And If I Die

by John Aubrey Anderson

  Missy took a sip of coffee then put the cup down. “Red Justin was just here.” She picked up her dessertspoon and traced a design in the tablecloth. “He thinks things are fixin’ to start happenin’.”

  Virginia Parker was eighty years old, but she was sharp as a rose thorn and had a nose for trouble. “Tell me what we know about that man who worked in my yard this week—that Lavert Jensen.”

  Pat said, “Mr. Jensen is the rub.” He related the afternoon’s discoveries.

  “Anybody figure out what Red means by this time he’s talkin’ about?” asked Bobby Lee.

  “Nah.” Pat picked up the remainder of his roll and lectured with it. “You know how some prophets are . . . long on warnings, short on specifics.”

  “But you believe him.” Bobby Lee wasn’t asking.

  “Oh, yeah.” Pat was sober. “Sure as sunshine.”

  “Y’all want us to come with you?” asked Bobby Lee.

  Pat and Missy shook their heads at the same time. She said, “Better not.”

  “Baby,” said her grandmother, “nobody here can make Mose safer by knowing where he is, and you already know you can call on us if you need us. Let me take a moment, though, to tell you that God has put you in a special place.”

  “How’s that?” asked Missy.

  “If it weren’t for Mose, you wouldn’t be here.”

  Missy patted her hand. “Granny, you mean Mose Junior.”

  “Humph,” her grandmother sniffed. “Honey, the day’s coming when I won’t remember what I take in my coffee, but it’s not here yet.”

  “Then I don’t know what you mean.”

  “There’s no reason why you should.” Virginia turned slightly in her chair so she was facing her granddaughter. “The long and short of it is . . . God singled Mose out sixty years ago. That means you’re standing in a unique, God-chosen place because of your relationship to him.”

  “Sixty years ago? Mose would’ve been eight years old, Granny.”

  “Mm-hmm, but he was called on to do a man’s job, and he did it.”

  “What job?”

  “That’s Mose’s story to tell, not mine.” She waved away the question. “Now, let me finish. Sixty years ago, God made it abundantly clear that He had chosen Mose to play a special role in His plan. Over twenty years ago, when Junior died, you pledged yourself to know God and make Him known, and you’re following through on your promise. When you couple those facts with Red Justin’s pronouncements and Mose’s advancing years, you have to assume that it’s possible, if not probable, that God is planning something significant in the near future.”

  No one spoke.

  Virginia had said her piece. She got up to fix dessert while she let her guests mull over what they’d heard; she could predict their reactions.

  The two couples at the table continued to turn Virginia’s words over in their minds; their individual conclusions ran along parallel lines— everything she said made sense.

  Bobby Lee and Susan raised the girl to make her own way, and, with her husband’s help, that’s what she’d do. Missy’s response would be directed at protecting Mose; she was as stubborn as a concrete column, but she probably wouldn’t do anything stupid. Pat tended to plan more carefully than his wife, but he wasn’t as pliable as he pretended to be; he wouldn’t hesitate to help Missy make her decisions.

  Missy said, “It’s startin’ again, isn’t it?”

  The last time Satan’s angels attacked someone at Cat Lake, two men died in the backyard of the house where they were sitting. No thinking person could live through what the people in the kitchen had seen and assume God was always going to bring peace into a Christian’s life. Based on what they’d heard that afternoon, it was safe to believe something cataclysmic was looming in the near future.

  Bobby Lee looked at his daughter and said, “You still don’t think your momma an’ I ought to follow y’all out to Texas.”

  “Mmm.” Missy was thinking. She turned to Pat. “What do you think?”

  “Uh-uh. Our leaving after such a short visit will attract some attention. Taking a caravan back with us would be worse.” He stood up to go start packing.

  Bobby Lee nodded; the boy was right. “Maybe we’ll come later in the summer.”

  Pat thought that over and answered carefully. “Let’s wait and decide that later. Give us a week or two to make some plans.” Everyone in the room knew he wanted to talk to Mose before making any decisions.

