5 Death, Bones, and Stately Homes

by Valerie S. Malmont

  "Wow," was all I could think of saying. "That's a real success story. How long ago did you get out?

  "Been nearly a year. And I've been clean and sober for four years. 'Course it's easier to stay clean in jail than outside, you know"

  "I can imagine," I said softly. And to my surprise I found I really could.

  The front loader finished cleaning the street, and within minutes we were on the interstate, heading south.

  "Where are we going?" was my hopeful question. I tried to make myself look very small in the hope that no one would see me.

  Why? I asked myself. Why am I embarrassed by this? Was I feeling guilt over the fact I never went to church and now I was riding in one? Was I diminished by someone else's strong faith? Did it make me nervous to be in the company of a former convict? I answered yes to everything, which didn't exactly make me feel proud.

  He pulled into the major highway truck stop, a place identified by huge signs advertising Family Cooking, Free Showers, Diesel Fuel, and Laundry Facilities.

  "This is it," Haley announced. He went through a series of impressive manipulations, which moved the big rig through the parking lot and brought it to a stop.

  "Now what?"

  "I call the faithful to worship, of course."

  "I should have thought of that."

  "Come back with me," he said. "I'll show you around before the service."

  It was another humiliating experience, but I had to let him help me get out. I'd never realized those cabs were up so high.

  He flung open the wide double doors on the back of the truck and pulled a small flight of steps out.

  "After you," he said with a sweeping arm gesture.

  Even with the steps, I needed an embarrassing boost up.

  The interior of the truck had been converted into a small chapel. The sides were paneled in dark walnut, on which the stations of the cross had been painted in bright acrylics. For pews there were four short wood benches bolted into the floor. In the front was a lectern decorated with a cross, and on either side of it were two potted palm trees. Behind it was a paneled wall, a storage area, I guessed from the handles and hinges that broke the expanse of wood.

  Haley flipped a switch. I expected lights to come on, but instead an invisible organ blasted "Amazing Grace" into the air.

  "Now we wait," he said, leaning on the lectern. "You can have the front pew."

  The chapel was hot and stuffy, and I found myself wishing I hadn't worn pantyhose or the blue-and-white dress that had always been the appropriate choice for city dating but seemed so wrong right now.

  The chorus of "Amazing Grace" was repeating for the third or fourth time when the first worshiper climbed into the truck. His rolled-up white T-shirt sleeves revealed burly arms covered with tattoos. I was entranced by the skull with a dagger protruding from it because beneath it was the word MOTHER.

  After three more men joined us, Haley checked his watch and winked at me. "Here we go," he said. "Good evening, gentlemen and lady. Welcome to Church on the Go. Tonight's sermon is based on Romans six, twenty-twenty-three, `For when ye were the servants of sin, ye were free from righteousness.' Where will you be on Judgment Day? In Heaven or in Hell? The choice is yours."

  It bothered me that I found his performance fascinating. And performance it was. Haley was a cross between television evangelist Benny Hinn and Mick Jagger, as he strutted, pounded the lectern, waved his arms, roared, whispered, laughed, and even wept. He shared his "experience, strength, and hope" as he told of his years in prison, finding salvation at AA meetings there, and finally his conversion to Christianity and the discovery that he had been called to the ministry. There wasn't a dry eye among the worshipers, and that included myself, as Haley finished his sermon with, "`For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.' Let us sing his praises."

  He bent over and pushed a button on the boom box that was nearly hidden behind one of the potted palm trees, and a gospel choir sang out "By the Waters of Babylon."

  Sweat poured from his brow as he danced and sang along with the music. His small congregation joined in the singing with more enthusiasm than ability, and often punctuated the refrain with "Amen, brother," and "Hallelujah." I felt myself carried away by the genuine emotion in the chapel and was exhausted when Haley finally paused.

  He raised his arms signaling for silence. "Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, `It is more blessed to give than to receive.' There is a basket by the door. Please give generously so that we may carry the message to others less fortunate than ourselves. And don't forget there are both AA and NA meetings at the truck stop every night at eight. I urge you to take advantage of them."

