“I’ll just stay here and fold laundry then.”
* * *
That night, after Natalie unpacked, and after the three had gone out to a very quiet dinner, Caleb lay down next to his wife. He washed three ibuprofen down with a glass of water and lemon and pulled his legs onto the bed.
“Good night.” He didn’t kiss Rebecca, as he normally did. Something told him it’d be a bad idea.
Since Caleb told Rebecca about Tamara and about Natalie, she’d said very little. Caleb and Natalie carried the conversation at dinner. Natalie would ask her a question, and Rebecca would stare off somewhere beyond the table, through a window maybe, at a life she’d once had, a life she dreamed of having again. Caleb gave her plenty of time to answer, but after a few minutes of awkward silences, he’d offer the answer on Rebecca’s behalf.
She surprised him by speaking as he rolled over. “Did you love her?”He sighed. Of course she’d choose the minutes before sleep to ask questions. Fatigue from the trip and funeral and the exhaustion of confession wearied Caleb beyond his limits. He blinked away the dark hands in the corner of his vision, one with a grenade, one with a pin.
“You talking now?”
“Did you love her?”
A lethargic clock ticked in his head. Her question took the shape of a grenade. “Tamara?”
“Of course Tamara.”
He rolled onto his back. Pain surged through his shoulder. His back ached.
“I won’t get mad or anything. I just want to know.”
He doubted that, but answered truthfully anyway, maybe to keep from hurting her, or maybe to dig at her for the lost happiness of the past fifteen years. “I loved her, yes.”
“Why?”
Caleb wanted sleep. The conversation needed to happen in the morning after he’d had his coffee. But if she wanted to talk, after fifteen years of silence, he’d let her. “I guess, bad as it sounds, she reminded me of you.”
Rebecca blinked. “Me?”
“Before we started having trouble. Before ...”
“I know.” Her finger traced her scar, from her forehead, between her eyes, down to her left cheek. “We were happy once. Do you ever miss it?”
“Like crazy.” On a whim, he took her hand in his. They’d not held hands since the fifth miscarriage. She didn’t pull away. Her hand was cold, limp. “So what happens now?”
“Whatever it takes.”
He kissed her forehead. She smelled of apple blossoms. She’d not worn perfume for years. He ran his fingers through her thick tangle of blond hair.
* * *
That night, as Caleb fell asleep, he found himself in Mogadishu again. The truck of soldiers rolled in front of him. He dove down the dusty alley, gun snug against his shoulder. He squeezed off round after round until he emptied his clip. He reloaded, heard something behind him, spun around, saw the child.
The boy didn’t smile. Blood already purpled his shirt. He held the grenade in one hand, the pin in the other. Caleb sweated under his fatigues, under his body armor snug against his chest and abdomen. He trained his gun on the dead boy. His weapon rang in a quick spurt of fire.
A twist of pain, of grief and surprise, stretched the boy’s face and tightened his skin.
Caleb’s hands shook. Dust clung to his sweaty skin.
Then, Rebecca came through a door further down the alley.
She walked slowly, backlit by the noonday sun. He recognized the soft curves of her hips, of her breasts, swollen like a nursing mother’s under her translucent blue nightgown. She knelt next to the boy, took the grenade, and swallowed it.
Her belly swelled. In a few minutes, the grenade exploded through her stomach with a muffled pop. The force punched Caleb backward, and he collapsed. A baby fell from within Rebecca, small, wrinkled, bloody. She sat down, held the child—a little girl. “We will name this baby Tennessee.”
Caleb sat up. He didn’t want to tell her the baby was dead. He put one hand on her shoulder, the other over the gaping wound in her stomach. Blood splattered his vision, ran down his face.
A trickle of red ran down her nose to her cheek. Crimson lines crawled up from her fingers to her elbows. They shone red like lava. “Her very beauty is in her sorrow,” she said. “Rejoice in her sadness, in things hoped for and never realized. She will be a reminder of our potential happiness.” Her voice buzzed, two parts radio static, one part bee.
