After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  And just like that, she was released.

  She didn’t stick around for Grandfather to change his mind, but ran till the driveway transformed to road. Then she took to the shadows off the sidewalk, avoiding splashes of streetlight.

  Her breath came in insufficient rasps and her hair flew wild as her legs pumped, painful and burning. Her purse bounced against her side. She raced over grass, around trees, across streets, till at last she paused, hands on her thighs, to catch her breath. The night air wasn’t nearly cool enough on her warm face.

  A car drove by, jolting her back into flight mode. Jittery and still not completely in her right senses, she ran, hardly registering a destination, but then there it was.

  St. Paul’s Cemetery stretched before her, a dark, lumpy expanse punctuated with headstones, towering trees, and glowing memorial lanterns. Stepping slowly at last, she maneuvered carefully around and over stone markers.

  Margaret’s final resting place was a challenge to find. It wasn’t lit with a lantern, and it had been so long since she’d been here—and never in the dark.

  She found it eventually, thanks to the inscribed headstone. Only Clay could have had that installed, right? A surge of hope coursed through her.

  He’s out there somewhere.

  She knelt on the brittle grass, a damp coolness seeping through her jeans and onto her knees, and she let the tears flow. “I’m sorry, so sorry,” she whispered, unable to articulate the depth of her grief.

  “I promise I’ll find him. I need to know he’s okay, and finally give him your letter. I’m sorry I gave up trying, and that I stopped visiting. It was easier not to think . . . but selfish.” Her vision shimmered, and she rubbed her eyes.

  Her fingers brushed the gray marble, then touched thin, dry thorny stems attached to a withered, broken rose bouquet. He was here. Not too long ago.

  More hope bloomed within her. She lowered her head to look closer at the flowers, the papery brown petals, the crinkly veined leaves, and exhaustion coupled with drug remnants caught up with her. Her muscles fell limp.

  She lay her cheek against the cool earthy carpet for a moment’s rest, and her mind swirled. Sleep pressed in, demanding her eyelids. She fought to keep them open, took in the swath of starry night sky, slender tree limbs swaying in rhythmic harmony, hypnotizing her, and her lids fluttered shut. Then out from the dark canvas of her dreams, he came.

  Clay.

  He was a mere silhouette, but she knew him, and wasn’t frightened.

  “I should have tried to find you . . . ” she mumbled as a strange tension she’d been holding for so long wafted away as she drifted further into senselessness.

  Chapter Eleven

  Enveloped in a strange contentment and peace, Charlene surrendered to the dream. Clay spoke, words that couldn’t penetrate her thick mental fog, but her soul swelled to hear his voice, his tone gentle and concerned.

  She dreamed he touched her forehead tentatively, barely grazing her skin, his fingers warm.

  Don’t leave me.

  She imagined he settled beside her, and they were a strange living pair of souls in a dark desolate cemetery. And she felt nothing but safe and happy.

  Her lips moved, then stilled. He whispered comforting words. She sighed, and his hand found hers, so lightly that the touch was more an awareness than true contact.

  All was right in her blissful dream world, and as her breathing slowed, she sank deeper, secure in his presence and the thought that he would not desert her again.

  * * *

  I’m alone.

  Sure as her head ached, she knew this truth even before she opened her eyes. Musty air entered her throat and lungs, making her cough, triggering pain deep in her temples.

  Blinking sleep away, she squinted through the dimness of her surroundings and spied stacks of old books, a plastic draped Christmas tree, and a row of large, chipped statues.

  Where am I?

  Her getaway came back to her, her tearful visit to Margaret’s grave, and then—her hazy recollection brightened and warmed with the memory of Clay emerging from the trees, coming for her.

  But it was only a warped dream, threads pulled from regret and woven into a fanciful tapestry of illusion. Cool disappointment filled her as she returned to reality. She rubbed her forehead, then her temples, trying to massage away the headache.

  How did I get here?

