Her mind muddled. Heaven, and earth, and battle. “Mr. Charlie—”
“When the crows started coming, the battle sank right into Logan. You know what Logan means, don’t you?”
“It’s the name of this town.” She clenched her teeth to keep from snapping at him. None of their conversations had ever bothered her, or even frustrated her. Over the past two years, they had talked about everything. But this heaven and earth stuff, it frightened her.
“Logan is Gaelic for hollow,” he said.
How did he know these things? She slipped her hand from his and twined her fingers together. Sweaty palms. Her sweat and his. Together. She remembered thinking that they had become a kindred spirit, able to read each other’s thoughts. At the time, it had comforted her, but not today.
He leaned against the step. “You wondered why you came to Logan.” He gave a big sigh and turned his eyes toward the empty church. Did he even know he was looking at the church? “Back in the late 1700s the Scots settled this area and named the town Logan, a hollow that homesteaders could fill with religious freedom. Somewhere in time the evil spirits took note of Logan.” He turned his face in her direction. “Why do you suppose Logan is the only town in all of South Carolina where the leaders chose to implement the church tax?”
“We need the money.”
“So does every other town.” Mr. Charlie leaned forward. “This is important, Ruth. I knew the time was near as soon as you showed up.”
“Time is near for what?”
“The pieces started coming together. You are from Scottish blood. That was my sign.”
“My mother’s parents emigrated from Scotland. I never knew them.”
“And then the crows came. The law was passed and Logan closed its churches. The shift happened.” He shook his head slowly. “Logan is a battle zone. We are at war.”
She felt cold in spite of the heat, the kind of cold that turns blood to frozen slush, that freezes the brain and fogs the mind. Raw fear laced with confusion. Mr. Charlie was her friend. She had nothing to be afraid of. Yet, coldness probed at all the tender spots.
“Look around you.” Mr. Charlie’s voice droned on.
She didn’t want to listen but was unable to stop.
“Churches are closed. Crime is up. The mood is angry.” He paused.
She panted for air.
“Why do you think the crows came at the same time all of this started happening?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because God’s plan is taking place right in front of us.”
“What plan? There is no plan.”
“God takes His time. He uses situations and people to bring change.”
“Yesterday I got pelted with rotten fruit and vegetables. From what I hear, the churches won’t open anytime soon. And what about me?” The pain of abandonment, rejection, and loss cut to the very center of her being. Let Mr. Charlie talk about heritage and the fate of Logan. She couldn’t care less about Logan. What about her? What about Ruth Cleveland, whose father dared to die when she was a child, whose mother became lost to work. She grew up alone, taking care of herself. And she was still alone. Close to screaming, she clenched her teeth until she thought they would shatter. “Why doesn’t God care about me?”
“Ruth—”
Tears ran down her face, and she shoved them away. “My life is a mess, and God doesn’t care!”
“Ruth, God cares.”
“I hurt so bad.”
She felt the soft touch of his hand against her arm. “God doesn’t guarantee life without pain, but He gives us a way to make good come from our past. He wants us to live happy lives surrounded by His love.”
“I don’t see much love.”
“God is here, and you are part of His plan. He loves you, child.”
“Yeah, right.”
“God brought you here for a reason.”
She was tired and wanted to go home. Mr. Charlie was the only person in Logan she ever felt comfortable with, and he had just turned into a complete stranger. She wanted to talk to him about God, but not all this other nonsense…battles and demons and hollows. “You think I’m here because I’m Scottish. Sorry, but I’m here because my car ran out of gas.” Her words snapped more than she intended.
“What do you believe, Ruth? Make your own decisions, not the ones others expect of you. Allow yourself to become the person God created you to be.”
“It’s too late for that.”
“It’s never too late.”