She handed the baby to Caleb.
He took it in his arms, a bundle of slick skin and bloodied bones. It weighed no more than six pounds. Wrinkled eyes, toothless mouth agape. His heart broke. His chest burned, and then his shoulder.
* * *
When he woke up, Rebecca’s head pressed into his bad shoulder. It hurt, but he didn’t dare move her, didn’t dare push her away. She’d not done anything like this since the final miscarriage. He felt like a stranger had her hand on his chest.
Slowly, he reached for her stomach, for the part of her that gaped with blood and flesh minutes earlier in his dream.
“Don’t touch me.” She pushed his hand away, then kissed him.
“What do you mean? Rebecca ...”
“Shut up.”
He lay still as she kissed him, afraid to move, to breathe.
Her lips moved over his lips, cheeks, neck. She brought them to his ear. “I hate you.” Her voice was soft and uneven. She rolled on top of him, let her weight push into him. She wrapped her arms around him and cried.
Caleb didn’t know what to do. He kept his hands on the bed, afraid to reach for her again.
She slowed her breathing and stared at him. She leaned in, put her nose on his. Her hair fell around his face. “I really hate you.”
She kissed him with suspicion, like two teens stealing their first kiss at a wedding neither wanted to attend.
Chapter 16
Sunday, September 6th
Five miscarriages.
I’d been angry at God for Nadine’s cancer, for denying us the chance to have children. We’d tried hard to conceive, but never successfully. But the anger I felt paled to the despair Caleb and Rebecca must have endured. What kind of strength must it take to weather something like that?
Despite his failings as a husband, Caleb had a humbling strength. Here was a Christian, a strong man who’d given his life to the service of God, who exemplified faith.
I used to think Christians weak. I imagined they used their faith like a crutch, but Caleb clung to his faith, clung to his God when he should have turned his back. He had every reason to deny God. Instead, he stayed true to his calling.
I never imagined I’d admire a minister, but found myself doing so now.
He plunked out alternating notes on the piano, which refused to stay in tune.
“I thought the shock of seeing Natalie would be enough to put her over the edge, but it didn’t. She wasn’t happy about it, but she started talking to me again. I think our marriage actually got stronger after that. She not only took Natalie in, but she made her feel welcome. Took her shopping. Threw her birthday parties. Much more than I’d ever guessed or hoped for.”
He moved lower on the piano, from soprano to tenor, played the same two notes in a different octave. “Until that time, I never really believed what I was preaching. After my shoulder and my discharge from the Army, my employment options were pretty limited. The church gave me a chance for a job. That night, I realized everything I’d been preaching over the years, the ideas of faith and trust, of spiritual dependence on God and all that it brings with it, was real. Otherwise, how would Rebecca have been able to handle Natalie coming to live with us? How would she have been able to take to Natalie as if she were her own daughter? How could something good come out of my mistakes?”
I leaned back and crossed my legs. “Where is Rebecca
now?” I feared the answer he’d give me, confident he’d tell me some grisly tales of murders or train derailings.
He matched my posture. “Year and a half ago, Natalie left for college. She graduated from high school a semester early. I let her get a lip ring as a reward. After that, Rebecca decided she wanted to go on a month-long mission trip to Russia. Luckily, Natalie got herself a full ride to Michigan University, so the little bit I’d saved for her college fund went to Rebecca’s trip. I couldn’t tell her no, not after everything I’d put her through. She called three weeks later and told me she wasn’t coming back. She’d found a family there in Russia with a little girl, and they wanted to hire her as a live-in nanny.”
“How long?”
“Until the little girl graduates.”
“What is that, 18 years?”
He nodded. “Nice family. Pretty well-to-do. Rebecca’s always been good with language, and she’s pretty close to fluent now. It’s a good situation for her, and I don’t really blame her for staying. What’s in Hailey for her?”