  Surely she hadn’t sleepwalked. As she stood clumsily, a checkered flannel blanket dropped from her shoulders, confounding her further. She left the corner and passed through an open doorway into a simple kitchen connected to a large, familiar room, and she realized she was in the basement of St. Paul’s Church.

  The lights were off, but faint illumination came from small gutter windows at the top of the walls.

  She startled at an array of creaking noises overhead, before realizing these were merely the sounds of people attending Mass above. Kneeling, standing, or sitting—each movement traveled through the old boards.

  She pressed her eyelids. She couldn’t for the life of her remember how she’d ended up down here, but she supposed she should be thankful. There were a lot worse places she could have woken up. She fingered her neck gingerly; still tender.

  She used the tiny, pitifully outdated bathroom, washed her face, finger-combed her hopeless hair, and plucked out a few strands of grass. But something was wrong. Her shoulder was missing something—her purse! She couldn’t lose that; it was all she had left after the fire and leaving her luggage at Grandfather’s.

  Retracing her steps, she was relieved to find her purse sitting in the dusty corner where she’d been sleeping. She brushed it off and shouldered it, ready to be on her way, wherever that might be.

  Out of this town, she resolved. She peeked in her purse. Her mother’s pink pearl necklace was still there, as was Margaret’s letter. So . . . out of this town to find Clay and deliver this letter once and for all.

  It was the least she could do.

  Her mind began to replay Grandfather’s “Justice” movie, but she forced her thoughts to shut down. She couldn’t take seeing the images again, not even in memory.

  She climbed the creaky, red-carpeted stairs, resisting the inner call to attend the remainder of Mass, and let herself out the side door. Rounding the building, she came in sight of the cemetery once more. Golden morning light barely brushed the hill, reflecting off polished headstones and absorbing into weathered ones.

  A lone man stood in the cemetery. Her heart skipped, briefly believing it was Clay. But no, this man was taller, thinner, and much older.

  Oddly though, he seemed to be standing near Margaret’s grave.

  She moved closer, instinctively creeping, shielding herself from sight with trees and bushes, wondering why the man was here, and who he was.

  A caretaker, perhaps? But at this hour? And he wasn’t taking care of anything. Just standing there. His clasped hands indicated he might be praying. She didn’t recall seeing him at Margaret’s funeral. Unless . . .

  As he began to walk away, up the hill and onto the sidewalk, he reminded her of the man she’d seen lingering in the distance during the funeral. The cursory shot from Grandfather’s cruel video had refreshed her memory.

  He was almost out of sight now, and she moved forward, making a flash decision to follow him. If he had known Margaret, maybe he knew Clay.

  Drawing her purse close so it wouldn’t bounce, she hurried across the cemetery. She did a double-take as she passed Margaret’s grave. A fresh white rose bouquet lay near the stone, replacing the withered one she had seen earlier.

  White roses, like the rose she had found on her car’s windshield on that Sunday morning not long ago. She was onto something, and she knew she’d get some answers if she could only keep this man in sight.

  He took the sidewalk at a steady clip until he stopped inside a glass bus shelter.

  She continued in his direction, yet slowed her steps, instinctively keeping a safe distance. No o
ne else was visible. A tilled field stretched to one side, and a few houses across the street sat silent, with shades drawn. She liked to think that after all she’d been through in the past, she’d learned a thing or two about common sense and taking precautions, even if it made her seem paranoid. She was aware of the fact that she didn’t even have a phone on her anymore, thanks to Grandfather.

  As she ran out of sidewalk to dawdle on, the bus appeared and heaved to a stop. She jogged to catch up, saw the man climb on board, and followed him.

  * * *

  She’d lied to him, after all.

  St. Mary’s Hospital? Bull.

  She had more guts than Nails had given her credit for. He liked that. Still, he couldn’t play games forever.

  He crawled the streets in his car and spotted her on the sidewalk. Just in time, from the looks of the bus she was hustling toward. She appeared to be on some kind of mission, determination straining her face. Interesting.

  He turned his car and idled at a crossroads until the bus passed, then he pulled out and tailed it, a smile cracking his face.

