by Rich Foster
It had been a mistake for Calley to come back to the church. She had felt a need to go to all the funerals. It was too early, the images too raw. Memories like hers would take years, not days to heal. A lifetime might not suffice.
Lucas patiently held this stranger in his arms, feeling her tremble, her heart beating, and her breath warm on his neck. A part of him wanted to protect her and shield her from her grief. Her sorrow was so large and vast that it took her past social proprieties where one pulled oneself together, while apologizing for their tears. Instead she sobbed steadily, soaking his shoulder with her tears.
It was twenty minutes before Calley became aware of where she was. Shakily she moved back from the tormented world of her inner grief to the physical world, and the room where her daughter was slain. She looked at Lucas and said, “I want to die.”
The words didn’t trouble him, but the death in her eyes did. It was when he had seen that gaping pit in their eyes that they followed through. She needed a reason to live or at least an excuse not to punish herself. Guilt was ripping her up inside.
“Your other children need you.” It was a carefully chosen phrase.
“I can’t protect them! I couldn’t save Ruthie!” Calley called out. She shook again, but for the moment she was cried out. “I should have died with her.”
“Then your other children would have your pain. They’d feel guilty for not going with you. Isn’t it better that you carry the pain for them?”
He couldn’t stop the suffering caused by the horrific decision she was forced to make, but Lucas strove to give her a reason for bare it. When she looked up, in her eyes he saw death make a retreat. The hook was set. She had an excuse for being alive. It would be only one skirmish in her battle with grief.
Calley stood up. She did not try to apologize for her breakdown. She simply said, “Thank you” and stepped out into the foyer. Then she turned back toward Lucas. “Would you do my daughter’s service?”
Lucas was surprised. “I’d be willing, but what about your own pastor?” The words came out before recalling accounts of Reverend Leeds’s demeanor on Sunday night.
“I hate him. I hate Leeds and Goodman! They can both go to hell!”
Lucas chose to be silent. There was nothing he could say that would quench the flames of hate. It was too soon.
Calley walked out. Lucas retrieved his uncle’s ashes. Outside, he firmly tugged the door shut, listening for it to latch. Calley was already across the lot, heading down the hill to the highway. She walked as if trudging through knee-deep snow. Each step seemed an effort. Then she turned the corner and was gone from his sight.
He climbed into his rental car and put the top down, letting out the summer heat. The seats were hot to the touch. He put the passenger seat belt around his uncle’s urn. It would be an ignoble end to be dust on the floor of a rental car. By the time he pulled out onto the highway, Calley was not in sight. He turned toward south and stepped on the gas.
An hour later, Lucas took his lunch at a cafe overlooking Red lake. Small boats rocked at the floating dock below the patio. As he ate, kids, who appeared too young to operate a car, came and went in powerboats that could do sixty. They were young and trim, with old age being a lifetime ahead of them, unless they died from their almond tans, he thought. Or, unless somebody gunned them down, the unwanted thought suddenly followed. He suffered a moment of melancholy thinking about Calley’s daughter, Ruthie, a girl he had not met, who would never be one of these teens. Life had never fair.
Fifteen minutes later he was in the reception area of a lawyer’s office. Behind the desk an attractive brunette typed on her computer. Despite the wedding ring that sparkled on her finger, she occasionally snuck a peek at Lucas. When their eyes happened to meet, they shared a smile. It was a brief, innocuous flirtation that left both of their days brighter.
The door opened. Lucas was greeted by a stocky man with a firm grip and graying hair. His suit spoke of success.
“Max Teech,” he said while pumping Lucas' hand. “I’m sorry about Elijah.”
Lucas didn’t know if Max used Elijah’s first name to imply greater familiarity or to elude formality. Perhaps they had been friends. The office was well lit. Sunlight glinted in from the lake. Cool air, a relief from the heat outside, breathed on him from the wall vents. Lucas took a seat in a comfortable leather chair. Max sat down behind his broad walnut desk. He spent a moment aligning the papers, as if he were also adjusting his thoughts.