How dare Mr. Charlie tell her God had good things for her? Mr. Charlie didn’t know her at all. He did the same thing everyone else did—he imagined what he wanted to see in her. He imagined her to be good because she sat with him, shared a stupid apple with him. “You want to know what I’m really like? Joe and I had a child! Yes, I slept with Joe, and I got pregnant. I gave the baby up for adoption because I was too selfish to raise her.” Bitter words flew. “And you think God brought me to Logan so He could give me something good? God is not going to reward a person like me.”
Mr. Charlie reached for her.
She jumped up. “There, now you know what a pathetic person I really am. I deserve someone without feelings, like Joe.” Choking on her emotions, she ran down the sidewalk toward home.
Crows stared as she passed.
~*~
As Ruth raced around the corner, tears blinding her eyes, a hand grabbed her arm and dragged her off the sidewalk. Sandwiched in a narrow alley between the courthouse and the adjacent building, the motionless air smelled of urine and crow droppings. Everything reeked of crows lately. Ruth flailed out her arms and met flesh.
“Stop that!” a male voice hissed as he twisted her arm.
In a heartbeat, fear turned to rage. “Joseph! How dare you? Get your hands off me!”
“I could have met you on the courthouse steps while you were with your friend.” His sarcasm rolled as smoothly off his tongue as the rivulets of water that slipped down the brick walls. “I told you to stop sitting in public like a gawking schoolgirl—or worse.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Grow up, for goodness sake.”
She didn’t have to stay and listen to Joe just because he wanted her to. Mr. Charlie said the choice was hers. The knowledge felt liberating. She pushed Joe aside and stepped toward the sidewalk.
“I found our baby.”
~*~
Charlie eased himself into the worn recliner, his senses on high-alert. They were coming. He felt them. He knew all along it would happen, but who, why, and when had, for months, remained unknown. Ruth became who. And then God revealed why. He settled back to wait. When would soon arrive.
Back in the day, this dead-end street had been full of families working at the mill, trying to make an honest living. The families were gone. So were the houses. All but his.
The old, single-story house creaked around him. One main room with a living space and a kitchen. Folks called it open concept now. It used to be called efficient. Two small bedrooms and a bathroom along the side. Charlie had lived here all his life.
He struggled from his chair and stood in the opened door at the side of the house. The air smelled of rain soon to come. Cars seldom drove down the patched-up road with potholes the size of watermelons. There was little need for anyone to walk this way. The other houses fell into disrepair and collapsed as the occupants either passed on or moved to safer places. “Our time is coming.” He patted the frame of the door. “But I have plans for you.”
Tall grass moved in the shifting breeze. The rustling sound reminded him of his wife, long passed, and how her cotton skirts moved around her legs when she was in the kitchen. Crickets, chickadees, and frogs now competed for his attention.
Closing the weather-worn door, Charlie pulled an envelope out of his shirt pocket and placed it on the yellow Formica table. There used to be four matching chairs, but the chairs wore out long-ago and were replaced by two folding ones. Spanning the back wall, lower cupboards supported a
cracked vinyl counter. A porcelain sink rested under the square window that overlooked the patch of weeds out back that ended in the swamp. No one went into the swamp.
His wife cooked many-a-meal on their old three-burner gas stove. The refrigerator stopped working about the time the crows started showing up. He hadn’t replaced it. He pushed his tongue back and forth between the gap in his teeth. He tasted blood and realized he had worn a sore on his tongue. Had he done enough to prepare her?
The tapping started almost immediately.
Charlie closed his eyes. The ‘when’ was now. Another quick listen to the darkness outside, and he settled once again into the recliner.
The gong of the clock up town drifted through the night air. Twelve strikes.
God, help me.
17
Tuesday, June 18
A day later, Ruth once again sat across from Joe. This time she had insisted on choosing the location: Jerry’s Diner—noisy, crowded, and impersonal. Checkered linoleum floor, Formica tabletops, and paper napkins. Sweet tea served in Mason jars, and hush puppies piled in a red plastic basket. Nothing like the posh eatery at the beach. They found a booth in the back of the long dining area.
