Beyond the Storm: Quilts of Love Series

by Carolyn Zane

  Lashes lowered, she blew across her coffee. “Me, too.”

  His pulse accelerated. If he was to stay in Rawston—big if—but if he did decide to stay, it would only be if she did. Getting to know her better might make it worthwhile. An hour whizzed by as they talked over their coffee. They mourned Danny. They grieved for Jen and the baby. They discussed their mutual survivor’s guilt. They teared up. They shared a paper towel. And then another. They talked about Kaylee and Chaz’s wedding.

  Working up his courage, Justin looked at Abigail in the eye, loving the huge dimple that pushed a crevice into her right cheek and asked, “Will you go with me?”

  “You mean, like a date?”

  “Yeah. Like that.”

  “You sure? I can’t promise I can dance the way I did when you first saw me, without Bob Ray trying to read me my rights.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” He angled a look at her over the top of his coffee mug.

  “In that case? It’s a date.”

  3:00 a.m.

  They were still talking when Heather came in with a fussy Robbie. Abigail glanced at the clock and couldn’t believe it was already so late. Where had the time gone? Selma continued to sleep down in her bed, but after all the coffee with Justin just now, she’d never be able to doze off. And at the moment, she didn’t want to. “Hey, Heather,” Abigail said and smiled at her new friend with affection. “Hiya, Robbie.”

  Robbie smashed his face into his mother’s neck and squealed. “Say hello, stinker,” Heather urged.

  “No!”

  Abigail tickled his foot as she walked by. “I was just going to see what flavors of ice cream Selma’s got in her freezer this week. She is never, ever without. Anyone else want some?”

  “I keem?” Robbie’s head whipped around.

  “Yep. Just for you,” Abigail said and moved to the freezer.

  “I will if she has any chocolate chip mint,” Justin said.

  “You’re in luck,” Abigail called over her shoulder. “She’s also got some vanilla and some Moose Track stuff and some Marion Berry Swirl.” She unloaded it all, got out some bowls and spoons, a couple of toppings, some bananas, and soon they were having a good old-fashioned ice cream social.

  3:30 a.m.

  Abigail looked up as Elsa staggered into the room and yawned.

  “Did somebody say ice cream?” she asked, staring at the mess on the table.

  Justin pulled a chair out for her and slid an empty bowl in her direction. “We wondered when you were going to show up.”

  She grinned and loaded her bowl. “My sweet tooth betrays me?”

  Bob Ray stumbled through the doorway next, blinking and bleary-eyed. “Anybody else feel like they’re going insane?” he asked, dazedly.

  Elsa took one look at his crazy bed-head and burst out laughing. “You look insane.”

  Heather glanced up and laughed.

  “What?” Bob Ray looked around. “What?”

  Abigail turned around in her chair. Bob Ray’s eyes were as swollen as Bart Simpson’s and so red they seemed to glow, like two coals burning in his head. His spiky hair and five o’clock shadow and rumpled clothing only cemented the insanity impression. Both Justin and Abigail burst out laughing.

  Insulted, Bob Ray pouted until he ducked down to check his appearance in the mirror that hung by the back door. He turned around, his eyes crossed and his mouth hanging slack and everyone lost it. Soon, he was laughing as hard as the rest, and they all doubled over until they were convulsing and holding their stomachs and dabbing at the tears that streamed down their cheeks.

  5:00 a.m.

  Carting a laundry basket on her hip, Selma came up the stairs to the sounds of Abigail and Justin loudly accusing each other of cheating at cards. Their laughter was the giddy stuff of too little sleep and more than a little flirtation. It seemed that when Abigail had stepped away to the bathroom, Justin had rearranged her hand. They were now wrestling and tickling and inciting the other players to riot.

  Everyone dropped into their seats and looked sheepish when Selma stepped into her warm, country kitchen and slid her basket onto the kitchen counter. “Good morning,” she sang, delighted with the mess and the noise and the first signs of healing hearts. She remembered laughing during some of the more stressful times in her life, including one hilarious barbecue party with the kids, right after the ’66 tornado. Clyde had barbecued a shoe as a joke. It was that, or cry. And many times, a mixture of both. The tears and the laughter both were a healthy outlet for such overwhelming tragedy.