“I did quite a bit of work for your uncle. And after we go over his estate you will have to make some decisions. He has or I should say “had” taken on a number of financial obligations that you may or may not want to terminate.”
The choice of “terminate” over the word “continue” gave Lucas the impression that Mr. Teech was not fully supportive of his uncle’s obligations.
Max quickly ran over the salient points of Elijah James’s trust. He Lucas James was the sole beneficiary, receiving the entire estate. This was listed as certain real estate, including all furnishings. The estate also held stocks, bonds, and cash in several bank accounts. Max said that Lucas could get a detailed financial statement from Elijah’s financial planner who was with the brokerage firm on the ground floor of the building.
“More or less your uncle’s estate is probably worth twelve million dollars.” Concluded Teech.
Lucas was stunned. Elijah lived so modestly; he never guessed his uncle had amassed so much money.
“Under special instructions,” continued Max, “Elijah stated his wish to be cremated and his ashes scattered in the wilderness. The only further instruction is, and I quote: Lucas, do with my assets as you think best. They are yours without restriction, but if you think what I’ve undertaken is worthwhile please continue it as you deem best.”
Lucas looked quizzically at Teech. “Just what has Uncle Elijah undertaken?”
“He was a silent philanthropist.” Teech raised both hands, open palm upward, as he said it, as though the idea mystified him. “For example, last year he began paying the mortgage for a woman whose husband was killed in a bus accident. She had small children and no insurance. Through me, he arranged regular payments to the bank until the woman can fend for herself.”
“You disapprove?” asked Lucas.
“Well, the absurd thing is he left it to her judgment to say when she no longer needed the help.”
“And?”
“Nobody will give up a free ride!”
“My uncle, you probably know, had great faith in people’s moral character. Is this woman, Calley Haskell by chance?”
“Yes. Do you know her?” asked Teech.
“We’ve met only in passing. Her daughter died with my uncle.”
Teech was momentarily surprised. “I knew a child was killed, I didn’t realize it was hers. It’s not the sort of news story I’m inclined to follow. Perhaps, I should have been more reticent in my comments.”
“No, I appreciate your observations. But please continue the payments. My uncle would have wanted that.”
“There are others.”
“Such as?”
“Well he has been paying for private physical therapy for June Goodman. Without it she would be a ward of the state and receive fairly minimal care.” Max paused, “She’s the seven-year-old daughter of the man who not only killed your uncle, but a local judge, and evidently Mrs. Haskell’s daughter, too.” There was silence as Teech let these facts settle in before he continued. “Miss Goodman was injured by the bus that Jason Haskell, Calley’s husband, was driving for the church.” Max stopped speaking.
“My uncle seems to be fairly ecumenical in his giving. So, he was supporting the daughter of the man who killed him?”
“Yes”
“Did Goodman know this?”
“No. Everything your uncle gave was anonymous. He’s also helping a kid go to college. He’s assisting a pregnant teenager whose parents threw her out of the house. He’s paying a merchant to give a parolee a job
. And there is more.”
Lucas ran his hand over the short hair on his head. “I thought I knew the man. I underestimated him.”
“So? What do you want me to do?” queried Teech.
“Keep paying for now. That’s what Elijah wanted.”
Max nodded and walked him to the door.
“Anything I can do to help, just give me a call.”
Lucas paused. “There is one thing. If Calley Haskell can’t pay her mortgage she probably can’t afford a funeral. Please arrange for the cost to be covered.”
Max nodded again. As he closed the door he thought, Barnum was right, “There’s a sucker born every minute.”
On his way out, Lucas and the receptionist shared a parting smile. Knowing what was in Elijah James’s trust, she thought, some people are just plain lucky!
