by L. J. Wilson
“I’m not sure. I didn’t get a chance to ask. My father finished his business and I had to go.” His fair face perplexed. “For as often as he meets with those men, I’m not sure he makes much progress.”
“Why do you say that? They keep coming back.”
“Because I catch their talk as they get into their own cars—fancy looking vehicles that don’t look right even in North Good Hope. That and I’ve never heard the Lord’s name taken in vain with such regularity. But if my father says he’s making progress, he must be.”
Evie considered Ezra’s observation and obedience. Surely, after they were married, that would ease. Ezra inched over and plucked a straw of hay from her hair. “Ah, it must add to the appeal,” she said, thinking of her wilted appearance.
“Evie, you’re here. It’s all the appeal I’m after.”
A shiver raced through her sticky skin. Evie did love the way Ezra looked at her. The first time Ezra had touched her, odd sensations bubbled. Evie was sure she was on the verge of knowing what Hannah so often spoke about. The way Tobias Blyth’s mere presence made her heart pound. Today was their fifth private meeting—first kissing by the pond, then behind Our Daily Bread. After that came the barn. The barn had led to the loft and the loft to things only married people shared. But Ezra had good reasoning for this. In only a few months they would be those married people, so God was likely to have given the go ahead. Evie had given it too, persuaded by Ezra’s daring position on the matter.
Now, in a different position, she felt Ezra’s mouth meet with hers. Evie liked the way his full lips covered hers, his tongue darting playfully. He smelled of summer sweat and hay, tasted of the corn cakes his mother brought to Sunday service. Sunday. It did make Evie think twice. “Ezra, I don’t know. Today is Sunday. Maybe we shouldn’t do it today.”
“I’ve never heard that rule,” he said, already working the buttons on her white cotton blouse. Evie glanced down, seeing the Peter Pan collar slip open then off her body. But she tensed as his fingers hooked the strap of her slip, his body guiding them into a thatch of hay.
“Even so…”
“Even so, I’ll be gone all week making missionary arrangements. And my father—”
“About that,” Evie said, pushing up on her elbows. He didn’t stop kissing her, just adjusted to the angle. Gentle touches of his lips covered her face and neck, his hand nudging the slip down. “Ezra, does your father say how long you’ll be away after we marry?”
“Not specifically.” He rose back to eye-level. “I suppose it depends on our funds and my progress.” Ezra groped at her skirt, fishing, without success, for the zipper.
Evie wasn’t as convinced. “But shouldn’t I know… whether my husband will be gone a few weeks… or months. Maybe if it’s longer, I could come with you.”
Fumbling with what was a generous amount of fabric, Ezra stopped. “Come with me?”
“Yes. Would it be that incredible for a wife to accompany her husband on a missionary trip? I’ve read it in the World Missions literature—often men and women, husbands and wives, they go on missions together… a team.”
“A team?” Ezra said, resting back on his heels. “I hadn’t thought of such a thing. Why don’t we talk about it when we have more time,” he said, leaning toward the open loft door. “Evie, it won’t be long until somebody realizes we’re the only two missing.”
Her hands pressed to his slender chest. “But we will, talk more about it?”
“After…” he said, “we can talk about whatever you like.” Evie nodded as Ezra’s whole body urged hers into the hay, his hand wrestling again with the skirt. “Just easier to push it up, I suppose.” He gathered the fabric that kept most of Evie hidden from view.
As Ezra’s hand skimmed her thigh, Evie told herself to breathe. The first time she’d been terribly nervous. She believed Ezra had done his best, making certain it wasn’t awful. And she appreciated his effort, especially after overhearing so many of the women insist sex was a necessary act, like plucking game. Evie waited, anticipating Hannah’s version, the one that included a luxurious rush of dreamy emotions.
All she felt was Ezra’s clammy hand burrow beneath the slip, bumping over her stomach.
“Ezra,” she said, losing focus, though she followed protocol, lifting her bottom so he could shimmy off white cotton underwear. “Promise me you’ll talk to your father this week. I’d like to know that I’m to be more Ezra Kane’s wife than Reverend Kane’s daughter.”