  “Since you are all awake,” Selma called above the resuming noise, “I will rustle us up some flapjacks.”

  6:00 a.m.

  The stacks of pancakes disappeared nearly faster than Abigail and Selma could flip them, and soon everyone was sated and seated around the kitchen table, sipping coffee. They all seemed to have a tacit agreement that the TV would stay off until they’d had a chance to digest. Over breakfast, the discussion was filled with plans for the day. Justin and Bob Ray decided to head out soon and assist in the rescue effort. Guadalupe was going to try to find some fresh produce for their dinner. Abigail and Heather were thinking about going to the hospital to check on Jen and the baby, and Abigail wanted to look in on Brooke and Isuzu.

  They all decided that if they were needed, they would stay on and volunteer to help wherever they might be asked. Everyone lingered over coffee, reluctant to leave the cozy safety of Selma’s kitchen. As Abigail helped Selma and Heather tidy up the dishes, she lifted the laundry basket that Selma had brought upstairs earlier. “Did you want me to take this to the laundry room, Selma?”

  “No, honey. Put it on the kitchen table, will you? I have a project I want to do and—before you all leave for the day— I’m going to show you all, since I’ll need everyone’s help. Bob Ray? Justin? Would you boys pop an extra leaf into the table? You’ll find one in the pantry. Heather, grab another chair from the dining room. Abigail, wipe the table down, honey. And Elsa, I keep a high chair on the service porch for my little guests. Would you grab that for Robbie?”

  Chairs scraped over the wooden floor, and everyone exchanged expectant glances as they hustled to do Selma’s bidding. Guadalupe dried the freshly washed table, and finally they were all ready to gather and watch Selma unload the burgeoning basket.

  First came the stack of scraps Abigail had collected after the storm. Then, Selma added Danny’s Bible cover, some fabric she’d collected from her shop for working in the evenings, a beautiful quilt, and a paper pattern. With Guadalupe’s help, she spread the quilt out over the surface of the table.

  “Before you all rush off to your appointed rounds today, I wanted to take a moment of your time to plant some dream seeds, if you will. First,” Selma turned to Abigail as she patted the stack of scraps Abigail had brought home. “Would you mind if I took these pieces and put them to good use? I have an idea for a quilt.”

  “You want to make a quilt? Out of this stuff?” Abigail asked.

  “Yes. It will help me to give thanks.”

  “Thanks?” The crease between Abigail’s eyes furrowed. “For . . . what?”

  “Just bear with me. Doing this will bring answers to your questions. You’ll see.

  “Last time something devastating like this storm happened to me, I made this quilt.” She patted the beautiful quilt now stretched across the tabletop.

  “Why?”

  “Because to me, the death of my son, Paul, was like a storm.”

  Silence rocked the room for a moment.

  “How did your son die, Selma?” Heather finally ventured.

  “In a terrible mining accident, honey. He was with his best friend, who also happens to be your late father-in-law. Did you know that Bob Ray’s dad, Robert, and my son, Paul, both died in the same mining accident?”

  Heather glanced at Bob Ray. “I didn’t know he was with your son.”

  Bob Ray shrugged. “Mom wouldn’t talk about it and so I learned not to.”
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  “That was just Rayne’s way, honey. But if you ever have any questions, feel free to ask. Your father was a wonderful man, Bob Ray. As was my son, Paul. Too bad you kids didn’t get a chance to know them. Do you remember Paul, Abigail?”

  “Vaguely.” Abigail did remember him washing his Mustang out in the driveway one time and threatening to squirt her with the hose. She’d thought he was handsome.

  “They say,” Selma began, “that death haunts the mines. It certainly seems true enough. Paul and Robert worked for the Laurence Krieger Mining Company, back in the early ’90s together. It was—still is, to my knowledge—one of the most fertile coal seams in the country. I’ll never forget, one time I traveled out there to Barlow to visit the boys, and they took me down in the elevator. That thing dropped fifteen feet per second, and in about three minutes we’d gone down about two thousand feet into the ground. I’d never been so scared and claustrophobic in all my life. How the boys could stand working down there, in that dark underground maze of tunnels, I’ll never know.” Selma shook her head, remembering.

