The Glory Wind

by Valerie Sherrard

  “You going to tell that to her mother?”

  Like everyone else, I turned to see who’d asked that. A strange sensation went through me to see that it was Leah Zecchino. Most everybody looked away quick, but a blush ran through the crowd and I knew they were remembering her words at the town meeting.

  “On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to keep on for another day or two,” Sheriff Latch said as though he’d just thought of it. “But I can’t be neglecting the duties of my office any longer, so I won’t be here full time. I’ll stop by, mind you, but just now and then. In the meantime, if anything happens, get to the nearest telephone and call me.”

  There were no calls to Sheriff Latch over the next two days. Fewer searchers showed up on the eighth day, fewer again on the ninth, and when that had come and gone with no results, it was clear that even the last hangers-on weren’t coming back.

  “They’re going to stop searching,” Ma said, standing at Raedine’s door with a tin plate of cabbage rolls later on.

  “Stop?” Raedine repeated, like it was a new word to her.

  “There’s nothing more that can be done,” Ma said. “We’ve looked everywhere and looked again. I’m afraid it’s in God’s hands now.”

  Raedine stared at her silently.

  “Roy isn’t here?” Ma asked when it was clear Raedine wasn’t going to speak. I wondered why she needed to ask, since his car was nowhere to be seen.

  “His mother is ill,” Raedine said. Then she closed the door and left my ma standing there holding the cabbage rolls.

  PART FIVE

  The Aftermath

  The greatest danger from a tornado isn’t the wind itself—it’s flying debris. Chunks of glass, wood, brick, and countless other materials can become deadly missiles in a tornado’s high wind, leaving behind enormous damages to repair and clean up.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  How it all turned into something other than a missing girl named Gracie Moor, I never did figure out. One day everyone was out in the fields searching for her, calling her name, giving each other hope with words and looks, and then all of a sudden it was different.

  The first sign I had that something was shifting came at church the third Sunday after Gracie disappeared. Or, rather, I should say after church. I suppose that’s an important distinction.

  Pastor Lockhart had preached about sowing and reaping, though I can’t say I paid a great deal of attention to the sermon. I had the vague idea that he was talking about the crops, sort of a theme message like at Christmas and Easter, only for harvest season. But that wasn’t it at all, apparently.

  We filed out in the usual way after the closing hymn, with everyone shaking the pastor’s hand and most of the adults complimenting him on the sermon. Then, there was always a bit of after-service chatting—inside if the weather was bad and outside when it was fine.

  This day being sunny and warm, folks stood around outside, talking idly, making plans for later in the week and discussing the little things that filled their lives.

  I was hungry as usual after church and anxious to get home, change into everyday clothes, and have a steaming bowl of leftover borsch which my mother had made the day before. To distract myself from the pangs in my stomach, I moved around, ignoring the other kids and eavesdropping on what was being said in the little clusters of people.

  I’d learned long ago that listening in on adults’ conversations wasn’t hard just as long as they didn’t realize that’s what you were doing. You could practically stand right beside them and take in every word, provided they thought you were doing something else. It was as simple as looking busy—like maybe poking something with a stick, or holding a stone or leaf and looking hard at it.

  That’s what I was doing as I meandered in and around the little clusters of people that were gathered, and it was how I first became aware that the sermon hadn’t been about the harvest after all.

  I hadn’t meant to stop and listen to anything Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Melchyn were saying. They’re old and mostly talk about their joints and pains and visits to the doctor. But as I passed by them my attention was caught by Mrs. Brown’s comment, “It’s a pity that Moor woman doesn’t darken the doorway here now and again. She might have learned something from this morning’s service.”

  “Truer words were never spoken,” Mrs. Melchyn agreed.

  Now, that struck me as very strange. I’d have thought that the harvest would be the last thing Raedine might care about at any time, least of all weeks after her daughter had disappeared. I decided there was something more to it, something I’d missed. Getting as close as I could without looking suspicious, I bent down to examine some imaginary thing in the dirt.

  “I hear that no one has even seen the woman for almost a week, maybe two. She hasn’t left the house or answered her door in days, and her curtains are all drawn,” said Mrs. Brown.

  “I suppose she’s having a difficult time of it, with the child’s body not yet found. I think that would be the worst—not knowing for sure what happened to her,” answered Mrs. Melchyn.

  “A judgment,” Mrs. Brown said, with a solemn shake of her head. “That’s what’s happened.”

  There was a pause then and I sensed one of them glancing at me, realizing someone was nearby. I ran my finger through a small mound of sand and tried to look intrigued.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Mrs. Melchyn said.

  “No supposing to it!” Mrs. Brown’s voice hit a higher pitch. “It’s all black and white, you know. Right there in the Good Book.”

  “I’ve never read anything about a tornado snatching away a child,” Mrs. Melchyn sniffed. “And you don’t need to talk to me like I’m a simpleton.”

  Mrs. Brown tried to sound contrite. “I’m only saying that it’s just like the pastor pointed out this morning—Raedine Moor reaped what she sowed.”