“Evie,” he said, his tone a tad harsher. “I prefer not to think of him at all while we’re…” Ezra glanced at her naked lower half.
“But…”
Ezra’s finger pressed firmly to her lips. “I said not right now.”
She complied, reaching around to unhook the bra as if undressing in her bedroom. Last time she’d left that to him, it had taken all his concentration and minutes they didn’t have today. Now she’d give him what he wanted in hopes of getting an answer.
For a moment it seemed to work. “Yes, I’ll speak to him,” Ezra said. “I prom—” But his promise ended abruptly as the brassiere followed the lure of gravity. A tremulous wave of air pulled into Ezra as his gaze traveled down her. It made Evie overly aware that this wasn’t her bedroom. The cutting Sunday light, surely that was the reason Evie’s hands flew protectively over her breasts.
Ezra continued to stare as if he might say something. Although what, exactly, didn’t seem to be crossing his mind.
“Sorry,” she said, dropping her arms. This was hardly the action of a dutiful wife.
“Don’t… don’t be sorry,” he said. “Modesty is a right thing. But, you’re just…” Another swallow bobbed through his throat. Evie felt her face go hotter than it had inside the church. On her slim frame, Evie was aware that she was fuller up top than every girl she knew. And the way Ezra was looking, it didn’t make her feel proud of the fact. She glanced left, seeing her underwear cast aside, having landed on a pitchfork. Ezra’s focus remained solely on her. He was quiet, poised over her then tall on his knees. His stare didn’t move from her naked torso as he hurriedly unzipped his pants. Evie’s eyes widened as the male part of him sprang forward—its shape surprising her again. She thought it funny looking and somewhat menacing at the same time—painful, or so she’d discovered. She also knew, having babysat the Yeager boys—a family who’d joined the sect more recently—that boys born elsewhere were built differently from Ezra and her younger brothers. Evie sighed, realizing none of what was on her mind seemed evocative of the sentiments Hannah prattled on about.
With the fat gather of the skirt wrenched around her waist, Evie waited for Ezra to move forward. It all seemed a bit better when Ezra was close. Her nervous heart slowed as his cheek touched hers. She did love the familiarity of Ezra. Evie closed her eyes and tried to think of that, burying her awkwardness into his shoulder.
His words mirrored her thoughts. “It’ll be better this time, Evie.” But as his hand slid to her breast, she stiffened. “It’d probably help if you moved your legs a little.”
Evie tried to make herself comfortable with the moment and changing boundaries of their relationship. Tag, leap frog, decorating sugar cookies, blind man’s bluff, skipping stones on the pond—these were the things she enjoyed with Ezra. Why wasn’t this falling into suit? But there was no more time to think as his breathing grew heavier, his body pushing into hers. None of it seemed to fit. Evie’s eyes squeezed tight and she bit down on her lip. The worst part was over. Her eyes opened, purposefully focusing on the sweet color of Ezra’s hair and what a good person he was. She did like that about him.
Out of nowhere, Evie’s heart jumped in the way she’d been anticipating—then she realized the thought attached to it had little to do with passion. “Ezra, what about… Well, you said it couldn’t happen the first time… But what if, you know…”
He inched away, his face studying hers. “August… September… October. I shouldn’t think you’d be sho
wing by the time we get married. No one will say anything—they never do. Do you really think Abigail Strand’s son arrived at ten pounds six months after her wedding day?”
“Well, I…” Evie mentally checked his math. She adored children. She would love Ezra’s child, certainly. She calmed, picturing a brood of blonde children—girls surely—all with his lagoon-colored eyes and cheerful disposition. With that pretty thought in mind, Evie bit down harder on her lip—so much so that she tasted a droplet of blood. But it kept her from crying out as his maleness pushed harder into her.
“God, I love you, Evie Neal…” There was a pause, similar to last time, followed by a thunderous shudder from Ezra.