  When the sun came up Saturday morning, Missy and Pat were crossing the Mississippi River bridge at Greenville. On any other day Missy would’ve been commenting on the view—she didn’t seem to notice. They stopped in Texarkana at lunchtime and walked into a cafeteria under overcast skies. Thirty minutes later they had to sprint back to their car in a downpour. Being soaked to the skin added irritation to anxiety, and Missy’s mood turned darker than the weather.

  Late that afternoon, when they pulled up in front of Mose’s house, the rain had slacked off to a sprinkle and the skies were trying to clear up—Missy’s mood wasn’t.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The old man stepped through the front door carrying a slender stick in his hand. He didn’t depend on the makeshift cane as he walked over and stood by one of the white rocking chairs to wait for his visitors, but he kept it close; the porch could be slick when it was wet. The dog left his side and sauntered closer to the edge of the porch. He stopped there to stretch thoroughly, timing his moves so he could meet Pat and Missy on the top step. If he stayed close to the porch he didn’t have to expose himself to the fat raindrops falling on the steps from the porch’s overhang.

  Pat stopped to pet the dog; Missy crossed to where Mose was standing. “Hi.”

  “Mighty quick trip,” Mose observed.

  She linked her arm in his and spoke her day’s first soft words. “Mmm . . . too quick.”

  She wasn’t ready to talk, and Mose never pushed. When Pat stepped onto the porch, Mose asked, “Y’all thirsty?”

  They weren’t.

  “Well, it probably ain’t gonna rain no more. Why don’t we sit out here for a spell?” He motioned at the porch swing and rocking chairs with his walking stick. “Sit wherever you please, an’ tell me what got y’all in such a hurry to get back here.”

  Pat and Missy chose the swing. When they were settled, the dog sat so he could put his head on Missy’s knee.

  Pat waited for Mose to sit down and asked, “Where’s Bill?”

  “Should be here any minute. Him an’ Will Pierce went over to that Collin Turner’s place after they got off at the feed store. Summer’s comin’ an’ they figure to make some money on weekends . . . ridin’ them bulls at the rodeo. Bill figures Mr. Turner can teach him stuff he don’t know.”

  Pat sighed and shook his head. “We put in our two cents’ worth on the rodeo thing a couple of times. It didn’t take.” He pointed at Mose’s walking stick. “Are you okay?”

  “Just old. My joints don’t take to this wet weather.” Hundreds of tiny pockmarks covered one end of the stick; the surface around them was polished to a high sheen by years of use. Mose ran his fingers across the slick surface and smiled. “I had this ol’ sawed-off hoe handle long as I can remember . . . an’ Pap had it ’fore me.”

  As Mose spoke, Dawg’s head came up. The man pointed at his old friend and said, “He just heard the car.”

  The three turned to watch Bill’s car approach the curve below the house while the dog—braving wet grass and leftover drops falling from the oak trees—went to the yard to wait for his boy. The car was coasting when it got to the curve. The freshly cleaned air carried reverberations from the car’s radio to those waiting on the porch; Little Richard was screaming words of accusation at an elusive woman named Lucille.

  Pat noted the car’s sedate pace and observed, “Looks like we’re not going to set a new record today.”

  “Mmm,” Mose agreed. “Maybe the road’s too wet . . . or might be that radio’s drainin’ all the
power off’n the motor.”

  Bill and Little Richard pulled into the driveway, and Bill took his time getting out of the car. He stooped to pet the dog and straightened slowly when he finished.

  Pat had to smile. “Looks like he’s learning the hard way.”

  “Humph,” Mose grunted. They watched as Bill let the dog lead him around the puddles in the yard; the bull rider was favoring his right leg. “For some things, there ain’t no easy way.”

  “Hello, buddy boy.” Pat grinned and gripped Bill’s hand without shaking it. “You look like you just went a couple of rounds with some bad hombres.”

  Bill gave Pat change for his grin and lowered himself gently into the empty rocker. “That’d be my first choice, I guess. Collin Turner spent the last hour working us on a mechanical bull . . . he says I’m too tall and too heavy. I think he’s wrong.”

  Mose didn’t smile. “You looks stove up as a ol’ man.”

