Beyond Tuesday Morning (10 page)

Sierra's tummy started to feel a little less bouncy. That always happened when she talked to Jesus. One time Katy asked her if she was mad at Jesus for taking their daddies home too soon. Sierra had to think about that for a long time, but she decided no. She wasn't mad. Sometimes people die—that's what Mommy said. She couldn't be mad at Jesus for that because guess what? Jesus was taking care of Daddy right now. So how could she be mad?

She closed her eyes again. “Jesus, I think I'll talk to Mommy about it, okay? She'll know what to tell Katy, plus she can tell me about the helmets. If it's even true.” Sleep was coming faster now. “Good night, Jesus. Tell my daddy I love him.”

S
IX

Clay was at the wheel of his Ford pickup, heading for Eric and Laura's house. They wanted to have him over for dinner before he left. He stopped at a light and leaned back, adjusting his sunglasses. Now that he'd made up his mind to go, he couldn't wait to get out of Los Angeles.

Eric teased him that he'd freeze to death. Southern California winters rarely dipped below seventy degrees, whereas Manhattan would most likely be buried in snow by mid-December. Clay didn't care. In three days, he and Reynolds would be on the flight bound for LaGuardia and a three-week stay in New York City. Three weeks. It felt like an eternity, and that was a good thing.

New scenery, new people, new challenges. All of it would take his mind off the bucket of things that had been bothering him. The light turned green, and he took a quick lead away from the pack of cars. He was five minutes late and he didn't want to hold up dinner.

But he didn't exactly want to go, either.

The whole thing with Laura was ridiculous, really. She'd never been more than a friend, and the fact that she was happily married to his brother was nothing but good. At least, that's how he wanted to feel. If only he could meet the right person, someone who would fill that yearning in his heart for love and companionship. Someone to laugh with and pray with, someone to walk alongside in faith, one who he could play tennis with and watch ESPN with late at night.

Did people pity him when they saw him out by himself? Eating out alone, shopping alone, seeing a movie by himself. He hated the looks from strangers. Often they came from women—attractive women, even—who let their look linger awhile. The questions were written on their faces. What was a guy like him doing alone, first of all, and was he interested in company?

Another red light. Clay came to a hurried stop and gritted his teeth. He wasn't interested. Not at all. He'd tried that route and nothing but awkward meetings had come from it. Guys from the station tried to set him up more times than he could remember, either with a sister or a friend of their own wife or girlfriend.

“You're a good-looking guy, Michaels,” Reynolds told him once. “But you'd think you had three eyes and horns growing out of your head the way you can't keep a girl.”

Clay had laughed. “Thanks, buddy. I needed that.”

The trouble wasn't with him or the girls. They were generally young and beautiful and fun to be with. Los Angeles had no shortage of pretty women. The shortage was in women of faith. Women who believed the way he did, who saw faith in Christ not as a religion but as a relationship with the Creator.

He'd be out on a blind date, or at a barbecue where one of the guys was trying to set him up, and he'd say something about his job being a blessing or how he was sure God had a plan for people, and the girl would go slack-faced.

“Do you … go to church anywhere?”

Blank stare. “Church? You mean, like religion.” The girl would offer a polite smile. “I'm not very religious.”

Of course not. After three years of such exchanges, Clay wondered if there was even one single woman in Los Angeles who cared about the things he did. They were out there, of course. But he worked so many nights and weekends, he had a hard time connecting with a church group. When he could, he attended Sunday services at a growing church not far from his home—West Valley Christian. But he hadn't had time for any of the weekly groups, and so far he hadn't met single women his age.

The light turned green. He worked his way into the right lane and turned at the first street. Eric and Laura lived in a beautiful subdivision a few minutes up the hill and past a gated entry. He used to love seeing them, visiting with Eric and Laura, and spending time with Josh. But lately when he visited he couldn't wait to leave.

That's why the trip to New York would be so good for him.

He pulled into the driveway, made his way up the sidewalk, and knocked once before letting himself in. Josh saw him first, through the foyer from the kitchen table where he was sitting, working over a textbook.

“Uncle Clay, hey, guess what?” The boy was tall like his father, sandy hair, with the same blue eyes. He had Laura's fine bone structure, but little else.

“Hey, buddy.” Clay set his keys on a table near the door and headed toward him. “What's up?”

Josh pushed back from the table and grinned. “I made the A team!”

“Your first year at middle school?” Clay gave the boy a high five. “You'll be playing at UCLA before you know it!”

“You think so?” His eyes grew wider, excitement sparkling. “The Bruins are the best.”

“Just wait till they've got you on the team. Then they'll really be something.”

Clay took a few steps closer and looked at the textbook. The page was a smattering of geometrical shapes. “Math, huh?”

Josh's tone fell. “Yeah, the worst.”

“Need some help?”

“No.” Josh nodded his head toward the back door. “Dad helped me when I got home from school. I get it.” He gave Clay a crooked grin. “I just hate it, that's all.”

There it was again. The reminder that this family was perfectly fine without him. Josh no longer needed him for homework or playing catch or an hour of jump shots outside. Eric took care of all that now.

And Laura … obviously she didn't need him. He was her friend, but they spent no time alone together, nor did they have any reason to do so. This was the new way of things. After three years, it wasn't even all that new anymore.

Eric worked from home. He maintained the same type of job, the same income, the same membership to the country club, while spending ten times as many hours with Laura and Josh. It was the type of miracle setup only God could've worked out.

The sliding door opened, and Clay turned to see Eric walk in with an empty platter. “Barbecue's on.” He smiled first at Clay, then at Josh. “How's it coming?”