  Abigail shivered and glanced at Bob Ray and then at Justin. They were listening to Selma with rapt attention. As if Justin felt her watching, he glanced up and smiled.

  “The day they died, the roof had collapsed in one of the tunnels and injured several of the guys. Word went out that they needed rescue help, and Robert and Paul were the first to volunteer. What they hadn’t heard was that a small explosion had caused the accident. They were also unaware that methane gas had been building up in an adjoining section. If Paul and Robert had stayed topside, only the two men crushed in the roof collapse would have died that day. But, because of some communication glitches, twenty-eight men, all eager to dig out their co-workers, perished that day in an explosion that could have—should have—been avoided if the company officials had taken care of all of the safety violations on time. And if communication had been clearer.”

  “I’m so sorry, Aunt Selma,” Abigail murmured as she stared at the quilt spread on the table with a new appreciation.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. Me, too. Anyway, when the big explosion was ignited by some high voltage electrical equipment, it sent a ball of fire rolling through the tunnels, looking for a way to the surface. Paul and Robert didn’t race away from the danger, but toward it, because I am told, miners have a creed; when trouble happens, you save your brothers first and then you save the mine.”

  “Man,” Justin shook his head. “That’s rough.”

  “It was even worse than losing everything back in the tornado of ’66. Because then, I just lost stuff. In the mining accident—” Selma turned her liquid gaze on Robbie, “—I lost my baby.”

  “I’d have died,” Bob Ray blurted out and cuddled his son close.

  “I was pretty close,” Selma said. “By this time in my life, I was what you’d call a church lady. Thought I had the tiger by the tail so to speak. My act was together.” Selma pulled a comical face and rolled her eyes. “You could say I was sure I was so blessed because I was such a good Christian. Then, Paul died and it felt like the rug had been yanked out from under me again.”

  Abigail’s chair creaked as she leaned back, but that and the ticking of the wall clock were the only sounds. Selma’s voice held them all captive, rapt, waiting for her to continue. Even young Robbie sat quietly in his father’s lap and listened.

  “I was devastated and angry. I wondered how God could let something like that happen to me.”

  Abigail felt color flare in her cheeks.

  “I used to be so glib,” Selma said with a heavy sigh. “I had never experienced this kind of pain . . . because I was a good person. I went to church. I tithed. I prayed for Paul every day. I was the best wife and mother I knew how to be. And yet, my beautiful son was taken from me, before he ever had a chance to find a bride and give me grandchildren.

  “And so I went into a deep depression,” to Abigail she said, “—maybe even worse than after the tornado—” and then turned her gaze to the quilt. “My faith was seriously tested. For a long time, I couldn’t even set foot in a church. I couldn’t see what good it would do. After all, I’d done everything right and still I suffered. My dear Clyde was the one who helped me see. He started asking questions. And he was good at talking things out. And the more he got to know the families of the men who’d died in the mining accident the more he began to understand how Paul had affected their lives.”

  Hand’s trembling with age and emotion, Selma smoothed the fabric beneath her fingertips. “So, I made this quilt here, after he died. As a matter of fact, it’s the whole reason I got interested in quilting. I remember thinking that tragedy is like a quilt before it is put together. Fragmented, chaotic, in pieces. Putting the pieces of the quilt together helped me make sense of the devastation. And the loss.”

  Selma pointed to the center of the quilt. “This square represents Paul. This piece here? It’s from his LKM jacket. See the name, embroidered there?” Smiling, she traced the words, Paul Tully with her fingertips. “And this was from his high school basketball jersey. That part is a little bit of his number. And here . . . some of his favorite pajama bottoms.”

  Moving around to stand behind Heather, Selma pointed out the square next to Paul’s. “This square here? Bob Ray’s dad. See? Robert Lathrop. This is his LKM shirt. And this is a bit of satin from his mother—Rayne’s—wedding gown. And this is a piece of Bob Ray’s baby blanket.” A big smile lit her eyes and smoothed the wrinkles from her lips. “Bob Ray’s daddy is in heaven with Paul today, because Paul invited Robert to Sunday school, when they were kids, and Robert gave his heart to Jesus.”