Her hands jittered at her sides; her stomach quivered, and her muscles were like mush. Overall, she felt as if she had just stepped off of a tilt-a-whirl. She breathed deeply, trying to steady herself for what was to come. Joe’s announcement that he had located their baby—given in traditional Ackerman aplomb the day before—had shaken her.
Until now, Ruth had refused to think about the baby. She gave up her parental rights even before the delivery, transferring guardianship to the State of North Carolina. But in the loneliness of night, Ruth couldn’t help thinking about the infant she had birthed, what she might look like, what she was doing. Ruth ached to know that her child was happy, that the adoptive family loved her, and was providing the security of a two-parent home.
The social worker assured Ruth that all potential parents were carefully screened. Even after placement, the home would be monitored for months before the adoption became final. Her child would be fine.
A lusty wail and a glimpse of a wet, glistening body being carried across the room by a green-garbed stranger were the only memories Ruth had of her baby daughter. A flash of pale arms and legs, a head smeared with birth fluids. And then she was gone. Forever.
Across the booth from Ruth, Joe tapped his fingers on the shiny tabletop. Blue eyes stared at her from the other side of the table. “So, aren’t you curious?”
She stared back. Yes, she ached to know but was terrified. What if finding their child was a Pandora’s Box, something they shouldn’t open? One step and then another. Find an address, drive by just to look…when would enough be enough?
The voice of Buddy Holly, loud enough to drown out conversations, poured from speakers in the ceiling. The air smelled of grilled meat and hot oil. She rubbed a throbbing temple. “Joe, we need to let it alone. What is done is done.”
Joe looked as out of place in his high-end clothes at Jerry’s Diner as she had at his fancy restaurant. His navy dress shirt and tan jacket shouted money against the worn paisley cushions. Most likely aware of the impression he gave others, he relaxed against the booth. His back covered the green duct tape that sealed a tear. He crossed his arms and smiled. “I never signed away my rights.”
Anger flared, burning to ash any thought of congeniality. “What rights? You didn’t want anything to do with the baby.”
“I didn’t know there was a baby until recently. You conveniently forgot to tell me.”
“I told you—”
“You told me you were having an abortion.”
Heat reddened Ruth’s face. She gritted her teeth. “I never—”
“It doesn’t matter. I have paternal rights, and I plan to use them.”
She stared at his steely blue eyes and harsh mouth. Once she had found him appealing. Now she was repulsed by his presence. Had he changed, or had he always been self-seeking? Had she simply been blinded by his false affection and smooth words?
“Why are you doing this, Joe? You don’t care about the baby. You’re using her for some reason of your own.”
“Am I?”
Laughter spilled from the adjacent booth while teens crowded six into each side.
Joe’s head bounced as the back of his booth rocked with movement. Turning, he scowled at the teens.
“What you lookin’ at, old man?” The metal ball on the teen’s tongue flashed as he spoke. The others laughed.
The heavyset waitress approached the booth. “You kids behave, or you’ll have to leave.”
A thin rail of a girl batted her eyes. “We always behave, don’t we, Donny?” Raven hair fell to her shoulders, anchored to her scalp by two inches of blond roots.
“Yeah, we always obey our mamas.”
Music wailed, and voices rose to match it.
“We can’t talk here.” Joe pulled a legal-sized cream-colored envelope from his jacket pocket. He placed the envelope on the table in front of him and stroked the paper. Long, thin fingers. Tapered nails. She couldn’t pull her gaze away even when two plates with burgers and fries were set in front of them.
Joe slid the envelope to her side of the table. “Eat up.”
How could she eat? She wanted to know. Oh, she wanted to know so badly; and yet her daughter belonged to someone else. It was meant to be that way—a child growing up with a loving mother and father.
She pushed the plate away.
