He and Sam had the conversation again after lunch. Will suggested they sell the shop to Sam’s usual eye roll and sigh that said, not this again, without having to say it at all.
There was an investor looking at the property. No, it wouldn’t be a bookstore anymore, but they could get out with a small profit, if they were smart enough to act soon. The investor wasn’t stupid; it wouldn't be long before he could read the writing written all over the wall. The offer would vanish, and Will would be back to wishing for another opportunity. Hidden Wonders’ days were numbered, and the investor’s offer was generous, considering.
“Our customers love us,” Sam had said, optimism (and delusion) as thick in his blood as ever. “We know what books they like. We know what books to recommend. We know them. We care about them. You can’t get that at these new box stores, and you never will!”
“That’s not what people care about anymore,” Will said, feeling more defeated than ever. The recent months had beaten and battered their bank account. “How long are you gonna ignore the numbers?”
“I’m not ignoring the numbers,” Sam said, offended. “But I’m not willing to give up on our customers. People like Mrs. Williams, Mr. Jenkins, and Vince Patrella – just some of the people who rely on us, who come in every day, or every week. People we’ve come to know over the years who have made this place feel like a second home and them like family and friends. There are a few dozen more just like them. These people are loyal.”
Will didn’t have the heart to tell Sam that two weeks ago he’d seen Mrs. Williams, the same woman who said she’d rather die than step in one of those big soulless stores, walking out of the new bookstore with a bag full of books. Fortunately, she hadn’t seen Will. That would have been awkward. But he had seen her, and the writing wasn’t just on the wall, it was in every book on every shelf in the bookstore down the street. When someone like Mrs. Williams, a loyal customer for years, was buying books in bulk from the competition, Hidden Wonders would have to fight with both fists for a snowball’s chance in Hell.
And Will was getting too old to fight losing battles.
Their argument, if it could be called an argument at all, ended as it always did, at a stalemate, neither side willing to surrender or even back down an inch. Sam seemed destined to sink with his ship, making Will more or less stuck, unless he could change the captain’s stubborn mind. Sam was fiercely loyal. Though it was one of his best qualities in most areas, it clouded his business thinking and decision making. A little over a year ago, the town’s favorite bagel shop next door exploded in popularity. The owner needed to expand, and offered Will and Sam an extremely generous amount to sell their shop so he could knock the walls down, increasing his square footage. Will thought it was a no-brainer. But Sam wanted to stay put. The owner of the bagel shop decided to move when his lease was up, opening shop a half mile away. The opportunity, along with a lot of the bagel shop’s customers, would never return.
And now, as closing time – 9 p.m. – inched closer, Will wanted to get to the bar, meet with Sam for some drinks, and hope like hell the conversation wouldn’t come up again. Tonight, he just wanted to drink, forget, and have a good time. Tomorrow was his day off, and he intended to sleep in late. Really late. Maybe all day, if he could get away with it.
As Will began cleaning up and getting ready to close, the phone split the silence and sent a shiver down his spine. Before the first ring finished its chime, Will knew something was wrong.
Little did he know he’d wind up spending the entire night in the hospital.
**
Will sat in the hospital waiting room waiting forever for Trudy, Sam’s mom, who had to drive from Boca.
Trudy arrived, as she usually did anywhere she went, as a full-on spectacle. She raced over to Will, already half crying, “What happened?”
“A cop friend of mine called and said some men jumped Sam. Beat him up pretty bad. They’re not letting me see him though, since I’m not family.”
“Oh God,” Trudy wailed, “How can this happen?! Where did this happen? Why did this happen?”
“According to my friend, the men were calling him ‘fag’ and ‘homo’ over and over as they beat him, lots of blows to the face.”
Trudy looked around and demanded to see Will’s surgeon. One of the orderlies said she’d get someone. Trudy’s eyes bored into Will, “Where were you? Why didn’t you stop them?”
“I was at work,” Will said. “I was about to close shop and meet up with him. Happened just outside the bar where we meet every weekend. We’ve never had problems before.”