  The men filed out, but not before each had deposited a goodsized roll of bills in the basket.

  Haley emptied the basket, counted the bills, and said, "Let's go eat."

  "Do we have to take the church with us?"

  "Would you rather ride my motorcycle?"

  "Yes," I said. Anything would be better than pulling up to a restaurant in his tractor-trailer.

  He slid open a panel behind his pulpit and wheeled out a large black Honda. "Just slide that board over to the back and drop it," he said, pointing to a long plank along one side of the truck. He rode the motorcycle down the makeshift ramp, shoved the board back into the truck, slammed the doors shut, locked up, straddled the motorcycle, and said, "Mount up."

  No longer was Haley the shy Gary Cooper/Jimmy Stewart clone I'd met in the Waffle Shoppe. Now he was a combination of Marlon Brando's Wild One and James Dean's Rebel Without a Cause.

  I hoisted my skirt as far up as the law would allow and threw one leg over the seat behind him. There went the pantyhose.

  With me clinging to his waist, my cheek pressed against the JAILBIRDS FOR JESUS jacket, we sailed onto the interstate.

  A few minutes later, we were back in Lickin Creek, where he turned into the parking lot of one of the town's many bowling alleys. Lickin Creek had not only a plethora of churches, but more bowling alleys than the rest of the tristate area of Pennsylvania, Maryland, and West Virginia.

  By now I felt as if I'd lost all control of my life, and I meekly followed my date inside.

  For once, more people seemed to know me than him. Ordinarily being recognized in my chosen hometown was gratifying, but tonight, for the first time, I longed for anonymity.

  The latest girl to serve as the receptionist for the Lickin Creek police force looked surprised and scratched her scalp through her enormous platinum beehive, and when she leaned over to whisper to her companion her eyes never left my face.

  Cassie, from the Lickin Creek Chronicle, was there with a gaggle of pre-teenage girls. "My niece's birthday," she said when she came by to plant a kiss on my cheek.

  Despite her obvious curiosity, I didn't introduce her to Haley.

  I saw my dental hygienist, who reminded me it was nearly time for my checkup. I saw the clerk from the convenience store where I often picked up my morning cup of coffee. I recognized two of Greta's AA friends, a shoe salesman from Sears, and the director of the Sigafoos Home for the Aged. For every person I recognized, it was obvious that a dozen more knew who I was. That city slicker was out for a night on the town. That gal what burned down the historical society. You know her, the one who got dear old Senator Macmillan killed.

  Haley claimed an alley. "What size shoes do you wear?" he asked, gazing down at my scuffed white heels.

  "Seven."

  "Funny, I'd have thought your feet were bigger than that. At least they looked bigger when you was wearing sneakers."

  He walked over to the counter to rent bowling shoes for us, and I sat down hard. His words about my shoes reminded me of what he'd said shortly after picking me up tonight. Something about my looking better than I had earlier. How did he know what I'd looked like? When had he seen me in sneakers? What was going on?

  I asked him when he came back, and he smiled and said he'd been to
Morgan Manor earlier to pick up the wife of a friend. Hadn't I seen him there? I hadn't, and although I wasn't satisfied with his answer, I couldn't think of any reason why I shouldn't be.

  Dinner was a slice of pizza and a soda eaten between frames. With a little coaching from Haley and a dozen raucous onlookers, I managed to get the ball down the alley more than half the time. Haley chivalrously said gutter balls didn't count against me, but from the guffaws and hoots of the bowlers around me, I gathered he was making that rule up.

  I decided to stop and rest on my laurels when I finally scored over sixty on a game. We shared a soda, he personally bade goodbye to each and every person there, and then he drove me home. At the front door he looked expectantly at me. Was he hoping for a kiss? I didn't wait around to find out.