  The girl was gonna lead him somewhere good today, he could feel it in his bones.

  * * *

  Only a smattering of people occupied the bus, so Charlene had a decent pick of seats. The garishly colored upholstery looked as though it belonged in a kindergarten room.

  The graveyard man sat near the back. She sank into a seat near the front so as not to miss him getting off.

  The bus rumbled away from the curb with a cacophony of gears and took to the highway in minutes. She turned to the chill window pane. If nothing else, she was thankful to be putting distance between herself and Grandfather.

  Miles piled up, the bus stopped and started, but the graveyard man never got off. Eventually it was just him and her, many seats apart. She was hyperaware of him and felt him watching her. Prickly tension at the nape of her neck seemed to make her curls coil tight, tugging on her headache. Yet she never actually caught the man’s eyes on her the few times she ventured backward glances.

  At last, after more than an hour had passed, she saw a “Welcome to Creekside” sign. The bus soon wove through the little downtown, then ground to a halt beside a bus shelter in front of a grocery store.

  She heard the man climb to his feet and walk down the aisle, but she didn’t look at him as he passed. She pretended to gather her things, which took some acting since she only had a purse. She exited a few moments after him.

  Already, he was gone.

  She scanned all directions and caught sight of him striding beside trees along the grocery store parking lot. He reached a brown Dodge Ram shielded in shadow to the left of the store.

  She realized as he unlocked the truck door that, without a car, her tailing was about to come to an end. If she wanted information, she had to speak now.

  “Excuse me!” She jogged forward.

  He didn’t turn, just climbed inside and slammed the door.

  “Please wait!” She waved a hand, but the truck revved. He threw it into gear and the vehicle heaved forward.

  Right for her.

  Alarmed, she sidestepped just in time. The man’s eyes made contact with hers, and she was sure they flashed angrily.

  He left her standing there, coughing in exhaust. Just as she thought to catch his license plate, he turned and disappeared down the street.

  She released a long breath, not sure what to make of the close call. Had he charged at her intentionally? Surely not, yet the fierce look in his eyes made her think he had.

  Her stomach grumbled for breakfast, and she turned to the store, still troubled. Warm yeast and cinnamon scents wafted her way the moment she entered. Though enticed by bakery, she chose a couple bananas and a box of granola bars. The store was practically vacant but for a few elderly shoppers and a smartly-dressed businessman.

  There was only one cashier available, and she looked to be about Charlene’s age. A few strands of her messy light brown hair were pinned back in an attempt to keep the waves out of her face.

  Charlene grabbed a bottle of water and set her purchases on the conveyer belt. The cashier gave a small, mandatory-appearing smile. Her cheery, “Good morning, how are you?” sounded forced and didn’t mesh with her dull, tired red eyes underscored with purple shadows.

  Despite this, she was still very pretty. Near the corner of her pursed lips was a little brown dot, a natural beauty mark. Her skin was pale, and as Charlene remarked on the delicious bakery smells, the girl seemed to turn a shade lighter. Abruptly, she set down the bananas, turned, and dashed away.

  Confused, Charlene watched her go, then glanced down at her items and felt her stomach rumble pathetically.

  The cashier reappeared a minute later. She merely said, “Sorry about that,” and wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  “No problem,” Charlene assured her, reigning in her curiosity.

  Beep, beep, beep. The cashier slid the purchases across the scanner. Charlene noted her crooked nametag read Brook.

  Charlene was munching on her second banana by the time she hit the sidewalk. The sun shone higher now, and she felt a hint of mounting warmth as she strolled, taking note of the buildings lining the street, particularly the library. I wonder if they’re hiring. Walking on, she passed an auto repair shop, a bank, a pancake restaurant, Fannie’s Fabrics, and a beautiful church at the end of the block.

  From the rippled terracotta roof to the textured stucco walls and bell tower, the large building appeared to be constructed in an old Spanish style. The modest steeple held a gray bell. Intrigued, she crossed the grass, moving closer. A cement cornerstone bore the date 1868. Two narrow stained glass windows flanked the front door.