“Is it one of those . . . gay bars?” she asked, barely able to push the words from her mouth. Though Trudy had accepted her son’s lifestyle when he came out to her two years ago – or at least claimed she did – she could rarely utter any words associated with it. It seemed as if she felt ignoring that part of her son’s life would somehow make it go away, returning her life to how it used to be, before she knew.
“Yes, but it’s not some seedy joint,” Will said, “It’s a nice place, with a friendly atmosphere and the drink prices to prove it. We’ve never had anything like this happen before. There’s a few gay-friendly businesses in the area, and this just doesn’t happen in these parts.”
“So you go there, all the time?” Trudy asked, her voice thick with accusation.
“Like I said, it’s a great place to unwind,” Will said, growing impatient and defensive.
“I always knew you were bad news for Sam,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes.
“What?”
“It’s your fault. He didn’t go to places like . . . that, before . . . until you came along!”
Will wanted to scream.
Do you think I made your son gay? That he wasn’t that way before he met me?
But what was the point? That’s how Trudy thought, and how she always would. To her, being gay was a choice, and the wrong one. So she needed someone to blame for “making” her son gay. For his entire 40 years prior to meeting Will, Sam had been straight as an arrow. Then BAM!, Will turned his preference like some sort of gay vampire. It was ridiculous, but no easier to change than the weather.
Will bit his tongue, as was custom with Trudy. He’d let her have her drama, then wait for her to calm down, as she always did. Anything else would only make matters worse. Trudy was barely polite to Will on the best of days, even though Sam claimed she really did like him. There was no way he was going to get into an argument or try reasoning with her today. Sam could’ve been jumped outside of a church, and Trudy would find some way to blame his lifestyle or Will. Besides, some part of Will understood her anger. She was afraid. Hell, Will was afraid. Civility sometimes went out the window when you were afraid, especially when a loved one’s life was in danger.
The sound of the waiting room doors opening heralded the entrance of the surgeon. Trudy went to him so quickly, Will didn’t have time to follow. By the time he did, he would have felt like he were butting into the conversation. So he stayed put, about 20 feet away, tilting his body toward the conversation while trying not to be too obvious, watching Trudy’s reactions for any sign of what might be happening with Sam.
“A coma?!” she cried, “I want to see my son!”
A coma?
Will’s heart froze in his chest; the unthinkable suddenly reality – Sam could wind up a paraplegic, regardless of Will’s intervention. Had fate found a way around his loophole as it had so many times in the past?
He flashed back to the last words they’d had as Sam was leaving for the day. They were unkind. Will told Sam he was a fool, and they were going to lose everything on what, sentimentality and an unwillingness to let go and lean into the inevitable?
The surgeon led Trudy away from the waiting room.
Will started to follow, but the surgeon, a Greek man with dark eyes and darker hair, turned to him, and said, “Are you family?”
“He’s my boyfriend,” Will said. “We live togethe
r, so practically, yes.”
“No,” Trudy said, glaring back at Will. “He’s not family.”
They left Will standing in the hall, devastated, the words robbed from his mouth.
* * * *
WILL BISHOP: PART 2
Kingsland, Alabama
The Sanctuary
March 25
morning
“Jesus, that’s a giant cross!” Desmond said, pointing to the massive wooden cross erected overnight, or in the misty morning hours, in front of the church. It dwarfed the original cross, still standing to its left, by almost half, and looked sturdy enough to hang someone from.
“Is there a crucifixion on the schedule today?”
A chill ran down Will’s spine. The cross was even more menacing under the light of the sun than it had been in the shroud of his dreams. Given that everyone was already dressed in funeral black, a crucifixion didn’t seem entirely impossible, even if Will hadn’t seen it in his dreams.
“If you’re gonna take the Lord’s name in vain, I suppose that’s about as close as you can get to an appropriate use of blasphemy.” Will laughed, trying to smother his chill.