  "Thanks for a lovely evening," I said robotically as I just about leaped through the door. I slammed it shut behind me, threw the dead bolt for probably the first time since it had been installed, and pressed my back against the door. I stayed that way until I heard the motorcycle roar down the road. Only then did I realize I'd been holding my breath. "What a night," I said to myself. "It just can't get any worse than this."

  The grandfather clock in the hall chimed. As Ethelind had predicted, I was home by ten.

  "Tori? Tori? Is that you?" Ethelind's shrill voice drifted through the empty rooms and assaulted me in the hallway.

  Before I could respond, she was there, looking even more frazzled than usual. "Oh Tori. I'm so sorry..." She threw her arms around me in a bear hug.

  I pulled back from her unexpected embrace. "It was an awful date," I said, "but it wasn't that bad."

  A look of horror swept over her face. "Oh my dear, you don't know... you haven't heard..."

  "What?" I snapped. "What are you talking about?"

  She took my hand and pulled me into the parlor where she watched TV every evening in a blue haze of cigarette smoke. The set was on, tuned to one of the twenty-four-hour news stations.

  "It's been on all evening. I thought you'd know. Sit down, my dear." She turned the volume up.

  I stared at her first, then the TV, trying to figure out what the heck she was talking about. That's when the announcer read, "And this just in from the Department of State. There is still no word on the fate of Ambassador Grantham Livingston Miracle, his wife, and their six-month-old baby. Members of the rebel forces who have assassinated the king and taken possession of the royal palace say they have no knowledge of the family's whereabouts. More in half an hour, but first a look at cholesterol. Is it really as bad for you as your doctor says?"

  Did I hear correctly? "This is a dream, right? I'm sleeping, and I'm going to wake up and everything's going to be okay."

  "I'll get some tea. And one of your Snickers bars, too." Ethelind patted me awkwardly on the shoulder and scurried out of the room.

  Eleven

  The next few days sped past in a blur. The TV was on constantly; the news never changed. My father, his new bride, Tyfani, and their baby, Billy, were still among the missing. The embassy was under siege, the Marine guards had been taken prisoner. Whoever said, "No news is good news" hadn't been in the situation of wondering what had happened to her family. Any news, even if it were bad, would have been better than the nightmare of not knowing.

  I was interviewed by telephone several times by different networks, but the small African nation where my father was the U.S. ambassador was not considered important enough to bring a TV crew to Lickin Creek, and for that I was grateful. I didn't need news teams on the front lawn to make the tragedy any more real.

  Besides the telephone interviewers, I was surprised that many Lickin Creekers called to express their concern and offer support. People from other areas of my life also called. Murray Rosenbaum, my New York neighbor and best friend there, was the first. After telling me how sorry he was to hear of my father's predicament, he told me my subletter had temporarily moved a family of six into my two-room apartment. "But they're all very nice, and I'm sure they'll be gone before your landlord finds out."

  Former classmates in Bali, Okinawa, and Laos telephoned. Even my editor rang to say she was rushing my book to print to take advantage of the publicity.

  I spoke to Haley once, but when he kept calling, I asked Ethelind to tell him I was out. She counted twelve attempts to reach me, each ending with "I'll pray for you." The thirteenth time I took the receiver from her, and told Mr. Haley Haley never to bother me again. When he asked why, I told him the truth. My emotions were so raw and close to the surface by that time that I didn't care if I hurt his feelings or not. I told him we had absolutely nothing in common, I didn't want to see him again, and he was annoying the bejeezus out of me. He did not try again, so I guess I got the message through. And I felt terrible. He was a nice guy and didn't deserve to be treated so rudely.

  After that I let the answering machine take messages, rather than one of us running to the phone every time it rang.

  Greta, Garnet's sister, was the first person to leave a message. After telling me how sorry she was to hear the bad news, she continued, talking mysteriously about black cocktail dresses and how she knew I had a nice one. And why was I so fearful of making commitments?

  P.J. left a message telling me the Hissongs were furious that I'd missed covering the wedding, but she understood I was under a lot of stress, and that I should take some time off, but could I please write a short article about how all this was affecting me for next week's edition?

