and crew packed the Barracuda with canned goods, a case of water, a few clothes, a socket set, a couple of flashlights, batteries, and extra bulbs for taillights and headlights, finally replacing the one shot out. In her dad’s bedroom she took the silver chain with her mom’s gold wedding band that her dad had sometimes worn. She’d wear it all the time.
From the corner of her eye she caught another ring, her dad’s. He must have had it off working on the Cub before his last flight. Her hands shaking, she strung it with her mom’s ring and placed the necklace inside her blouse. Getting ready to lock up, her friends quietly waiting in the Barracuda, she imagined her parents at the door, saying goodbye, wishing her well on her next adventure.
The Barracuda’s engine sounded deeper, more experienced, as she put the car in drive and headed north.
18
New World Order
They stopped at the cabin and had lunch. Ron had dried some deer meat from his earlier hunt and was packing it in Tupperware. Cricket lifted the tub like material evidence being shown to a jury.
“Now I understand why the Feminazis drove you off campus,” Cricket said.
Taking the bait, Ron leaned toward her. “I never talked about hunting.”
“They smelled it.”
Diesel barked his agreement, the proud owner of one of the most amazing snouts in evolution. A snout for all seasons.
Innocently, Ron asked, “You think there was a way I could have fooled them?”
Sister looked up from her meal, which included some raspberries they had picked not far from the cabin.
Cricket lost the momentum of a lighter moment and just shook her head no. Right then and there she wanted to curl up and go to sleep for a month. She was glad the meat was dried. She didn’t want to look at anything bloody today. Tony picked up the Feminazi baton.
“Hey, Sherlock, you could’ve fooled them by not eating meat for a couple of weeks. My dad and his friends would cut out the bloody red stuff long before they went deer hunting to lose that predator smell. The Feminazis may have suddenly taken a real liking to you.”
Ron said, “I think I’ll just keep eating meat and stay downwind.”
Sister Marie chuckled and Cricket was glad to see her enjoying herself. Not only the loss of both her dad and Uncle Tommy hurt Sister badly, but the girl she had always looked after was flying off the rails at lightning speed. Cricket knew that both God and Sister Marie were keeping a close eye on her with heavy hearts.
“Where are we going once we get to Little Falls?” Ron handed Cricket a piece of deer meat to sample.
“I have the address of Fritz’s parents. They’re only a block away from downtown.”
“I sometimes took students to the Falls for lunch. A short time ago it was one of the most quaint and lovely towns in northeastern Ohio.”
“I’m expecting the worse,” Tony said, and no one refuted him.
A few miles down the road a rattle came from the engine compartment.
“Sounds like a loose valve cover,” Tony said. “What this baby’s been through, I’d expect something major.”
Cricket didn’t have a torque wrench, and Tony supervised her snugging down the bolts with her socket wrench, making sure she didn’t overtighten them. She didn’t like Tony standing close, supervising, hovering, ready to intervene with a comment or suggestion, even though he probably knew more. “Give me some breathing room, Tony.” He didn’t budge, and she wanted to punch his lig
hts out.
How could her ego be dragged into a brief pissing contest with so much heartache in the last few days? My great talent to be an asshole.
The day stretched before them with storm clouds to the west and Cricket hoping to keep the top down until they got to Little Falls. They found the Holadays’ and pulled into the driveway. Fritz walked onto the front porch, and Cricket’s heart hammered out another kind of ache.
“Pull into the garage,” Fritz said, coming off the porch, in jeans and a white T-shirt, his boots crunching gravel as he walked back and opened his parents’ two-car garage. “Are you folks hungry?” he said, watching them unpack the car.
“Well, I didn’t expect to move in,” Cricket said. “There’s four of us and a dog.”
“Already got the okay from my parents. You’re a good crew, including the Lab. I’m not forcing you folks to stay here, but we need numbers; we need enough bodies to protect one another. Things are starting to get crazy right here in town.”
“Couldn’t you move your parents to a safer locale?” Sister Marie said.
“Where’s safe, Sister? We’re getting squeezed from gang and criminal uprisings from all directions—Cleveland, Columbus, Indianapolis. The East Coast is off the charts—mayhem is king. You could be safe for a while, until you run into the next gang of throat slitters.”
“Amen to that,” Tony said. Ron’s serious face became grim.
“Get your stuff,” Fritz said. “I’ll show you your rooms.”
Fritz’s parents were out checking on other families. They were both Eucharistic Ministers at their local parish, Saint Andrew’s, and according to Fritz had no intention of shortchanging their obligation to the community. Tony and Ron had their own room, and so did Cricket and Sister Marie.
Fritz walked them through downtown, which took up four blocks of shops and restaurants. The falls were two blocks from his house and very beautiful, crashing over large boulders some twenty feet below. Traffic was sparse, and people traveled in twos and threes and many were armed. A block from the commercial area they came upon a small cathedral, Saint Andrew’s.
A woman on the bottom steps skipped back and forth with a sign: “God Is Dead.” A couple of people looked on. Cricket knew the woman was high, an older, less attractive version of Jane from the Dick and Jane show. Yet, she didn’t have the true believer’s glazed look, and lacked interest in fighting, for the moment.
The great doors of the church opened and the priest came out.
“Father Ray,” Fritz called. “I want you to meet some new friends.”
These words warmed Cricket; Ron and Tony were smiling along with Sister Marie. The skipping atheist saw the priest coming down the steps and lunged at him with her sign. Father Raymond Danko, young, medium height, solid build, easily sidestepped the attack. From behind, Fritz grabbed the woman and she started screaming obscenities. He carried her kicking and screaming down to the tree lawn.
“I have rights!” she yelled.
“Just been revoked,” Fritz replied.
Father Ray followed. “My dear, you can preach and carry signs all day. You can’t hurt people, attack them.”