  Selma shuffled over to stand behind Elsa. Resting one hand on the girl’s shoulder, she smoothed her silky hair and pointed with the other.

  “And this square here? It’s for Paul’s good friend, Adam. When they were kids, Adam fell out of the back of a moving pickup truck and went into a coma. See? Here is some of the hospital gown. Paul sat with him everyday in the hospital. Never gave up on Adam. Read to him, prayed over him. Eventually, Adam was released from the hospital, but he was never the same. But Paul was steadfast and hung in there with Adam through physical therapy and beyond. When Adam finally died of a brain hemorrhage some years later, Paul was there for his parents. A surrogate son for them. These are their squares.”

  As Selma spoke, goose bumps roared up the left side of Abigail’s body and down the right. Paul’s life had such a powerful reach. Even today, as Selma told his story to the next generations, she could see the ripple effect. Absently, she watched as Robbie’s eyes began to slide closed.

  “Each of these squares, around Paul’s center square, represents a person who was profoundly affected by my son. And changed, for the better, because of his life. God set him down here on this earth for a reason. And for a season.”

  Selma picked up the cover to Danny’s Bible and smoothed it between her hands.

  “Clyde finally helped me understand that a season is just that. A period of time. And how long that time lasts is not up to us. But up to the one who put us here in the first place. Paul’s life, as I see it here, was perfect. He, like the apostle Paul of the New Testament, fought the good fight. And, at the end of the race, I am convinced that he stood before the Lord and heard, ‘Well done, my good and faithful servant.’ ” Selma held up the scrap from the cover to Danny’s Bible.

  “And, I know Danny has, too.”

  18

  That evening, after the sun had set, everyone gathered around the kitchen table. Selma reached for Abigail’s hand on one side and Guadalupe’s on the other and, in her spunky style, requested that they all join her in giving thanks.

  “Father, it is such a blessing to have these precious faces seated around my kitchen table bringing so much life back into this house. It does my heart good to enjoy the fellowship of old family,” she squeezed Abigail’s hand, “and new. Thank You for Your gracious bounty and the tender mercy You have bestowed on us all. In Y
our name—” Before she could sum up and say Amen, Bob Ray jumped in.

  “And, Lord, hi there, it’s me, Bob Ray. I just want to give thanks for answering my prayer and keeping Heather and Robbie s . . . safe,” his voice cracked with emotion, “even though I have been kind of a loser. But I want to be a good husband and man like my father was, but I need help, and I’m really sorry . . . and I want to change—”

  While he was praying, Abigail peeked over at Bob Ray’s face. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, and Heather was smiling to beat the band. Abigail felt her throat close at their sweet expressions. Sensing someone else’s gaze, she darted a glance at Justin. He, too, was grinning and shot her a quick wink before he bowed his head again.

  When Bob Ray was done, Heather started in. “And thank You, Lord, for Ms. Selma Louise Tully. Because without her, none of us would be together at all. Please bless her generous heart.” Next, Elsa’s sweet young voice offered prayers for Nick’s family and for Brooke and Isuzu and their family. And, while Guadalupe haltingly remembered those who’d lost loved ones, Abigail cried. Their bittersweet prayers and their affection for each other touched her to the marrow.

  So much liquid poured from her face, Abigail was beginning to fear she’d eventually just float away. By the final ‘Amen’ she was nothing but a soggy, gooey puddle of pudding. Her sinuses were killing her, but the load on her mind was lightening.

  Something was happening in her heart. Something agonizing. Miserable. And more than just the ravages of the storm. Something she hadn’t even been aware she needed to address was there, festering, clamoring for attention. And whatever it was, she suspected it was going to take a while to work through. Abigail pressed her aunt’s precious hand—joints swollen with arthritis, skin spotted and paper-thin—to her lips. The kiss was warm and lavender-scented, wet with hot tears and oh, so healing. Lips trembling, she returned Selma’s sympathetic smile. Selma understood.