“But you still wear your ring.” He’d been playing with the gold band off and on throughout the morning.
“Till death do us part.”
“Still married then? Most couples wouldn’t bother. Sounds like you’ve come a long way since Tamara.”
“We both have. She calls me each night before she goes to bed. I make sure to keep the time open.”
I smiled. “Good for you both.”
I cleared my throat, shifted in the pew and decided I’d be more comfortable standing. Caleb hadn’t strayed from the piano bench. He’d alternated between slumped shoulders and a semi-reclining position against the piano.
He looked hard at me, rubbed his shoulder. The scars on his face bent into a frown. “I look at you, Connor, and you know what I see? Me. I see a man working hard to bring hope and not believing what he says. I’ve read your articles. They flirt with supernatural strength and fortitude, but you don’t buy into it, do you? You’re a skeptic, and you cater to those who believe what you don’t. Am I right?”
He was, but I didn’t want to admit it. I shrugged. “I hear people say their strength comes from Christ, how Jesus comforts them in times of need, but it never rings true. They say it like they’re supposed to, like they have to put on their Christian face so they can still get into Heaven.”
“Every time?”
I shook my head. “Except once, in New Jersey.” I paced and thought back to Newark. “A little girl, sixteen I think. Both parents worked in Tower Two. In one day, she lost her parents and her favorite uncle. A few months later, her older brother was deployed to Afghanistan and killed in battle. I remember thinking ‘this girl knows loss.’ She looked so sad, but had this quiet strength behind her eyes. Not anger. Not self-pity. Something else. I just can’t place it.”
The tune he played deepened again, became more intent. “I saw the same thing in Rebecca’s eyes the night I had that dream, and then every day after that. I saw it in Natalie’s eyes after her mom passed. It’s hope.”
I closed my eyes. His words leveled me with a profound and surprising sadness.
Caleb wasn’t like any other minister I had met. Most spouted on and on about God, but offered little advice of consequence because they’d suffered so little. Caleb, however, had loved and lost. He worked in a dismal town with little optimism. He had nothing to look forward to in this world, but his confidence, his joy, only seemed more real for it. Though his wife didn’t have cancer, like me, he had to stare down a life without his love.
I cleared my throat and changed the subject. “Church always been this empty?”
He shook his head. “When I took the job up here, the church had about twenty regular attenders. Got as high as forty for a while, but started falling off after that.”
“Why?”
“Different reasons. Health, schedules, divorces, prison, the usual.”
“Ever do outreaches? Barbeques or door-to-door stuff?”
“Tried them. No one comes once they see me. Last time I went door-to-door, I got sucker punched.” He pointed to his crooked nose and laughed. “But you should see the other guy.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “Someone punched a pastor?”
“Not as surprising as you’d think. I’ve had to duck out of several fights. I spent time in Special Forces, you know. I can handle myself in a fight, but that’d send the wrong message.”
“I imagine it would. So the church dwindled down to Mason and Aida? What about Bernie? Mason mentioned something about him being involved in the church recently.”
“Bernie can’t come anymore. He’s dying. I stop by to see him from time to time, whenever he’s home alone. If his kids are at home, I can’t get near the place. They’ve threatened my life on a few occasions, and they’re crazy enough to try it.”
“Why such hostility?”
He shrugged, then grimaced. “Comes with the job. People don’t like to hear about Jesus. They don’t like being called out for their sin. Mostly, they’re afraid of hope.”
I scrawled notes on my pad, letters slanting to the middle of white pages. “You report these threats?”
“To whom? The police? Tried that once. Cops around here don’t have the greatest reputation. They’ve got this ‘call us when you’re dead’ attitude.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
I stood up. I’d heard enough to weave an article, and felt I had a good enough finger on Caleb’s pulse to know how to spin it. “I appreciate your time, Reverend.”
“It’s Caleb.” He stood and shook my hand. He put the other on my shoulder and stared at me with conviction. “Man to man, you need me, you call me.”