“Okay.” Josh made a face. “I wish I was done.”

“Why don't you take a break?” Eric set the platter on the vast granite island at the center of the kitchen. “You can help me cook the steaks.”

“You mean turn 'em and everything?”

“Yep.” Eric chuckled. “Mom's out there finding zucchini. You can help her till I get back out.”

Josh didn't hesitate. He pushed his chair away from the table and ran out the door, gangly legs flying beneath him. Clay leaned against the counter and watched, amazed. How much happier and at peace with the world Josh was now that things were different at home. Further proof of what he already knew—the unequaled power of a good father in a boy's life.

Their own father had checked out long before Clay and Eric were teenagers. The man didn't divorce their mother until they were in high school, but by then they barely knew him. Neither he nor his brother had been in touch with him in the years since.

Clay shifted his lower jaw.
That's why I want to be a dad, God … so I can be the kind of father a child wants. The way Eric is with Josh.

He gritted his teeth.
Why's it taking so long?

Eric popped open a Sprite and slid it across the counter to Clay. “You okay?”

“Huh?” Clay straightened himself. “Yeah. Fine.”

“You look a little pensive.”

“Nah, I'm fine.” He wasn't, but Eric didn't need to know that. His older brother wasn't to blame for any of the feelings that had been poking at him lately. “Need help with dinner?”

“No, it's under control.” Eric took a pop for himself and came up alongside Clay. “So …” He put the can down and crossed his arms. “How did it feel?”

How did it feel? Then it hit him. Of course … Eric was talking about the shooting. That's why all the questions. Clay shrugged. “Like target practice, I guess.”

“Really?” Eric narrowed his eyes. “No difference?”

“Of course it was different.” Clay uttered a sharp laugh and gave a sideways shake of his head. “The guy was spraying an AK-47 at me, and I was shooting from the floor of my patrol car. And instead of ripping some paper target, I killed a guy.”

Eric's tone grew softer. “It was self-defense, Clay. Obviously.”

“I know.” He downed half of his pop and set the can back on the counter. “I was sick about it at first, but the truth was, I had no choice. It was me or him.”

“How'd you fire at him without getting hit?”

Clay shrugged. “Same way you found your way home after September 11?” Clay loved this, the easy banter with his brother. For all the ways he was tempted to be jealous of him, he couldn't do anything but enjoy their time together.

Eric nodded, but he didn't answer the question; he didn't have to. They both knew the reason they were standing there that October afternoon. God alone got the credit.

“Josh says he made the A team.”

“Yeah.” Eric chuckled. “He has me playing better hoops than I did when I was a college boy.” He shot an invisible ball toward the patio door. “The kid can't get enough.”

“I'll have to catch a few games when I get back.”

Eric's smile faded. “So what's this I hear about you spending three weeks in New York?”

“The idea came from Reynolds, one of the detectives at the station. I have three weeks paid while they investigate the shooting. I can also count it as training.”

“Training?” Eric gave him a knowing look. “You mean you finally got your promotion?”

“Yeah.” Clay gripped the countertop behind him. “Funny timing, huh? Kill a suspect in a shootout, come back to the office, and find out they've made you detective.”

“Hey!” Eric slapped him on the back. “Way to go, little brother. You've had that coming for a few years at least.” He hesitated. “But why New York? Couldn't you get training here?”

“Sure.” Clay pulled away from the counter and stretched first to one side, then the other. He'd pulled a few muscles in his back when he jerked his body to the floorboard during the gunfight. He was still sore. “Reynolds wanted New York, for one thing. Not sure why. But I figure, why not? I've wanted to get back there since the terrorist attacks. After all the firefighters and police officers lost, it's sort of a trek, I guess. Something all of us want to do at one time or another.”

Eric finished his pop and headed around the counter toward the sink. He ran the platter under water and sprayed it with a squirt of soap. “I don't miss it.”

“Don't miss what?” Clay turned around and faced him. “Working there … or living there?”

Eric didn't look up. “Actually, I didn't live there. I lived in New Jersey.”

Clay waited, but as usual, Eric didn't go into details.

“To answer your question, I don't miss working in Manhattan every month or so. I can't believe that was my life before September 11.”

“And the other? Staten Island?”

Eric's eyes met his. “I think about it once in a while.”

“You never talk about it.”

“Nope.” Eric turned off the water and grabbed a dish towel. “My time with her gave me a life I never would've had otherwise. But we promised each other we'd never talk about it. Not to anyone.”

“Not even Laura?”

“Once in a while she'll say something about the firefighter, about how she's glad he kept a journal, glad he wrote notes in his Bible.”

“That's what changed you, right? Believing you were this great family guy, a man with an unshakable faith?”

“That—” he ran the towel over the platter—“and her.”

“The woman?”

Eric nodded. “She was very special. It killed me to leave her.”

This was more than Eric had ever shared about that time in his life. Clay wasn't sure what to make of his brother's statement. “Did you … were you in love with her?”

“I thought she was my wife; I was
supposed
to love her. And the girl … I remembered her name when I woke up. It wasn't until the end that we figured out that part.”

“The helmet?” It was one detail Clay did know.

“Yep. I tripped, as close as I can guess.” He set the dry platter on the counter. “The fireman bent over to help me up and his helmet fell off. I picked it up, I remember that. Inside was a picture of the little girl and her name.” He knit his brow together. “When I woke up, her name was the only thing I remembered.”

“She got to you too, didn't she?” Clay cocked his head. “The little girl?”

“They both did.” Eric gave a slight shake of his head. “But not like you think. When I left them it was no regrets. I was a different man.” He took the platter and headed toward the patio door.