She looked like she didn’t understand a word, staring off into space. But then she focused:
“All of you are dead meat! She’ll see to that.” She threw the sign into the street and ran off laughing, pointing to the tops of trees, calling on the birds and the bees to attack the unfaithful. “The goddess is returning,” she chanted.
During the introductions, Sister Marie said she had been to the church several times over the years and had a love for its beauty. That beauty was on display as Father Ray led them on a tour. He pointed to the statue of Saint Andrew midway toward the front of the church on the left. The statue of the saint had him carrying an X-shaped cross that he would be crucified upon. His alcove was directly across from the Virgin Mary’s.
Inside, the recent battles and losses diminished, lifted into something finer. The great space was at once ancient with its rib-vault ceiling and stained glass windows, shipped from Germany over a century ago during the church’s construction. The smooth white marble altar had a blood-red seam across its face—blood and stone, temporal and eternal. Sister Marie, who had a real fondness for modern-day physics, liked to say that new discoveries showed time and space folding upon itself and all moments in time connecting. “Both science and religion tell us that nothing is ever really lost,” she had once told Cricket.
The cross was the most powerful and disturbing thing that Cricket had ever seen: the wounds were gaping and blood-filled. A stark contrast to the church’s spiritual buoyancy.
Everyone turned from the altar at the sound of banging on the church doors and a woman screeching.
“Father, I’ll go take care of her,” Tony said.
The priest shook his head. “I locked the door after we came in. Let’s just ignore her for now. That girl was here yesterday and like clockwork disappears by five. I guess the goddess doesn’t pay overtime. It was only a week ago that I started locking it during the day. We’ve gone from a full church on Sunday to a handful of worshippers and a few men guarding all the doors. People are frightened to leave their homes when they know a mob is waiting for them.”
He pointed to a closed door not far from the tabernacle. “I’ve talked to other ministers and they’re getting the same kind of verbal attacks.” They followed the priest through the sacristy to his living quarters.
Father Danko’s office and library had two walls lined with books and a small mahogany desk by the window overlooking an L-shaped courtyard formed by the church and rectory. A red-cedar fence and willow at the back closed off the courtyard. There were two winged-back chairs, a love seat, and a long sofa opposite the bookshelves. Everyone waited for Father. Fritz and Cricket took the chairs; Sister Marie the sofa, seated between Ron and Tony.
“Fritz, since you’ve been in Dayton our police force has been able to handle the disturbances as they arise. We have neighborhood watches, too. Many armed. What is most disturbing is that many children are getting a message of a new world order, a new religion. I just made the joke about the goddess. But there’s a serious side. That young woman isn’t the first to talk about her coming. There’s a message being passed around like drugs being sold. And I think it is a new drug, a very exciting one. Young people are bored out their minds without their cell phones and iPads.”
“Where’s it coming from?” Sister Marie said.
Father Danko said, “Don’t laugh, but there’s a woman from the east side of Cleveland, owns a number of health food stores; very rich, very beautiful, calls herself the Brazilian. She has a big farm outside of town maybe three miles. She’s been supplying security and food. Whether we want it or not. She’s even distributed pump handles for folks without generators that have wells.”
“Who has she threatened?” Fritz said, and again Cricket thought of the beautiful woman in the forest.
“No one. Right now people want to survive, and she’s helping. That’s all they’re thinking about—food, water, the extra security, especially at night, protection that the police can’t provide. She has numbers.”
“Cash isn’t exactly king right now,” Cricket said. “How does she afford all this goodwill?”
“Gangs from Cleveland. She’s been in our area for years, though I’ve only seen her a few times. She did come to Mass once.”
“Oh wonderful,” Fritz said. “What do the cops say?”
“She’s got Mayor DiFazio and probably the chief of police under her thumb. Rumor has it she’s worked out something with a local utility and natural gas will soon flow again—hot showers, cooking inside. Most of the residents still have gravity-fed water heaters. I do also. We don’t need electricity, just gas flowing from the transmission stations.” Father bobbed his head, adding up the facts. “I’m amazed by this woman’s reach. For better and for worse, people are showing their appreciation.”
“How?” Fritz asked,
his face going red.
“She asks them to bring their kids—from six to forty—to the park in the mornings—exercise with her—yoga, martial arts, that kind of thing. And she talks to them constantly, a steady stream of new-age banter.”
“A cult?” Cricket asked.
Father Danko said, “A new religion, return of the goddess, supplanting Christ.”
“Sounds like her potato’s been baking too long.” Tony rubbed his chin. He had more to say. “All that crap was talked about on campus for years—witches, earth mothers, Feminazis … I would think a few rounds of lead would quickly end that silliness.”
“Killing people who have a different idea, even religion?” Ron said, flabbergasted at Tony’s harsh summation. “They have their rights—”
“Yes, they do,” Father Danko said. “And I have my right to defend peacefully my faith. But there’s more. I’ve heard from several parishioners, through their kids, that they plan to take Saint Andrew’s and turn it into a shrine for this earth-goddess thing.”
“Crazy talk,” Fritz said, “kids shooting off their mouths, bored, like you said. The real threat comes from criminals and gang members roaming the countryside.”
“Not so crazy; last week, the police found a site in the park system, remains of a sacrifice, a human sacrifice. They burned some poor soul. Maybe not five miles from here, near Portage Township. There were signs of hundreds of people from the trash left behind.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Ron said. “Kids also like to play pranks.”
“The Feminazis weren’t playing pranks when they drove you from campus,” Tony shot back. “An estrogen thing, I guess—sorry Sister, don’t mean to offend.”
Cricket said, “I guess they could have found a dead body and burned it.”
“A lot of dead bodies lying around,” Tony said.
Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One Page 9