Desmond said, “This place just keeps getting weirder and weirder.”
“You’re telling me, ‘brother.’” Will said, and they both laughed.
They were on their way to breakfast, about 50 yards from the table, when Desmond pointed to The Sanctuary’s front gate. “You know anything about that?”
Will didn’t, but it took him approximately one second to not like it a bit. “No idea.” The sun was bright above, making the white of the snow scream below. He made a visor with his hand to improve his view, but it didn’t help much. “But it looks like we have a visitor.”
Brothers John and Rei were standing by the gate, huddled beside a handful of their most intimidating men. The stranger stood in front of the huddle, slightly inside The Sanctuary, too far for details beyond the dark thatch of hair and the familiar darkness Will had seen in his dreams too many times to count.
“Well, what do you think?” Desmond gestured toward the gate. “Does our new friend end up kneeling at the altar of New Unity, or does he get smart in the other direction?”
“Who knows. Has anything turned out as we expected? Maybe that guy out there,” Will nodded toward the gates, “ends up on that back there.” He threw his thumb behind him, toward the new cross. “All we can do now is watch, and wait.”
“Ah,” Desmond said, “the end of the world special.”
The men fell silent as they approached the breakfast table, which Mary, Paola, and Luca were already sitting at. A few others from the church were also seated at their table, neutering any real conversation.
Desmond pulled out his chair and sat directly across from Will. Both men folded their hands and waited for Morning Prayer. Will smiled at Mary and Paola and Luca, but didn’t see Linc at any of the other five tables. There was another few minutes of silence, and when it was clear that neither Brothers Rei or John, or The Prophet, were coming to lead grace, Brother Reginald stood and thanked The Good Lord for all they were about to receive.
Silverware clinked, a few people coughed, and the wood from the bench whispered as members of the congregation shifted in their seats. The silence was so loud it was nearly a scream. Paola couldn't take it. She dropped her fork with a clatter and yelled, “Isn’t anyone going to talk about him?”
Will didn’t think she and Scott had been all that close, but he kept the thought in the back of his head where it belonged, then reached for Paola across the table. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Some people like to grieve in silence. Just because no one’s saying anything, doesn’t mean they don’t care.”
“Scott was funny,” she said. “He wouldn't have wanted everyone to keep quiet.”
“Well then,” Will said, “let’s remember the good times. How about the time we were stuck in that warehouse for two days and had nothing to eat, and Scott made you the imaginary milkshake?” All eyes were on Will, even the ones that acted like they weren’t. “Now what was in that milkshake again?”
“It was a Jolly Rancher flavored milkshake, with rainbow sprinkles, chocolate chips, and magical drops from the sun to keep me warm.” Paola laughed, then wiped a tear from her eye. “And it was in a tall glass made from sugar crystals and Saturn rings.” Paola started laughing harder through her tears.
That was enough to get others at the table, those who hadn’t known him and had no right to really talk of him, to do just that, with more than a fair share of “he’s with the Good Lord now,” and “the Gates have swung open early for him.”
Will saw Desmond trying not to roll his eyes while grabbing Mary’s attention. But her mind seemed elsewhere, which would explain the gaze that was nowhere near Desmond. There was a new frosty layer between them that had to be a recent development. He wondered if they’d been in a fight, but the chill was only coming from Mary. He waited for her head to turn in his direction, then swallowed his mouthful of biscuit and said, “You okay?”
Mary nodded. Desmond’s eyes moved between her and Will, as though he wanted to know the same thing, and was sure one of them harbored the answer.
Mary and Desmond were always desperate for alone time, but had to wait until after breakfast each morning, when they could sneak away to the garden and steal a few minutes worth of whispers. But the funeral was scheduled for this morning, so they wouldn’t have their usual chance. Any whispers worth stealing would have to be stolen later.
Two of the older women in the congregation, whose names Will didn’t know, began clearing the tables as the rest of the congregation drifted like the black cloud it was out of the house, past the church and beyond the far wall, outside The Sanctuary and to the cemetery in the woods just beyond.
