Clothed in Thunder

by Sheila Hollinghead

  He glanced at me for a second but did not speak.

  I bit my lip. “I’m sorry, Michael. You’ve never told me about your troubles, and I have no right to assume mine have been worse than yours.”

  He sighed heavily.

  “What?” I asked.

  He grimaced but did not look at me. “Your pain is my pain.” He stared out the windshield at the road.

  My heart constricted. Was it easier to endure suffering or watch someone suffer? Did he love me that much, to hurt when I hurt? To maybe hurt more? I cleared my throat. “Michael, drinking just causes more pain in the long run—for everyone.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Maybe. But I’ve been drinking so long, I don’t know if I can live sober.”

  “Couldn’t you try?”

  He shot me a look. “Why? What’s the point?”

  He wouldn’t even try? My heart broke. I was now sorry I had talked Michael into this trip. I leaned my head out the window again, letting the air flow over me, cooling my hot cheeks.

  Chapter 33—Michael’s Friend

  Michael remained silent until we reached the bridge that led to Hartfield. “Do you know where your uncle’s brother lives?”

  “No.”

  “Can you remember anything he has said about his brother? Anything?”

  I furrowed my brow and held my head between my palms, massaging my temples. “Flatrock. He mentioned Flatrock. That’s all I know.”

  “We’ll stop and ask someone.”

  We spotted a group of people gathered on a street corner, at a bus stop, and Michael pulled over.

  I stuck my head out of the window. “Do you know where Flatrock is located?”

  The two men shrugged their shoulders. A short woman who was almost as wide as she was tall trotted over to us.

  “Flatrock?” she asked.

  “Yes, we’re looking for Mr. Barnett. He lives in Flatrock.”

  She shook her head. “Never heard of him. There’s no Flatrock in Hartfield that I know of.”

  My heart sank. We’d never find Uncle Howard. This was a wasted trip. In more ways than one.

  The woman leaned her elbows on the car and peered in at us. “But there is a Flatrock outside of New Hope.”

  “Really? Can you tell us how to get there?”

  “Sure. I can draw you a map if you got paper and pencil handy.”

  Michael rummaged among his books in the floorboard and came up with a piece of paper and a stub of a pencil.

  The woman leaned on the hood of the car and placed the pencil lead between her lips to wet it. She laboriously drew a map.

  I gave her a wave as we drove away. I studied the map she had drawn.

  Michael tapped his fingers against the steering wheel as we drove along. “Are you going to help me find the streets she marked?”

  “Yeah. But I may get us lost. I can’t find my way out of a sack.”

  Sure enough, we had to turn around once when I saw the sign too late, but a few twists and turns later, we found the small community of Flatrock.

  The sun peeked out from behind clouds, now hanging low in the sky. It was getting late.

  Michael turned down a side road, trying to find someone we could ask. A boy who looked to be in his early teens rode a bicycle in front of us. Michael drove past him, and I jumped out of the truck to flag the boy down.

  “Do you know a Mr. Aaron Barnett?”

  “Reckon I do. He lives next door to me.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. This was easier than I thought. “Do you happen to know his brother, Howard Barnett?”

  “I seen him a few times.”

  “Have you seen him today?”

  “Matter of fact, I have. He was at church this morning with his brother.”

  “Thank you so much. Don’t tell him I was asking about him, please?”

  The boy’s eyes brimmed with curiosity, but he agreed.

  “Thanks again.” I climbed back in the truck and turned to Michael. “Are you sure we can’t go see how he is? Try to convince him to get help for his drinking?”

  Michael shook his head. “This is between him and your aunt. None of our business.”

  “That boy will probably tell him we were looking for him.”

  “Can’t help that. We got to get back, anyway. It’s getting late.” He backed into a drive to turn the truck around.

  “I wish there was someplace we could get something to drink.”

  He threw a glance at me and shrugged. “Everything’s closed on Sunday.”

  We drove in silence for a few more minutes before Michael spoke again. “I do have a friend from college who lives near here. We can swing by his house if you want to.”

  “That would be great. I’m about to perish.”

  “Okay. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we pulled into the yard of one of the biggest houses I had ever seen. A large porch wrapped around the entire house. Large columns flanked the wooden porch steps.

  But the white paint peeled, and the steps sagged. Even though the house and yards were neglected, they still retained a sense of grandeur.

  When I walked up the steps with Michael, I felt a chill run up my spine. Fear surged through me, and I fought down the urge to run back to the truck. I stayed close by Michael’s side as he knocked on the door.

  We heard shuffling of feet, and the door opened revealing a toothless, bent over woman.

  “Yes?” Her voice was a whistle through her toothless gums.

  “Is Paul home?” Michael asked.

  The old woman looked us up and down, scratching a hairy chin. “Wait right here. I’ll go get him.”

  A young man, his hair neatly combed and his face cleanly shaven, appeared at the door a few minutes later. “Michael!” he cried.

  They embraced like long-lost brothers.

  “Come in, come in.” He held the door wide.

  Michael glanced at me. “Jay, this is Paul Miller. Paul, Sarah Jane Hunter.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. I held out my hand, and his hand grasped mine in a warm handshake.