  “Well, I came out better than Will.” He touched his side and grinned. “On my last go-round, I think I pulled an ab trying to get back in the middle, but it only hurts when I breathe. I twisted my right knee a little the ride before that, but I hardly notice it ’cause my left shoulder feels like somebody dropped me off a short building.”

  “What about Will?”

  “He tried to hang on too long, and the machine busted his lip. That probably won’t make Ella Claire too happy. Anyway, that’s when we decided we’d learned enough for today.” He took in Missy’s frown and his grin spread. “It’s been my experience that the real thing’s always gonna be easier.”

  “Right.” Missy was tired, worried, irritable, and in no mood for jokes. As far as she was concerned, Bill Mann couldn’t have chosen a worse time to be involved with something as dangerous as bull riding. “An’ everybody knows a real bull is gonna have a better disposition.”

  “I’ve been well, Mrs. Patterson.” Bill winked at her. “And you?”

  “Humph.” Missy was on the back side of a sleepless night and a long car ride. Since meeting with Red, she’d been tormented by memories of past encounters with bad people and worse demons. In her short life, she’d stood in the center of three pitched battles with unbelievably wicked beings, and the prospect of a fourth conflict was looming. One overriding thought circulated in the center of her memories, and she was frustrated because she spent the last twenty-four hours fully anticipating her “almost-brother” would turn a deaf ear to their warnings. A tear formed in the corner of her eye, and the dog resumed his station near her knee. She petted the dog with one hand and waved the other at Pat and Mose. “Sorry. These two are always gonna be more patient than I am.”

  Mose nodded. “’Specially when you carryin’ bad news.”

  Pat wasn’t too surprised at Mose’s ability to see past Missy’s mood. “Am I going to be able to read minds when I’m sixty-eight?” he asked.

  “If the Lord don’t tarry, you ain’t gonna have to worry ’bout it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  It was Mose’s turn to smile. “’Cause He could come back any day now, an’ you won’t never make it to sixty-eight.”

  Missy sat back and said, “Well, He can come right now if He likes. I’m ready.”

  Mose shook his head. “Not just yet, child. We needs to see a few more folks in the fold first.”

  Missy understood immediately and nodded. “You’re right.”

  The “few more folks” Mose wanted to see “in the fold” were embodied in one person—Bill Mann. But Bill steadfastly refused to have anything to do with the things of God.

  Bill could see where the conversation was going and chose that moment to underline his lack of interest by sliding forward in his chair and moving to get up. “Well, I think I feel a prayer meeting coming on, so if y’all will excuse—”

  Pat motioned for him to wait. “Hang on a second. You’ll want to hear this.”

  Bill allowed his skepticism to show. “Hear what?”

  Pat looked at Missy. “Do you want to tell them?”

  She spoke without taking her eyes off the dog. “You better do it.”

  So Pat told it. He didn’t have to embellish what they learned on their trip; someone was looking for Mose and Bill, and a reliable old man in Mississippi was convinced they were going to be found. Each of the four people on the porch was a veteran of at least one deadly encounter with the demonic realm, and each of them had lost at least one loved one. While Pat talked, Mose and Bill drew their own mental pictures of what might be in store.

  “Well, I’ll be,” said Mose when Pat finished. “You know, I ain’t got a impatient bone in my body, but I reckon I wouldn’t be surprised if we was to get found out real soon.”

  “You sound mighty relaxed for a man who knows what demons can do.” Missy’s dread wanted company.

  Mose’s eyes were on the trees in the front yard, unseeing. “Relaxed ain’t a good word for how I feels, but I got better things to do than to start frettin’ over somethin’ that I ain’t got no control of.”

  Missy chewed the inside of her cheek while she frowned at Mose. Finally, she said, “I’ve been in the middle of three of these things . . . an’ I lost a friend in every dadgum one of ’em.” She shuddered when she took a breath. “We never have kept the demons from killin’ people . . . good people.”

  Mose’s gaze moved out to the trees in the Erwins’ pasture; his voice was gentle. “You takin’ that up with the wrong person, child.”

  “Yes, sir. I guess you’re right.” It wasn’t her nature to give in, but Mose was practically quoting the Bible. She went back to petting the dog.