  “I didn’t hear the pastor mention Raedine Moor. Not once.”

  “Well, of course he didn’t. He’s not going to start naming names. That wouldn’t be Christian. But it’s clearly what he meant.”

  The conversation was interrupted just then by Mrs. Melchyn’s son, who came to tell her they were ready to go. I moved along but found myself unable to concentrate on anything else I heard that morning.

  At home, setting the table while Ma stirred the pot of borsch heating on the stove, I decided to ask about it.

  “Was Pastor Lockhart talking about Gracie’s mom this morning?”

  “Raedine? Of course not, Luke. Where did you hear such a thing?”

  “I heard someone say something like that when I was walking around,” I said vaguely.

  “Well, it’s just not so,” Ma told me. She stopped making slow circles in the pot with the big wooden spoon and came to the table, nodding for me to sit down. “Were you paying attention to the message?”

  “I thought it was about the harvest,” I answered. No need to mention that I hadn’t exactly focused on what Pastor Lockhart was saying.

  Ma smiled. “In a way, it was. Only not so much about harvesting crops, as deeds.”

  “Deeds?” I’m sure I looked as puzzled as I felt.

  “Mmm, for example, if you’re mean to someone and then one day you want to borrow something from that person, what do you think will happen?”

  “They won’t give it to you?”

  “They might not,” she agreed. “Everything we do brings about results in just the same way. Some you can see and figure out quite easily, and others are harder to see and difficult to understand. But our actions are a lot like planting seeds—they all grow into something—even if it’s just the kind of person we are.”

  “So, how does that have anything to do with Raedine?” I asked, unsatisfied with how the conversation had gone. It felt like one of those talks we had when I asked a question Ma didn’t really want to answer.

  “What exactly did you hear about Raedine?” Ma asked.

  “Something about the tornado taking Gracie because R
aedine sowed or reaped or something.”

  Ma was silent for too long and when she answered, it was slow and deliberate, and I could see she was being careful about picking her words. Whenever she did that it reminded me of how I step when I’m walking along on something narrow and it feels like I might lose my balance and fall off any second.

  “It’s not our place to judge other people,” Ma said.

  Her failure to out-and-out contradict what Mrs. Brown had been saying weighed heavily on me as I tried to sort it all out. I knew that if Ma thought what Mrs. Brown said was wrong, she’d have told me so. Since she didn’t do that, I figured that she at least thought it was possible Mrs. Brown was right.

  That was when I began listening to local talk in earnest. Only, now it wasn’t a game, something to do to amuse myself and maybe pick up interesting bits of news. Now it seemed there might be some kind of answer out there—something that would explain what happened to Gracie.

  I think part of me wanted to believe that Raedine was somehow to blame for everything. If she was, then I might be able to rid myself of the horrible guilt I was carrying. What had happened the day Gracie disappeared was never completely out of my thoughts.

  I made up my mind to find the truth. And I decided to start at the one place where I could ask a question outright and expect an answer.

  The very next morning, I set out to visit Carmella Tait.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Carmella was outside, hanging clothes from a big wicker basket when I came in sight of her place. I could tell when she saw me because she stepped away from the laundry and stood there waiting. Normally, she’d have hollered my name out, but this time she just stood there—still and unsmiling.

  “Luke. How you doing, honey?” she asked when I’d nearly reached her.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  She nodded, like I’d said a lot more than that and she was agreeing with all of it.

  “Come on. We’ll go in and have a cup of tea,” she said. “I’ll finish up here later on.” She reached a hand out and put it on my shoulder as we walked toward the back door.

  “I’ve been wonderin’ when you’d be finding your way here,” she said. “I reckon you have some things you need to talk about.”

  Of course, I’d seen Carmella over the previous weeks. She’d joined in the search effort like most Junction residents, and she’d been in church as usual every Sunday. But there’d never been a chance to really talk to her.

  “I’ve been hearing things,” I said once Carmella had spread butter on some thick slices of oatmeal brown bread for us, poured the tea, and seated herself across from me. I don’t think Carmella hardly knows how to talk without a cup of tea in front of her.

  She nodded, giving me time to sort out what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it. That was another thing I liked about her—she didn’t rush me or jump in and try to guess what I was going say. Some folks do that and all it does is make you feel like you’re taking up too much of their time.

  I started out slow, telling her about the conversation I’d overheard on Sunday morning.

  “What does it all mean?” I asked when I’d finished.

  Carmella pressed her lips together and shook her head. She took a deep breath, let it out and then looked upward, as though there might be something written on the ceiling that would help her.

  “Luke, you know I don’t like to speak out against anything your mamma has told you—or at least failed to contradict. But in this case, I’ve got to. I can’t sit still and listen to these things and stay silent.”

  In spite of that, it was a full minute or two before she spoke again. “It’s wrong, just plain wrong for folks to be talking like that about that little child—like she was some kind of punishment for the way her mamma lived her life.