“You’re the one who chose this place,” Joe bit into Jerry’s Special Half-Pounder. A new round of laughter came from behind them, and he scowled. “Tell you what.” He again placed fingertips on the envelope, toying with her, trying to force a reaction.
She held her breath but tried to act like she didn’t care.
“You take it,” he said. “Open it now. Open it later if you want. Do as you please.”
Ruth stared as he pulled his hand away and took another bite of burger. Mustard dripped onto the silk shirt.
“Oh, there are pictures inside, too.”
Pictures of her child! The need to look was almost more than she could bear, yet she remained stiff in her booth, afraid to move for fear an avalanche of motion would follow.
He raised his eyebrows. “Take it. Go ahead.” Sliding to the end of the bench, he stood. Pulling out a leather wallet, he tossed a stack of bills onto the table, leaned over, and kissed her cheek. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Her heart continued to beat. She could feel it. Surely, air moved in and out of her lungs. Otherwise, she would be dead.
The envelope lay on the table. She could leave without it. There was no name on the front. If she spilled ketchup over it, the staff would most likely throw it away.
Or she could mail it back to Joe. Mail it to the courthouse in his name. Let him know she never opened it.
Her hands ached from being knotted together in her lap.
She grabbed the envelope and raced from the restaurant.
~*~
The pounding on the windows came again that night. This time she was in bed. She remained among the safety of her covers, wrapped in the comfort of her quilt, Joe’s envelope hot beneath her, hidden beside the blood money. She rolled into a ball, her hands over her ears, and waited for the noise to stop.
Please, let it stop.
18
Sunday, June 23
Numb from Joe’s revelation about finding their daughter, Ruth should not have been in the mood to attend church, but the pull to be with the tomato-strewn people from last Sunday tugged at her. Now, here she sat beside a man with whom she was growing too fond. Why had Nate entered her life now just as Joe resurfaced to ruin it?
No protestors stood in the street like last Sunday, but their work was already done. Azalea bushes lay in the yard, their cut stubs still lining the curving brick walkway from the street to the house. “Pay your tax,” and “we don’t want you here,” writ
ten in what appeared to be red spray paint, stood starkly against the white brick house.
Ruth turned away, the dripping letters reminding her of blood.
The environment changed when she entered the house. The Sparks’ living room looked as though it had been professionally decorated, with stiffly folded gray drapes, marble lamps, and matching dark-gray wing-backed chairs with dark-blue striped throw-pillows. Ruth glanced at the ceiling, at least nine feet overhead. The crown molding may have been real plaster; she wasn’t sure.
Mrs. Sparks guided her and Nate to the light gray, almost white, couch beneath the window. The fabric felt thick and expensive. The hardwood floors glowed beneath an oriental rug of blues and grays that looked elegantly worn. Ruth wondered if the Sparks’ ever used the living room, or if it was for special occasions.
A card table, standing like the orphan child of the house, separated the living room and dining room. On it rested a Bible and a glass of water.
In contrast to the elegant room, almost everyone was dressed in less than their Sunday best. Ruth had chosen her cotton dress carefully, not wanting to have another outfit ruined by protestors. Everyone else must have had the same idea. Each Sunday, twenty houses were needed for worship. It was impossible for the police to keep a cruiser stationed at each site.
“Sit here.” Nate rose, offering his spot to a middle-age woman.
Ruth expected Nate to move to the wall with Chet and Betsy; instead he slid to the floor, leaning gently against her legs. The familiarity brought color to her cheeks. To anyone looking, his behavior said, “she’s mine.”
“Hi, I’m Wilma Reynolds.” The newcomer smiled at Ruth.
“Ruth Cleveland.”
“Aren’t those crows awful?” Wilma asked. “They about half cover the yard.”
Ruth had noticed them, and their presence had given her shivers, but the bloody letters stole her attention as she’d walked to the front door. Now, glancing out the window behind her, a black and white cruiser slowly passed. The police had the addresses of all the day’s host homes.
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