by Gayle Roper
“So you’re a dad,” I teased.
He looked suddenly embarrassed, astonished and pleased all at the same time. “She said she was naming him Mac. Well, Mackenzie, but she’d call him Mac.” He glanced at Dawn’s picture again. “Of course, the adoptive parents will change his name, but it was the thought.”
“And a wonderful thought it was.” I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Congratulations, Pop. Where are the cigars? Or the candy bars that say It’s A Boy on the wrapper?”
The back door to the newsroom opened and I turned to see who had come in. William. I watched as he walked right up to Mac’s desk, halting beside me.
“I take it you’ve heard about Merry’s car,” he said without preamble. I might as well have been invisible for all the attention he paid me.
Mac nodded, looking wary.
“Were you ever in the military?” William asked.
Mac stiffened. “The United States Army Reserves.”
“Your specialty?”
“EOD.”
“Explosives Ordnance Disposal.”
Mac nodded.
“But he’s got an alibi,” I blurted.
Both men turned to me, but it was William who said, “Thank you, Merry. I’ll talk to you later.” Then he waited until my nerve broke and I turned to go.
“Merry,” Mac said softly.
I looked back at him.
“It is because I like you too much to blow you up.”
I felt the tears gather. I nodded and made my way to my desk.
FOURTEEN
When it was time for me to go to Mercers’ to pick up Bailey shortly after one, Mac wanted to follow me.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you, girl. I can’t afford to lose my best reporter.”
I smiled at him, understanding he meant more than just the possibility of my getting blown up, but it felt too weird having my boss tail me. “I’ll be fine. Whoever it is can’t do anything to me in the middle of town in the middle of the day. Besides, he can’t know what kind of car I’m driving now unless he was hiding behind a tree at Mr. Hamish’s or in our back lot when I pulled in. And Bailey will be with me all afternoon.”
“Some protection she’ll be.”
“Bailey will be more than enough to keep him away. What’s he going to do? Kill us both?”
He didn’t look convinced. “If something happens to you, Curt will haunt me for the rest of my life. I don’t even want to think about Dawn’s reaction.”
“You can grump all you want,” I said, unmoved by his glass-half-empty assumptions, “but I’ve learned your secret.”
His eyes narrowed. “What secret?”
“You’re a chocolate-covered cherry.”
He looked appalled.
“Hard shell on the outside but soft and sweet inside.”
“Please! Spread rumors like that and I might as well pack my bags and leave town.”
I was grinning as I left the newsroom and went to my navy rental. As I drove to the Mercers’, I started thinking about how life often juxtaposed the extraordinary, like exploding cars, with the ordinary, like teasing your boss or going on interviews. When something amazing, bizarre or astonishing happens, it seems as though there should be a break in time to enable adjustments, whether physical, emotional or spiritual, on the part of the person experiencing the overwhelming events.
But it doesn’t work that way. Life continues, responsibilities remain and appointments wait. All a person could do was shrug and keep going, trusting that the Lord knew what was happening and was there to care for you.
Of course, maybe the Lord knew that doing the ordinary was the best way to cope with the painful and unexpected. Routines center reeling thoughts and feelings, giving structure to a life suddenly gone off on a strange tangent, forcing you to go forward when all you want to do is hide in bed with the covers over your head.
Bailey came down the walk in a slow, careful stride, opened the passenger door and slid in. Her glorious hair was caught at her neck in a large gold clip and her eyes were heavily rimmed with black. Her face was very pale and carefully blank, and I wondered what she thought about spending the afternoon with me and the ministry’s various clients. After she buckled her seat belt, stretched as far as it would go, she sat with her hands clasped in her lap. I noticed for the first time that her nails were bitten to the quick. They were also painted black.
She was dressed in two voluminous T-shirts over her sweatpants, the shirt underneath yellow, its sleeves showing where the black sleeves of the upper shirt were rolled almost to the shoulder. The yellow hung below the black almost to her knees and I thought of night-shirts. I wondered how she could stand all those clothes in the July heat. I felt wilted in one layer of clothes, let alone two or three.
Bailey was quiet as we drove to our first interview. I wondered if she was this shy around everyone, or if it was just me. I began to doubt she’d be any great asset in the upcoming interviews. I was afraid she’d sit there scowling like Snoopy in his vulture persona, making everyone uncomfortable.
I was pleasantly surprised when she opened up as I pulled to the curb at our first stop.
“Mrs. Santiago is a widow who needed Good Hands to repair some plumbing and fix her roof,” Bailey told me as we walked to the door of an old green bungalow near the edge of town. The door opened and a tiny woman with much gray streaking her short black hair smiled at us. A gold front tooth gleamed in the sunlight.
“Bailey, mi amiga. You get más hermosa every day,” Mrs. Santiago said in a voice that carried the accent of her native Mexico. She leaned up to kiss Bailey’s cheek. “Come on. Come in.”
We followed her into a living room where a window air conditioner labored to keep the heat at bay. A floral border circled the walls about eighteen inches from the ceiling and balloon curtains made of floral sheeting that coordinated with the border hung at the windows. I knew immediately that Candy and her helpers had been involved here as well as the team that did the actual repairs.