  Now, I’m not saying that Miz Moor was doing right, but to say the Good Lord poured down His wrath on that little child…it just don’t sit right in my heart. “Now you know I love the Lord, and I try to live my life by what He shows us in the Good Book. I don’t judge others, no sir, and I don’t mean to be startin’ now. But I feel a righteous anger in me toward anyone who says that precious child was took up for those reasons. Because I do believe, and I will believe this to my dying day—that what happened to Gracie Moor was a miracle.”

  “A miracle?” I repeated, astonished. That was about the last thing I was expecting Carmella to say.

  “A miracle! That’s what I said. Just like Elijah, when he got lifted up to glory without ever passing through the valley of the shadow of death. That’s what I believe in my heart happened to Gracie. The Lord just took her up into heaven.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “How come? We don’t get to know those things, child! Not this side of glory anyway.”

  I thought about that for a bit, while Carmella hummed a hymn between sips of tea and bites of brown bread.

  “Does anyone else think what happened to Gracie was a miracle?” I ventured after a bit.

  “I hear some things that make me think so. Mind you, no one came here discussing it,” she said. “It’s just a shame that folks are saying those other things. That’s how the old devil takes away the blessing—by putting ideas into people’s heads and making them think wrong about something the Good Lord did for His purpose.

  “If you stop to think about it, you can see that it stands to reason. It’s been weeks now since that wind reached down from glory and took our little Gracie. If something else happened, why, they’d have found something of her by now, even if it was a piece of dress or a lock of hair or something. But they didn’t, and that’s because she was lifted right on up straight to heaven. That’s the only time there’s nothing left behind and that’s how I know I’m right.”

  Carmella reached across and patted my hand. “I know you miss her, Luke. I sure do too. I knew right from the start there was something special about Gracie. Seemed almost like she was too good for this world. I just don’t understand why people have to be so mean, saying what they’re saying. It seems they always want to think of the worst thing and believe that. And I can’t understand why it is.”

  I felt a little better when I left Carmella’s house that day. Even so, it seemed as though something was missing—like I needed a deeper explanation before I could be satisfied.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I turned thirteen on October 15, 1947. For the first time, I was glad that we had Mr. Wolnoth for a teacher and not Miss Prutko or anyone like her. Miss Prutko had kept track of everyone’s date of birth and we always sang “Happy Birthday” after morning prayer and clapped for the birthday boy or girl. We were supposed to do something nice for them too but I don’t remember anyone ever actually doing that, unless it was a girl in an older grade latching onto an excuse to make a fool of herself over a boy.

  Mr. Wolnoth never started the day with anything special. Each morning, as soon as we’d sung “God Save the King” and said “The Lord’s Prayer,” he told us, “Be seated, be quiet, and begin working,” in the same dreary tone he used every morning.

  That suited me just fine. If it had been up to me, my birthday would have been forgotten altogether, but there was no way that would happen at my house.

  Ma had asked me wouldn’t I like to have some friends over for some games and cake, but she hadn’t pushed it when I said no. I guess she knew that the only friend I would have invited wouldn’t be coming.

  After we’d eaten supper that night, Ma brought out a cake with candles on it and I dutifully blew them out. Pa pointed out that I was thirteen, like I might not have realized it. Then my folks gave me a copy of Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson, wrapped in paper that had footballs all over it. There was also a package with three pairs of woollen socks my grandma had knit for me.

  “You’ll have to send Grandma a nice thank-you letter,” Ma said. I said I would, and I tried to look excited about the book, but it’s hard when happy things only make you sadder.

/>   All I could think about was that Gracie and I would have read the book together and acted out the best parts, like we’d done with her book Tahara, Boy King of the Desert. Thinking that made me want to throw Treasure Island in the stove.

  Two months had gone by since Gracie had disappeared and I was no closer to understanding it than I had been the day it happened. I’d heard two different opinions, but I had no way of knowing which was true. Maybe neither side had it right. Besides that, the hurt—and guilt—never stopped gnawing away at me and it was starting to take its toll.

  I put the book in my room and then slipped out the door, wanting to be alone. After wandering aimlessly for a while, I found myself walking along the road toward Raedine’s house.

  I knew I should have gone to see her before then but I hadn’t found the courage to do it. This time, I forced myself to turn in and the next thing I knew, I was knocking at the door.

  Raedine opened it just as I was about to give up. When she saw me, she dropped to her knees in one motion and I thought she was going to faint. But she reached her arms out and her face was crumbling as she clasped me against her.

  The next thing I knew we were both crying. She held onto me while we sobbed until I was crushed and soggy. It felt as if this was what I should have been doing the whole time. Crying with Raedine. It was the first time I’d felt somehow content in months, and I thought (rather oddly) that if only I could stay there and keep on crying, I’d be happy.

  Raedine was the first to get stopped. She mopped me up a bit with the sleeve of her blouse and drew me into the kitchen where she poured me a glass of milk and herself a glass of wine.

  “I sure am glad to see you, Luke,” she said.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t come to visit you before.”

  “Before doesn’t matter,” she said. “How are you doing?”

  “I miss Gracie a lot.”

  Raedine nodded and took a sip of wine. She set the glass on the counter beside her.