The iron gate whined open to a short, twisting path through the woods, leading to the ancient cemetery. Even if it wasn’t ancient by biblical standards, it was ancient for American soil, with a few newer headstones mingled among the mostly Civil War-era graves.
Will’s eyes were everywhere, but The Prophet was nowhere in sight. Not knowing where he was made Will feel like a target. The Prophet, Brother Rei, and John had been watching him more intently in recent days. Perhaps The Prophet had seen the same things Will had seen in his dream, and wanted to act before events unfolded as they would. Will’s hairs were on end as he searched for The Prophet. Fortunately, the mystery was cleared before the funeral started.
Brothers Rei and John approached the congregation with The Sanctuary’s new visitor one step behind. The visitor and John stayed at the back, as Brother Rei walked to the front and glanced at the hole in the ground, then turned his attention to the congregation. The corners of his mouth were heavy, dipping toward his almost nonexistent chin. He cleared his throat and said, “Before we get started, I must inform you, as deeply saddened as I am to do so, that The Prophet has taken ill, and is on bed rest for the day. He shall be well again soon, but I regret that I must step in and administer today’s ceremony.”
Brother Rei lowered his head, then clutched the Bible to his chest with one hand while raising the other to the sky. He held his pose for more than a minute, then raised his head and moved his eyes across the congregation. Will wondered if any of the people standing with hands folded and eyes on Brother Rei wanted him to get the hell on with it, or whether they were happy to stand in the stinging cold while he milked the moment of every drop. Brother Rei might be third in charge, but he may as well have been second, the way he enjoyed the spotlight. John was more of a silent partner in the church, while Brother Rei desperately wanted to be as charismatic as The Prophet was.
“We are gathered here together to celebrate a young life ascended to Heaven. Brother Scott was taken from our flock too early, yes, but we have no reason to mourn. For Brother Scott was called Home and ushered through the Gates; Brother Scott now has what we are all waiting here to get. Our Good Brother Scott most certainly received his Heavenly rewar
d for his hard work, ridding this world of Demons, which is what he was in the thick of doing when he was called home by the Good Lord Himself.”
That was all Brother Rei managed before Luca fled the funeral, crying.
Will was suddenly grateful that Luca was only a boy inside the shell of a man, giving him the perfect excuse to run off and leave. And since a boy shouldn't be wandering through a Demon-infested forest alone, Will would be happy to do the Good Lord’s work and look after him.
Will followed Luca back to his Quiet Spot, where he sat with his head in his chest, buried beneath gangly arms, looking every bit of eight as he did sixteen.
“You okay?”
Luca looked up, nodded at Will, then buried his head back where it belonged.
“What are you thinking in that head of yours? You don’t mind telling me, right? You can trust me. Remember, I’m the man with the lobster tacos. I flew you all the way across the country. And plus,” Will smiled. “I’ve known you since you were only eight!”
Will wasn’t sure if the joke about his age would upset Luca further, and was relieved when the boy broke into a little laugh. Will took Luca’s laughter as permission to sit. “You know,” he said, “I’m sad, too.”
Luca looked up. “You are?”
“Of course. Scott was my friend. And these days, friends are scarce.”
“I was mean to him,” Luca said. “The last time we talked, I mean. It makes me feel like maybe I had something to do with him not ever coming back.”
“You know that’s ridiculous, right?”
Luca nodded, but fresh tears fell from his eyes anyway. “I heard Scott call me a freak. But he didn’t say it. He thought it. And I heard him. And he knew I heard him, and was even more freaked out. So I ran away, and when I did, I was kind of wishing I’d never saved him. I know it sounds silly, but I feel like if I hadn’t thought that, maybe he wouldn’t have died yesterday,” Luca cried, loud enough for Will to scoot closer and shush him.
Yesterdays Gone: SEASON TWO (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) (Yesterday's Gone) Page 35