“I was part of the crew who worked on Mrs. Santiago’s house,” Bailey told me, pride radiating from her like heat from the scorching pavement out front. She turned to the tiny woman bent with age and arthritis. “Will you tell Merry about how you came to contact Good Hands and what we did for you?”
Mrs. Santiago nodded. “So wonderful people. But first I get you something to eat. Sit.” She indicated the worn sofa along one wall of her living room. “I be a minute.”
I watched the old woman shuffle toward the back of the house and the kitchen. “Can we help?” I asked, half rising. “What can we do?”
“Nada, chica. I am fine.”
“I’ll help her.” Bailey rose and followed Mrs. Santiago. In a moment she returned with a glass of iced tea in each hand. She handed one to me as Mrs. Santiago inched her way into the room with a third glass of tea and a plate of wonderful-looking goodies.
“This is pan de dulce,” Mrs. Santiago told me, pointing to the bread. “It is sweet. You will like it. And this is buñeulos.” Cinnamon and sugar flaked off the crisps and made my mouth water. “When I heard you were coming today, I made them for you.”
“Thank you! They look wonderful.”
She held the plate to me and it was no hardship to fill the pretty flowered napkin she gave me with her offerings.
“And you, mjjito.” She offered the plate to Bailey.
After she was satisfied that Bailey had enough to eat, Mrs. Santiago set down the plate on the scarred coffee table and sat in a green stuffed chair that had seen better days. Her small house was definitely in a less than desirable neighborhood, but it was neat and clean, even pretty. The iced tea was cool and flavored with mint—“I grow it in my backyard,” Mrs. Santiago said—and the pan de dulce and buñeulos melted on my tongue.
“Mi esposo died ten years ago,” she began. “The niños were grown and not here but in California, Florida, Texas, one even back to Mexico. With my social security I was able to eat, bu
t there was not much more. This house that Carlos buy and keep up with such pride began to fall apart.”
She clasped her hands over her heart. “It made me so sad, but what could I do? I did not know how to fix things and I did not have any dollars to hire someone. When the roof in the bedroom began to leak, I move the bed and put a pail under the leak. When there was a drought, everyone pray for rain. I pray the drought would continue. What if my roof fell in?”
I thought of the house I’d grown up in and the house Curt owned and which would become my home in another week. If there was any problem that needed fixing, both my parents and Curt had the means to get someone to do the work if they couldn’t do it themselves. But Mrs. Santiago had no one and no money. She moved the bed.
Her face broke into a smile, her eyes bright. “Then my mailman tell me about Good Hands. He give me a paper one Sunday when he walk his route on his free time. ‘Call them,’ he tell me. ‘They will help you.’ But how could I call strangers?” She spread her tiny hands in question.
“Then we have a week of rain, every day, and another leak started over the bed. I put plastic over the bed and a bucket on it, but it was no good. I think I will have to move the bed to the living room when I remember the mailman’s friends. I call them, and they come.” She smiled. “They fix my roof. They fix everything! The ladies come and make things muy pretty. And they come back every year to check on me. I still have only my social security, but I have friends now. Like the bonita Bailey.”
Bailey was still beaming when we left and I felt blessed by Mrs. Santiago’s hospitality and gratitude. I just hoped the other four people we were scheduled to see didn’t feed us, too. I wasn’t sure I would have room.
Bailey gave a little gasp as we were getting into the car.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Fine,” she said, her smile gone. “I stubbed my toe.”
I looked at her black flip-flops, which matched her black eye makeup and today’s black fingernail polish. At least her toenails were au naturel.
“You go to Faith Community Church, don’t you?” Bailey asked hesitantly.
“I do. Do you?” I didn’t remember ever seeing any of the Mercers at church except for the time Tug spoke.
“I do. Mom and Dad still go to our old church.”
I didn’t say anything, but I wondered at the wisdom of families going to separate churches.
Bailey brought a finger to her mouth and began trying to find some remaining nail to bite. “I told them I wanted to go to a church that had a larger, more active youth group. They didn’t like splitting us up—they can’t leave where they are because Dad’s an elder—but they’re so worried about me that they agreed.” She smiled sadly. “Anything to help Bailey.”
“They love you,” I said.
“I know. And I’m very proud of them.”
But it wasn’t enough to help her with the unhappiness that enveloped her like a shroud.
There was a moment of silence. Then Bailey said, “You play in the bell choir, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“Is it as fun as it looks?”
I grinned at her. “More. I have to really concentrate because I’m not that great a musician, but I love it. After all, you only have to read your notes and keep count. For me the notes aren’t hard, but the rhythm can be very challenging.”
“Do they ever have openings?”
“Sometimes.” It struck me that my bells would need someone when Curt and I moved to Pittsburgh. Maybe Bailey could take my place.
“Why don’t you come to practice with me tonight and see if you think you want to let Ned know you’re interested?”
“Tonight?”
The more I thought about it, I more I liked the idea. Bailey would have something to look forward to, something to get involved in, and I wouldn’t feel I was letting Ned and the others down when I left. Bell choir isn’t like a vocal choir. If someone is missing with bells, those notes don’t get covered, where in a vocal choir the rest of the section covers for the missing person.