That afternoon, Calley received a call from Bailard and Sons. They were pleased to tell her that an anonymous donor guaranteed all the funerary costs and they were returning her contract. Perhaps, given this change in her circumstances, she might care to review the caskets that were available. Much to Mr. Bailard’s dismay, she told him to use the plain mahogany casket that he had refused to finance. “Her father was a carpenter. The wood coffin would have pleased him,” she said.
*
Saturday morning Will Farron called Lucas asking if he were willing to take the Sunday service. Will said he was not much of a public speaker and Reverend Leeds had not turned up. Besides, he continued, being a retired chaplain Lucas must have some old sermons lying around. Lucas accepted, but then spent the rest of the day trying to decide what to speak about.
By his actions, Robert Goodman forced the people of the church to put up, or shut up, about their faith; they sadly failed. Lucas knew cowardice; he had counseled young men who failed in the face of the enemy. He knew boys who carried a shroud of guilt because they laid low while their braver comrades died.
Underneath the outrage at Robert Goodman, he sensed the guilt in the community, which held their rage in check. Lucas knew, if they let it fully loose on Robert Goodman, it would ultimately return, and fall upon themselves, a guilty voice, which accused, “You let a child die!”
On Sunday morning the church was half full. Many who were there the previous Sunday night, stayed home. The slim attendance was bolstered by a number of ghoulish strangers who came to see where the infamous shootings took place.
Lucas selected John 15:13 for the scripture reading. He read,
“Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”
Some people squirmed in their seats. Few of those who lived, could honestly call those who died, “their friends.” Desmond and Elijah were people who are always there yet never really seen. Ruthie was just a child, someone who was seen but not heard. Only Kevin and Jenny actually had friends at the church and they belonged to the younger set.
Lucas spoke of the suffering he had seen in the Army. He spoke of life’s difficult choices. And he spoke of hope for the future, but he knew their guilt would not be easily assuaged.
Ruthie’s funeral was scheduled for Sunday afternoon. After the church service, people left quickly to have Sunday dinner first. During lunch, the heat wave broiling the area broke. While people ate, the wind began to back and pick-up speed. Thunderclouds gathered on the Lazarus Mountains. Gray anvil clouds rose high, fanning out across the sky. The lower clouds scudded past, pushed by the gusting winds that caused the leafy trees of summer to bend and whip wildly. As the cold front moved down the valley the bottom fell out of the thermometer. In fifteen minutes the temperature dropped forty degrees, sending people scurrying to latch their windows and close their doors.
By the time the hour of the funeral came, thunder was rumbling amongst the mountains. It became darker by the moment. Lightening flashed. Large bolts with multiple shafts spanned the sky, the rumbles now a cacophonous crack. People sprinted from their cars, across the parking lot, ahead of the imminent rain. The first large drops hit the asphalt creating negatively charged ions that made the air pungent. The drops quickly turned into a sheet of rain that fell so hard the water bounced high off the pavement. The spray blew horizontally driven by a gale force wind.
One late arriving couple tried to open their umbrella, but it was immediately inverted, torn from their grasp, and sent sailing away. They quickly retreated back into their car hoping for a break in the rain. News vehicles lining the edge of the lot were rocked by the wind. Some reporters huddled inside their vans, while others tried fleeing the driving rain under the church’s portico. The rain pursued them as they pressed into the crowd in the foyer, waiting to be seated.
In the sanctuary, the pews were full. Chairs were added to the aisles and still there were not enough. People were left standing in the foyer.
Across the front of the church an entire field of floral bouquets hid the choir loft. On Saturday, Mountain Florists made multiple trips with their van and during lunch on Sunday they were busy moving the dozens of wreaths and sprays upstairs to the sanctuary where they suffused the air with their hothouse aroma.
Compared to the storm outside, it was relatively quiet in the church. Still above the soft hum of whispering voices came the sound of rain hammering against the windows and the wind pummeling the building. As the storm front slid through the mountains, the windows pulsated with each bolt of lightening and the building shook with the thunder.