  “Nice to meet you.” He grinned at us.

  “Sorry to butt in on you like this ...”

  “You’re always welcome!”

  “Jay was hoping for a drink of water.”

  Paul smiled. “Come on to the kitchen, and I’ll fix you up.”

  We followed him into a large kitchen, his friendliness doing nothing to ease the feeling of fear still within me. A large table made of knotted pine, darkened with age, stood in the middle of the room. Twelve high-backed, sturdy-looking chairs surrounded it.

  Paul pulled out one for me, and Michael sat down across from me. Paul bustled around and brought us glasses of iced tea.

  “Are you hungry? I can whip up something.” He glanced from Michael to me.

  When my stomach growled, Michael and Paul both laughed.

  I smiled. “Actually, I haven’t eaten all day. If it’s not too much trouble ...”

  “No, not at all.” He whipped an apron off a peg and tied it around his waist. Then he opened the icebox and got out three eggs. “How about an omelet?”

  “A what?” I asked.

  “An omelet. I guarantee you’ll love it.”

  “Sure. That’ll be great. “

  “I’ll have it done in a jiffy.” He got a match and lit the burner on the stove. “My granny and I are the only two of my family here today. Everyone else has gone to a neighbor’s. Their daughter was getting married.” He took down an iron skillet that hung on the wall and placed it on the gas stove. “Someone has to stay with Granny. It was my turn today.”

  Paul seemed at odds with the decrepit house. But, even his charm could not erase the sense of uneasiness I felt as he prepared the omelet.

  Chapter 34—The Fortune

  The meal was as delicious as Paul had promised. I savored every bite of the omelet. After our meal, we carried our coffee cups to the back porch. The
old woman sat there, staring toward a large pond.

  “This is my great-grandmother, Esther Miller,” Paul said. “Granny, this is Sarah Jane and Michael.”

  I took her gnarled hand in mine, and she patted my hand with crooked fingers.

  It was peaceful on the back porch although getting chilly after the rain we had. An afghan draped over the back of the chair, and I asked if I could use it. Paul nodded, and I wrapped it around my shoulders as I took a seat. The frogs sang at the pond as the dusk gathered. They would soon be gone.

  “Good time to fish,” Paul said. “Do y’all want to go wet a hook?”

  Michael looked at me. “If Jay wants to ...”

  I waved a hand. “You two go. I’ll just wait here, if that’s okay, Paul.”

  “Sure. Won’t take long to catch a mess of fish. We’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  The two left.

  Paul’s granny studied me. “When are you and your young man getting hitched?”

  “My young man?”

  “Michael, weren’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. His name’s Michael. But he’s not my young man. We’re not planning on getting married.”

  She smiled her toothless grin. “You finished with your coffee?”

  I placed it to my lips to drain the last of it. “Yes, ma’am. Did you want me to go get you some?”

  “No, no. I’m going to read your grounds.”

  “Read my grounds?”

  “This is what I a want ya to do. Flip the cup upside down and turn it ‘round three times, a saying these words. Meech, meech, merach, merash, meech, merash.”

  My mouth dropped open. Was Paul’s granny crazy? She was so old dementia had probably set in. I decided to humor her.

  I did as she said, feeling foolish as I said the words. I handed the cup to her. When my fingers touched hers, a thrill ran up my spine, and goose bumps appeared on my arms.

  Nevertheless, or, perhaps, because of my unease, I moved my chair closer to hers and leaned to look into the cup as she did. She slowly twirled the cup around in her fingers, not saying anything for a full five minutes. And then she spoke. Surprisingly, her voice no longer whistled. She spoke emphatically and clearly.

  “You will marry Michael when his battle with demons ceases. You will have great sorrow when he travels over the ocean. But his faith and courage is strong, and he will come back to you, broken, but not beyond repair. You will be blessed with five children and numerous grandchildren. Thirteen? No, fourteen. Your children will rise up and praise you in your old age. You and Michael will live together for fifty-four years before the Lord calls him home. Again you will grieve, but not as one who has no hope. You will live sixteen more years, still vigorous of mind and body before you meet your Lord and Savior.” She handed me back my cup.

  I held it loosely in my hands and stared at her. Emotions swirled through me. Hope, anger, joy, and finally disgust. How dare she say these things to me! Feeding me such foolishness. Michael and I would never marry. I knew that now. And why would he travel over the ocean? Ridiculous.

  Before I said anything I would regret, I leaped to my feet and hurried back to the kitchen.

  I leaned against the counter and peered down at the coffee grounds. They just looked like coffee grounds. Nothing more. I turned to the sink and washed our dirty dishes.

  I had calmed some when Michael and his friend came back. But my insides felt like jelly.

  Michael and I gave our thanks for the hospitality and walked toward his truck. The temperature had plunged, and I shivered. Michael staggered beside me, and I clutched his arm.

  When he came to a stop, I took a sniff, and the unmistakable smell of whiskey assaulted my nose. “Michael!”

  He glanced at me, bleary eyed. “What’s wrong?”

  “You smell like a brewery.”

  “Paul was drinking. He must have spilled some on me.”