“I could pick you up on my way,” I told her. “You’d love it and maybe you could play a bit.” I slowed as I approached a Stop sign. “Do you play any instruments?” It had just dawned on me that I didn’t want to stick the choir with someone who wasn’t competent.
“I play the piano a bit and I used to sing in the kids’ choir when I was little.”
Good. If she could play the multiple notes of a piano score, she could handle the bells. “Do you sing in the school choir now?”
She didn’t answer immediately and I looked over at her. She was sitting stiffly and holding her breath, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Oops, touchy subject.
She let out a breath. “No, I don’t. Would you mind taking me home?”
I blinked. “What about our list of people to visit?”
“You don’t need me and I need to go home.” She sounded strained, almost desperate.
“Sure,” I said, turning to go back in the direction we’d come.
We drove in silence for a bit, then I asked, “How do you like Pastor Tom?”
“Who?”
“Pastor Tom, the high school pastor.”
“Oh, him. He’s very nice.”
Nice wasn’t usually the word people used for Tom. He was wonderful, creative, fun, super, over-the-top, a maniac—superlative words. Nice was very bland for Tom. And it clicked that she didn’t know him, that she wasn’t going to the youth programs either Sunday morning or any other time. No matter what she told her parents, she wasn’t coming to Faith for the youth programs.
But she was coming for the main service. She had to be to know I was in the bell choir. I glanced at her, huddled miserably against the passenger door.
Lord, this kid needs Your help big-time.
FIFTEEN
When Curt and I pulled into the church parking lot for bell choir practice, the first thing I saw was Bailey getting out of a van parked by the side door to the building. She was back in all black, a men’s vest worn over a black men’s shirt whose tails tickled the backs of her knees. Not that they actually tickled her knees. She had on her usual sweatpants and nothing would tickle through those.
I began to sweat just looking at her. It was almost seven-thirty in the evening and the temperature was still eighty. I was wearing khaki shorts, a red T-shirt and flip-flops. At least Bailey and I agreed on casual footwear, though mine matched my shirt and had little plastic daisies all along the thongs.
“I’ll be back around nine,” Curt said.
“Sounds good.” I gave him a kiss and climbed from the car.
I walked over to the van where I found Candy sitting in the driver’s seat. She gave a little wave and leaned out her window. She indicated Bailey. “She said you said she could come. Are you sure it’s all right?”
“I did, and it’s fine.” I grinned at Bailey. “I’m glad you made it. You must be feeling better.”
She shot a quick look at her mother. “Oh, I’m feeling fine. Like always.”
I nodded, knowing she was keeping something from Candy. But then didn’t all teens keep things from their moms? “Don’t worry about picking her up afterward, Candy. Curt and I’ll bring her home.”
“You sure it’s no trouble? I’ll be glad to come get her.”
“Go home and enjoy your evening. Bailey and I are going to enjoy ours, right?”
Bailey nodded, looking hopeful for a change.
Candy left and we walked into the rehearsal room. It was ordered chaos with everyone helping with the setup of the tables, topping them with heavy foam pads to protect the bells. Over the foam went cloths to protect the foam and on them the bells were being arranged in progressive order, each ringer responsible for his or her own bells. One of my bells being middle C, I was just about smack in the center.
I didn’t even have a chance to get my bells before people began rushing me. It was a bit disconcerting.
“Merry! Thank
God that you’re here!” Maddie Reeder, my best friend at church, grabbed me in a tight hug. “Are you all right? I’ve been so worried!”
I blinked and patted her back. She’d obviously heard about the car. She was shaking and I was afraid she was crying. “I’m fine, Maddie. Of course, my car’s seen better days, but I’m fine.”
She pulled back and searched my face. “Are you sure? When I heard, I almost died. I tried to call you all day.”
“My phone was in the car,” I explained. “In my purse.”
“It’s gone.” Her voice was full of sorrow, as if it had been a living thing. “What will you do?”
She must be more upset than I thought if she didn’t know the answer to that one. “Get another.”
“That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.”
Oh.
“What happened?” Bailey asked, eyes wide at Maddie’s show of emotion.
“Her car got blown up!” Maddie said dramatically.
Bailey looked at me like I’d grown a second, make that a third, head.
“And she works for a man who’s a murderer and probably an attempted murderer!” Mrs. Weldon stood just behind Maddie. She had her arms wrapped around her middle like she was cold. Mr. Weldon was beside her, nodding his head, his lone bell held in his gloved hand.
“I don’t!” I said, shocked at the comments.
“Merry,” Mr. Weldon said, “you’ve got to go someplace safe. What if he tries to blow up your car again and this time you’re in it? Maybe the FBI or the CIA can put you in witness protection or something.”
“What?” I stared at the Weldons aghast. Witness protection? “But I didn’t witness anything.”
“We don’t want something bad to happen to you,” he said, patting my shoulder. “We care.”
“It’s that Mac Carnuccio.” Mrs. Weldon shook her head, her face dark with some emotion. Dislike? Concern? Anger? “He always was a bad one.”