Twice now Evie wondered what that fuss was all about, Ezra’s body collapsing on top of her. Between the heat, him, and the hay, she fought a smothering sensation. Moments later a more familiar Ezra returned to her. He kissed her nose and reached right, the sugar flower in his hand. “It’s going to be a wonderful life, Evie Neal. You’ll see.”
September 1977
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
It was the first morning Sebastian had dared to let light into the bedroom. He dragged his near naked ass out of bed and to the window shade. Andor had warned him to stay away from the windows, but he needed to see something that said the world was still moving. Three snowy TV channels weren’t cutting it. He held gingerly to his side and hobbled to the dresser mirror, a nasty bruise on his hip slowing his pace. Christ… what a mess… For the first time in his life, green irises weren’t his most startling feature. One eye remained swollen shut, the other so bloodshot it looked more like a cherry than an eye. The skin around it was an angry mix of purples and yellows. He wanted to shave. He looked like a beaten bear. Maybe he could. He’d just have to navigate around the stitched-up cut on his cheek.
He shrugged one shoulder—the arm of the other perched in a sling. Searing pain surged through like a hot poker. The shoulder had been dislocated weeks ago, and he’d hoped the arm could come out of the sling today. He’d see what the doc had to say. He turned away from his beaten image. He’d always anticipated dying young—maybe it was why he could never envision a future worth living. This beating had come damn close to proving the theory.
During the past year, he’d taken on more responsibility. Andor’s health had begun to fail, and it demanded Sebastian either step into a role with the Godfathers of the Night or run from it. He was a lot of things—none of them particularly good, but he wasn’t a coward. He’d do what his father—and the Godfathers—expected.
More and more frequently, Sebastian had accompanied the freighter’s cargo to Greece’s Port of Piraeus. Andor was right about the cocaine. The Athens faction wanted to do business—big business. But on the last shipment, he’d been caught with bogus goods. The Godfathers had done a spot check in a warehouse off the dock. The product Sebastian had delivered was worth an eighth of what the Godfathers of the Night were paying. They’d suspected Andor’s son of a double cross, selling the coke elsewhere—maybe the ports in Turkey or Italy—for a higher profit. The accusations, demands, and Sebastian’s denials had led to a monstrous beating. As each question came, a tire chain alternated with brass-knuckled fists. “How could this have happened?” “How is it possible when only you oversee our coke?”
Eventually, Godfather underlings had carried his beaten body to the dock. In a hazy half-conscious state, he’d been certain his life would end there—the men holding Sebastian’s own gun to his head and dumping his body into the sea of his ancestors.
To his surprise, he’d woken up a day later on the homebound freighter. Vinny stood over his broken body. Through slits of eyes he’d traded wary stares with his shipmate. “If…” he’d said. Vinny leaned in closer, as if memorizing a dying man’s words. “If I die, you make sure to dump me on the old man’s doorstep.”
Vinny had smiled cagily. They’d both known medical help was an ocean away. Their sad humor vanished as Vinny delivered an even more cryptic message in return. “The men who brought you, they said if it wasn’t your swindle, you’d better come up with the name that goes with the bad goods.”
Sebastian had heard the ultimatum. He was more on the inside of the organization than he ever wanted to be. Clearly, the Godfathers would decide how long he’d be a breathing, card-carrying member.
“I thought we were importing coffee,” Vinny had said.
Sebastian hadn’t replied but mercifully passed out again. In the meantime, while overseeing his usual tasks and caring for Sebastian, Vinny also saw to the nearly one hundred stowaways Sebastian had ferried to the belly of the ship.
After docking, Andor and a few of his cohorts had taken Sebastian from Pier 53 to his bedroom. “You lived this long. You don’t need a hospital,” his father had said. Anticipating as much, Sebastian asked Vinny to seek out his own medical resources and to call Bim.
Standing in the middle of his bedroom now—because moving was a bitch—Sebastian watched the door pop open. Andor never knocked. With him was Bim. A fourth-year medical student wasn’t a hospital, but it’d been good care. After Bim had assured Andor he’d ask no questions, he’d been allowed to treat Sebastian. His friend had tended to Sebastian’s cuts and bruises, some infected, and taped the ribs that Bim had so desperately wanted to X-ray. On a third, scream-filled attempt, he’d popped Sebastian’s shoulder back into place.