  “Spilled some down your throat, you mean.”

  “Why are you so upset?”

  “You’re in no shape to drive. You’re drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk. I just had a couple of drinks.”

  “You just lied to me. You said you didn’t drink with Paul at all. Now you say a couple. In a minute it’ll be four or five drinks.” I poked a finger in his chest. “

  Michael shook his head. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  Tears began, but I blinked them away. Paul’s grandmother telling me I would marry him — a drunk. Why had she told me such foolish things?

  My hands shook with anger. “Give me the keys.”

  “I told you I’m not drunk. I can drive fine.”

  “I’m not getting in the truck with you unless you let me drive.”

  “Fine.” He yanked the keys from his pocket and threw them to me.

  “You’re the reason, you know.” He didn’t bother opening the door for me. Instead, he climbed in the passenger side and slammed the door.

  After I got in, I faced him. “The reason for what? Your drinking? I thought we already talked about this.”

  “No, the reason I’m not attending church.” He shook his head slowly, as if clearing away cobwebs. “I don’t know if I believe in God anymore ... I don’t understand the world. All the pain and sorrow.” He shook his head more vehemently. “I don’t understand God.”

  His words slurred slightly, and he slumped forward in the seat. I felt a pang of compassion, but my anger stuffed it away.

  “Why try to understand someone you don’t believe in?” I cranked the truck.

  He raked his hair back. “I don’t know. I just don’t understand why he is making me go through this ... if he does exist.”

  “Go through what?”

  He remained silent for a moment before swinging a hand in dismissal. “Just things.”

  “I have no idea what you are going through ...” My voice cracked.

  “No, you have no idea.”

  I touched his arm. “But even in dark times, the light is still there. No matter how deep the night, the sun shines somewhere in the world.” I backed out of the drive. I drove in silence for a few miles before I spoke again.

  “Michael?”

  “Yes?”

  I paused. “Do you think that old woman was peculiar?”

  “Paul’s grandmother?”

  “His great-grandmother,” I corrected.

  “No more peculiar than anyone else. Why?”

  “She told my fortune.” I cast a glance in his direction. “I know it was just a bunch of silliness. Still, it was really strange.”

  “How did she tell your fortune?”

  “She read my coffee grounds.”

  “Coffee grounds? I’ve heard of tea leaves but not coffee grounds.” He laughed.

  I shivered. “It wasn’t funny. She scared me.”

  “Did she say something bad was going to happen?”

  “No ... not bad. I guess mostly good things.”

  “Like what?”

  “She said I would have five children ... things like that.”

  He laughed again. “It’s hard to imagine you with children.”

  “What do you mean?” I said, indignant.

  “Oh, I know you’d be a great mother. You’re so good with Zeke. I just mean you’re so young.”

  “Thanks, old man.”

  He laughed again before he twisted in the seat to stare at my profile.

  I tossed a sideways glance at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I think you need to know something ...” He stared at me so sorrowfully that it scared me.

  “What?”

  “Your uncle is not an alcoholic.”

  “He’s not? How do you know?”

  “Jay, I know the signs. Your uncle doesn’t drink.”

  Just because Michael drank didn’t mean he knew what he was talking about. There was no other explanation for the bottles. But there wouldn’t be any need to argue with Michael as drunk as he was.

  I manage
d a smile. “That’s good to know.” I didn’t say anything else.

  Michael leaned back and soon slept.

  I shook my head. Paul’s granny was crazy.

  Just a crazy old woman . . .

  Chapter 35—Returning

  It was midnight when we pulled up in Aunt Liza’s yard. Michael stretched and yawned and looked around in confusion.

  The house was ablaze with lights, and three cars were parked out front.

  “I wonder what’s going on,” I said. Chance met me, and I took a minute to pat his sides before walking in with Michael.

  The sitting room bulged with people. Aunt Liza broke free from the preacher when she saw me. To my astonishment she burst into tears.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  She wiped away the tears as several people gathered around us, including Daniel.

  “Daniel! What are you doing here?”

  His face was grim, and he clenched his teeth without speaking.

  I turned back to Aunt Liza. “What’s going on?”

  “I didn’t know where you were.” She broke into tears again.

  “What do you mean? I left a note.” I searched the faces circling us.

  The preacher pointed a finger at me. “We were organizing a search party to find you. This is not funny, young lady.”

  “Where have you been?” Aunt Liza asked.

  Daniel still hadn’t spoken, but he glared at Michael. I looked around. Would Aunt Liza want me to say where we had been in front of all these people?

  I cleared my throat. “Michael and I went for a ride.”

  “A ride? You’ve been gone for hours and hours.” Aunt Liza crushed me against her until I could barely breathe.

  I loosened her arms from around me. “I left a note on the kitchen table,” I said again.

  The preacher coughed. “Are you accustomed to keeping such late hours?” He, too, glared at Michael.

  I strove to keep my temper. “We just lost track of time.”

  “Since the young lady’s safe, we’ll say goodnight.” The preacher’s face still retained the sour look he had greeted me with.

  “I’m sorry for all the trouble,” I said. “I don’t know what could have happened to the note. I’m really sorry.”