He gave me his number and I punched it in my phone, assuring him I’d call him if the need arose.
Chapter 17
Sunday, September 6th
I kissed my wife the second I got back to Aida’s. Once I did, Mason grabbed my elbow.
“Change of plans.” He grabbed his hat, snugged it over his scalp and walked to the door with me.
I pulled free of his grip. “Cool it. Give me a minute before you drag me out.”
He checked his watch. “Wish I could, but this is life or death.”
I looked at him skeptically. “So much for a nice lunch.”
Nadine smiled and squeezed my hand. “I know. Just a few more days of this and things will settle down.”
I sighed and followed Mason.
Aida called out to us. “Good to see you, boys.”
My lack of sleep frayed my emotions. I’d been ready to cry for longing of Nadine when I walked in. Now, Mason’s imperative attitude irritated me. I waved tersely to Aida, and Mason slammed the door.
Mason jogged to his pick-up. I didn’t hurry. A juvenile ploy, some passive-aggressive way to assert my will over his, to remind him he didn’t own me, didn’t control me. Still, I’d acquiesced to his demands for love of my wife. He knew I had no room to argue.
When I closed the door, Mason said, “You have another article and interview today.”
I closed my eyes and put my head against the back window. “You’re killing me.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” He turned the key, and his Mitsubishi rumbled to life. He pulled onto 29. “Bernie’s not doing good.”
“You mean Bernie’s not doing well. Good is an adjective, well is an adverb.”
He looked at me, incredulity lining his eyes. “Really? You’re correcting my grammar now?”
I sighed. “Caleb mentioned Bernie was sick.” Something heavy and metallic rattled in the back, bounced as the truck traversed the pitted road.
“This might be a tough interview for you. Bernie’s a great guy. You’ll like him. But he’s pretty bad off.”
“What are we talking about here? Leukemia? Parkinson’s? The plague?”
“AIDS.”
I felt air rush from me. “You meant life and death, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know how much longer Bernie will last. I tried calling. No one answered. Good news is his kids aren’t home. Bad news is he couldn’t answer.”
“Why aren’t they with him?” The rattling in the back made it difficult to concentrate.
Mason cracked his knuckles and flipped his visor down. “They’re not exactly the kind to care for the dying. Especially Bernie.”
“Caleb mentioned they weren’t friendly.”
“You read in stories about people making threats, trying to intimidate people. These guys couldn’t care less if you’re afraid of them. They don’t threaten, they promise. So much as blink without their consent, and they’re on the warpath. They’ve all done time. In and out of prison for stuff no one can pin on them: murder, battery, arson. They’re violent and crafty, and they’ve got long memories. Cross them today, and you’ll check over your shoulder for the next decade.”
“Please tell me they’re in prison now.”
“Most of them.” He turned off 29 onto a dirt road that looked depressingly like all the rest. How he could tell the unmarked roads apart astounded me. As far as I could see, the only differences were the width and the number of ditches and holes.
“Bernie won’t be pretty. I’m hoping he can stay up long enough to have a conversation. He’s one of the last good people this town has.”
I nodded. “You going to drop me off? Not sure I want to do this alone, especially if there’s a chance one of his kids might show up.”
He motioned with his head to the back of the pickup. I turned around and saw an aluminum baseball bat rolling back and forth. “I’ll stand guard.”
I arched an eyebrow. “With a bat? If these guys are as cold and calculating as you say, what’s a bat going to do?”
“Aida and I aren’t really into guns. And a bat can do plenty. Ask Greg.”
Mason parked the truck by a weather-beaten house. A white-rock wall surrounding the property crumbled in places. Graffiti covered the rickety wooden walls and the roof had fallen in. Empty hinges swayed where the front door should be. Mason pointed to the back wall with a grin. “Looks like someone’s a big fan of fashion.”
The Bargain - One man stands between a destitute town and total destruction. Page 13