  She wandered to a wooden park bench on the front lawn beside a round garden abloom with pink bleeding hearts. In the very center of the garden stood a white statue of the Holy Family.

  Glancing heavenward, Charlene’s headache dissipated as she rested on the bench. Her fingers stroked the smooth planks, which appeared fairly new despite mild weathering on the varnished surface, and she just knew that this bench, set in such a special spot, had been handcrafted with great care.

  A wisp of wind snagged a granola bar wrapper from her lap. As she bent to retrieve it, she glanced up to see a small symbol engraved into the underside of the wooden armrest. Something about it looked almost familiar.

  Peering closer, she saw a simple cross with a letter tucked beneath each arm: an “M” and an “A.”

  MA.

  Just like the mark Clay had made in the snow over his mother’s fresh grave.

  He made this bench.

  A thread of anticipation curled around her. She let her finger continue to trace the meaningful mark, and as she lifted her gaze, she spotted another clue that she’d overlooked when she first sat down. An inscription on a small bronze plaque on the center of the seatback read, Donated in loving memory of M.M.

  Margaret Morrow, of course.

  Thoughts racing, she realized it was likely Clay attended Mass at this church and resided in this town. If so, all she had to do was wait till Sunday and look for him here. She didn’t want to wait, though, not now that she was so close.

  She circled the bench. It had given her answers. If it could give her one more . . .

  Dropping to her hands and knees, she scooted beneath the bench and twisted her neck. There on the underside, she discovered the last clue she needed. The words Sam’s Custom Carpentry, LLC were burned into the wood. Bingo.

  * * *

  Her heart’s rhythm felt oddly erratic as she followed the gravel shoulder of the road. Weeds rose high among tall grass on either side. Cars passed only on occasion, and the whispery isolation was unsettling.

  What if the convenience store attendant had purposely led her astray? The red-haired young man had seemed almost too helpful. He claimed to know the exact place she was looking for and gave her directions easily, almost too easily. He knew she was on foot. She had to hope he hadn’t then
called a buddy to come snatch her as she walked this rural road.

  She sighed. Once kidnapped, always paranoid.

  She reached into her purse and touched her new phone. At least she’d taken the time to pick this up. Her lawyer needed to know where she was. But first, she would call Ben. Just as soon as she figured out what she was doing.

  The road sloped downhill, then back up. A stately tree with new leaves arched far over the road. Just past it, near a driveway, a simple wooden sign hung nailed to a tree trunk. Sam’s Custom Carpentry, LLC was emblazed on the sign in black lettering.

  Her feet carried her quickly to the driveway, her heart picking up pace. Starting down the gravel, she scanned the simple white ranch house. The garage was shut, but a gray Chevy pickup sat parked nearby. Off to the right stood another building. A sign hung above the open double doors, marking the carpentry shop. Her ears picked up the sound of voices—no, music, and she approached nervously, wondering whom she’d find inside.

  The doors were propped open with two blocks of wood, allowing a view of wood shavings and sawdust on the concrete floor. The smell of fresh-cut lumber and varnish made a pungent, yet pleasant odor. She spotted tools, workbenches, boards stacked in corners, and a Shop-Vac. Pieces of furniture in various stages of completion lay in unorganized clusters.

  She stepped inside, knowing she should call out hello, but her tongue resisted.

  A shadow shifted, and as she paused unseen by a wall of hanging tools, she caught sight of a man standing at a cluttered workbench, busy with a piece of wood. His back was to her, but she knew him, knew the color of his hair and the firm, concentrated slope of his shoulders. It was Clay, in a worn flannel shirt, jeans, and a tool belt, working. She found herself watching the rhythm of his muscular arms as he sanded a piece of wood, while a country song played from a dusty boom box in the corner.

  Above him hung a simple picture, slightly crooked, of St. Joseph in his carpentry shop of long ago. Jesus, as a boy, worked by St. Joseph’s side. Like everything else, the frame could use dusting.