At the altar, as if it were a sacrifice to an angry god, was the small mahogany casket. Ruthie lie as though she were asleep, and might stir at any moment. Calley Haskell huddled with her three children in the first row. The younger ones stirred in their seats; made restless by the storm. Calley’s eyes were dilated and glazed over. She had taken a couple pills to calm her nerves. When they seemed to do nothing she took another. Now she was adrift on tranquilizers.
The organist played “Nearer My God to Thee” and several hundred voices rose in unison, drowning out the storm.
Lucas rose. He read from the book of the Mathew
“Jesus said, Let the children come to me, and do not hinder them; for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.”
He looked across the sanctuary. “There is evil in the world!” he said emphatically. “If anyone doubts that, they only have to see what we must do today, bury a child whose life was cut terribly short.
But there is also goodness in the world. And if you doubt that then, you must also look at a child. Their simple faith when they hug you or the trust in their eyes when they ask you to help. Consider their ability to forgive just as quickly as their anger can come. Can we not see a bit of God’s love in each of them?
“We must ask, “How could a loving God allow this to happen?” I admit, I do not know.”
Lucas paused, as if listening to the storm.
“I do know, that I choose to believe God has a plan, much as a child trusts his or her parents even when they do not understand. We are all like children frightened by the storm. Our only hope is to turn to our God, like a father, and trust him”
Within the church several people said “Amen,” while in the foyer one reporter whispered to another, “What a crock of bull.”
Outside, the thunder faded as the leading edge of the storm front moved off into the distance. The rain lost its staccato beat, and became a steady drone on the roof.
After Lucas finished, several people spoke of Ruthie, sharing their memories. There was more singing and more prayers. By the time Ruthie’s casket was wheeled down the aisle to the awaiting hearse, there were few dry eyes in the church.
Lou Harding’s article in the Red Lake Clarion, eloquently described the graveside service,
Under leaden skies and wind swept hills, six-year old Ruthie Haskell was laid to rest by her loved ones. Her life was cut short by the deranged act of a small and viscous man. Yet she died with the hope of seeing her father again in heaven. One can only hope little Ruthie’s hopes come true.
Chapter Thirte
en
Despite his faith Lucas got drunk Sunday night. Sorrow was contagious. He had contracted a case. Alone in his uncle’s house, he steadily sipped the old man’s best Scotch. Three funerals in four days brought back too many memories. Memories of young men who died and others who were so badly damaged they wish they could. There were faces of boys who had killed themselves, giving up life because they’d been dumped by their girl or for some other seemingly minor reason. Thinking of Ruthie, a girl he never knew, he despaired of the human condition. A six year old was dead, shot in the chest, by a madman seeking revenge. Lucas shook his head while thinking, any man desires revenge; it takes a healthy man to deny the impulse.
At the Haskell’s house, Calley’s nerves were drawn taut like a piano wire. The least noise set them quivering. The children were finally tucked in bed for the night, but Caleb had been fussy all evening. Now, he began crying in his room. Calley slapped her hands over her ears, why couldn’t he just shut up? She sat rocking, but his cries came through. She leaped up in anger and ran to his room,
“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!” She screamed at her boy. Caleb’s eyes widened and drew back in fright.
Calley’s heart filled with remorse, her anger checked, remembering she had one child who could never again disturbed her as Caleb was doing. She took the frightened boy in her arms. “I’m sorry baby. Mommy’s really sorry.” She clutched her son closely, loving him more in that moment, than she had in some time. She stroked his head, listening to his breathing slow and feeling the beating of his heart against her chest. She softly sang to him until he fell asleep.
In the parsonage attic, an unshaven and fatigued Reverend Leeds sat huddled in the darkness. He had often preached on God’s judgment and justice but seldom upon his forgiveness. Damnation awaited those who betrayed Christ. He knew he had betrayed his God. During the past week Lester had died a thousand deaths because he was afraid to die once. Slowly, steadily, guilt, humiliation, and shame prodded him over the narrow edge of sanity; his mind was bent.