  Mose turned his full attention on the girl. He didn’t smile. “Now, I ain’t sayin’ I want to be in the middle of no fight, child. I’m gettin’ old, an’ slow . . . an’ I been waitin’ a long time to see what God’s fixin’ to do. If I’m on His side, I reckon there ain’t no way I can come up short, an’ I reckon them demons or bad folks wouldn’t be the only ones what gets to see what God’s got planned . . . I might get a little peek myself. All I got to do is figure where I want to be when it comes.”

  “I agree,” said Pat. “I don’t know how much help we’ll be, but I like the thought of having you standing near us.”

  “I been thinkin’ ’bout that,” said Mose, “an’ you might be right. At the same time, I hates to see y’all get drawed into it.”

  Missy and Pat were both shaking their heads. Missy said, “You’ve already said that if we’re on God’s side we can’t lose.” She reached out and touched her old friend’s arm. “You an’ I have stood too close for too long to start thinkin’ about lettin’ ourselves get separated.”

  Bill’s chair was on the edge of the circle and so was his interest; he’d been massaging his knee and listening halfheartedly while Pat talked. The cool air was encouraging his sore muscles to stiffen. When the discussion started between Missy and Mose, he began to shift back and forth in his chair, trying to get comfortable. During a lull in the conversation, he said, “If God is supposed to be protecting us, why would He let these demons or the Bainbridges find us?”

  “For the same reason He does everythin’ else,” said Mose, “to bring glory to Hi’self.”

  Mann didn’t try to contain his exasperation. “By getting people killed.”

  “It ain’t somethin’ we called to understand . . . an’ we won’t ’til we gits to Heaven,” explained Mose. He made a wide, sweeping motion with his hand. “God sees all the tomorrows at a glance . . . every minute of ’em. Me an’ you can’t see nothin’ but now an’ yesterday.”

  “Then what about me?” asked Mann.

  Missy looked up. “You?”

  “Yeah . . . me. If there’s a decision to be made about where Mose and I go and what we do, shouldn’t I get to have an opinion?”

  “Sorry, Bill,” Pat said. “I don’t think we intentionally left you out. You’ve got as much say-so here as anyone else.”

  “Good,” he grumbled, “because I t
hink it’s obvious that old man in Mississippi is just guessing, and I’m not interested in planning a fight with goblins. Besides that, if we have to change our identities again, my entry into the Air Force could be delayed.” He shifted in his chair again. “I say we stay here.”

  Bill’s mild flare-up shifted Missy’s mood in the wrong direction. Her brow furrowed, and she scooted forward in the swing, glaring at the youngest member of the council. “Well, there you are, folks. We’ve just gotten a short course in spiritual warfare from a man who starts raisin’ Cain every time somebody says the name of Jesus in his presence. I swear—”

  Mose held up his hand and said, “Here, now . . . let ’im speak, baby. He’s a growed man, an’ God ain’t called us to tell him how to think.”

  “He’s not grown,” she snapped. “He’s a hardheaded, eighteen-year-old brat who —”

  Pat touched a finger to his lips and shook his head. “Easy, hon. Let’s not start throwing the furniture.”

  Missy wasn’t amused. “You and Mose can act calm an’ cool if you—”

  Her husband touched her arm and quoted part of one of her favorite Bible verses, “. . . yet with gentleness and reverence.”

  Missy clamped her mouth shut and glared at her husband. She knew he was right, but she didn’t have to like it.

  Bill waited until Missy sat back, then addressed himself directly to her, mirroring her frown as he spoke. “The first time I met you and Pat, I told you I wasn’t interested in anything about God, and y’all said you wouldn’t try to cram this religion stuff down my throat. If you’ve changed your mind, you need to say so.”

  Over the past two years, when Missy and Bill argued, Pat stood between the two strong-willed almost-siblings and tried to teach them both how to make their points with light, not heat. Bill’s naturally even-tempered demeanor made him the more adept learner, and his inherent bent toward composure was the catalyst that kept their verbal encounters civil. On this occasion, his willingness to give his emotions a more relaxed rein fired Missy’s righteous indignation.