  There was only one person who hadn't been in touch. And that was Garnet. Even though I knew we were no longer a couple, it hurt me that he didn't think enough of me to console me during the worst moment of my life. If the situation had been reversed, I would have called him. At least I was pretty sure I would have.

  By Monday, Memorial Day, nothing had changed except that my father had become old news. He was apparently not significant enough to even rate a mention on the evening news, and even the Harrisburg newspaper gave the story only an inch on the bottom of the third page.

  I hadn't slept since Thursday night and had eaten next to nothing. Ethelind had done her best all weekend long to distract me by preparing some of her specialties. But not even her famous toad-in the-hole, bubble and squeak, steak and kidney pie, or bread pudding could tempt me to eat. She finally threw her hands in the air at noon on Monday and ordered in a couple of pepperoni pizzas.

  "This hits the spot," I said gratefully, as I picked up a fourth slice.

  She sighed as she lit her tenth or twentieth cigarette of the day. Obviously, to her, I was an unrefined slob of uneducated tastes. "I'll fix some coffee for you," she said. "Then I've got to be off to my office to finish some research." Ethelind was a professor of early English literature at the college. Her actual classroom time seemed to occupy only a few hours a week, but she took offense the time I commented on that and reminded me of how much time she devoted to class preparation and researching material for her book on the use of contractions in medieval literature.

  Revived by real food and several cups of coffee, I decided work would take my mind off my worries. I'd write up that article P.J. wanted for the Chronicle. Putting my feelings down on paper was always an emotional release for me.

  Alone at last. I drank a last cup of coffee and enjoyed the silence and absence of cigarette smoke. After a few peaceful minutes, I decided it was time to get to work. Ethelind kept a mug full of sharpened pencils on the counter and paper in one of the top drawers. "Never know when an idea will pop into my head that I need to jot down," she'd said. Rather than hike through miles of corridors and up the stairs to my bedroom to retrieve one of my own notebooks, I decided to use her supplies. I opened the drawer, and stared aghast at the tangle of tape, string, pens, paper clips, and miniature pencil sharpeners. I pulled out two staplers, a hole puncher, a roll of thirty-two-cent stamps from several years ago, a tin box of breath mints, and some ancient TV Guides before I finally found a dogeared tablet. It had been a long time, I t
hought, since Ethelind had been seized by an idea she needed to jot down.

  I flipped through the tablet, hoping to find some sheets near the bottom that didn't look quite so worn, and as I did, a square envelope, which had been stuck between two sheets of paper, fell to the floor.

  I started to put it back into the drawer, when I took a closer look at the envelope, which appeared to have been handmade from a grocery bag, and saw it was addressed to me. "What the...?" I quickly opened it and extracted a card made of the same brown-bag paper.

  What it was, was an invitation to the wedding of Greta Gochenauer Carbaugh to Buchanan McCleary. I glanced at the wall calendar and saw the date was the third Saturday in June. A note was included, on recycled paper according to the imprint on the back of the page, which asked that in lieu of gifts, donations be made to Trout Unlimited or the Lickin Creek Greenaway Association. And penciled on the bottom of that note was a personal note to me. "Tori," I read, "why haven't you called me back? There are other people I can ask if you don't want to do it. Greta."

  The handwritten note attached to the wedding invitation I'd never seen was nearly as mysterious as Greta's phone call had been, so I picked up the phone and punched in her number.

  "Tori. What a surprise." Greta's voice was so cool and distant that I knew immediately I'd done something wrong, but I had no idea what it was.

  I explained about finding her wedding invitation in Ethelind's stationery drawer. "And I'm sorry, but I don't understand the note you wrote."

  "Are you telling me the truth, Tori?"

  Annoyed, I snapped, "Why would I lie to you? Will you please tell me what's going on? If you're upset because I haven't RSVP'd, I'm sorry about that, but I really never saw the invitation until two minutes ago. And of course I'll come."

  "But why didn't you call me back after I left all those messages?"