“Why are you out of bed?” Bim said, rushing to Sebastian’s side.
“Got to take a piss once in a while.” But Sebastian allowed Bim to help him back to the rumple of sheets.
“Hasn’t stopped him from eating,” Andor said from the doorway. “How much more time until he’s on his feet for good?”
Sebastian had lost track of dates, but he assumed the freighter was ready to leave port again. Andor would expect him to be on it.
Gently pressing on Sebastian’s taped ribs, Bim barely glanced at Andor. “It will be at least a month until he can safely return to work.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Andor grumbled, a cigar in hand.
Sebastian pushed his puffy eyes wide as the slight man rose from his bedside and crossed the room. “I am here to see your son. It is bad enough that I have to treat him here—a setting no better than my ravaged village in the Sudan. The room is dark, the bed covers filthy. I will not have you fill the air with vile smoke.”
Andor left, closing the door behind him.
Bim returned to Sebastian’s side and there was a slight tremor to his hands as he reached into his medical bag. “We will cut down the tape today. If you can stand the pain, my assumption is the fractures were small. I guess this will be welcome news for your father.”
Sebastian eased back onto the pillow. “I guess you’re gonna make a hell of a doctor.”
“Yes, well, my preference is psychiatry. I’m interested in the body but fascinated by the brain.” The medical work went on in silence, Bim going through a series of checkpoints that improved with each visit. He advised that the arm remain in a sling for another week.
“If, um… if I haven’t said so, thank you. I’m not sure what you’re saving here, but thank you.”
Bim gathered his supplies and stood—his small face grim. “You joke, my friend. It’s me that owes you a great debt.”
“Your sister… your family, they’re doing good?”
Teeth the color of snow shone against Bim’s dark skin. Sebastian couldn’t recall having a man of another nationality in the neighborhood, let alone the house. “My sister… yes. And my parents. And the brother of my father and his wife, their daughters… And all the others. I don’t know how you managed—”
Sebastian didn’t answer, holding onto his side. “So I take it the village is safe?”
“The village has been relocated to the United States, the loss of life none. We are all so grateful, Sebastian, I can never repay...”
“Don’t sweat it. The ship was sailing in that direction either way.”
“Ye
s, but on no other vessel would the fare be free and safe, transport out of the Sudan possible for so many. But the other part… the part that is not free. I know the money and arrangements it took to get Nafy from the Sudan to the port. I cannot fathom the price for extracting an entire village. Where did this money come from? I must repay—”
Sebastian held up a hand. “It was a bad situation. I had a way out. That’s all you need to know.” Bim stared skeptically.
“Sometimes,” Sebastian said, elaborating slightly, “there’s satisfaction in turning ill-gotten gains into good.”
“Ill-gotten…?” Bim said.
“Dirty money into… Never mind. Anyway… you’re the one who stowed the extra consumables. I just led them to the belly of a ship and gave them a bucket.”
“You gave them a life. You got them out of the Sudan. The means for that had to come from somewhere.”
Sebastian looked away.
“If your present condition is the result of that, then I owe twice the debt.”
“I said don’t worry about it.” Sebastian had summoned a tone that said to stop asking questions.
Bim went back to his work. “I hope you understand what you did… what you prevented. What your life is worth.” Bim glanced around the shabby surroundings. “I only wish you’d give yourself the same chance you gave my family.”
Sebastian coughed and reached to the nightstand. The glass was empty.
“Let me fill that for you.”
“Andor will do it,” he said, hanging onto the glass. They traded doubtful stares. “I can do it. I was on my way to the john when you came in, remember?”
Bim nodded and added a few medical instructions. Short walks outside would be good for Sebastian. It would keep pneumonia out of his lungs. The first time Bim had seen his patient, he’d gasped loudly asking Andor what he knew about his son’s injuries. When there was no reply, he’d gripped Sebastian’s hand—one of a few uninjured parts. His caregiver had whispered, “My God, my friend, how did this happen?”