Deadlock (11 page)

“How is the church doing, Mom?”

“She just keeps rolling along, like that song about the river and the old man who lives in it.”

“Old Man River?” Millie said.

“No, but there’s a song like it with the same title,” Ethel said.

Millie smiled.

“I think you’re going to like our pastor,” Ethel added.

So it begins,
Millie thought.

“He’s a real good preacher,” Royal volunteered. “I like his style.”

“Oh?” Millie said casually, being polite about the conversation. In her mind she pictured an older man, perhaps a few years short of retirement, who was making one last stop at the church before his dotage. He’d be full of the old bromides and warnings of hellfire, damnation, and the wages of sins such as dancing and drink. She hoped, if she did meet him, that it would be a short meeting.

“He’s not the kind of preacher you might think,” Ethel said. “He’s had a lot of tragedy in his life.”

“A ton,” Royal said.

“And he received mercy,” Ethel said, “so he gives it out. He ministers to runaway teenagers down in Lancaster. For nothing.”

“Because of what happened with his own daughter,” Royal added.

Millie felt a vague interest in knowing the story, but said nothing.

“And can he pray!” Ethel said. “You should have heard him the night of your accident.”

“What?”

“Yep. That very night, at prayer meeting, I asked for prayer for you. I felt troubled about you for some reason. It was heavy upon me.”

“I remember,” Royal said. “She was almost crying.”

This was odd. “What kind of trouble did you think I was in?”

“I didn’t know, exactly. But I remember the time. I surely do. I felt the Lord leading and looked at the big clock. It was 10:35.”

Millie said, “You were up late.”

“We pray long sometimes,” Royal said. “Pastor really believes in prayer.”

Sure he does,
Millie thought.
He’s supposed to. So are church people.
When she was a little girl, she had, too. But now . . .

Millie’s mind suddenly snapped to attention. “What time did you say, Mom?”

“What time what?”

“When you looked at the clock.”

“I said 10:35. Yes, sir.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“’Course I am. I can still see. Why are you asking?”

Millie did not say, but began to feel cold all over. If it was 10:35 on the west coast, it was 1:35 on the east.

The very time Dr. Cross said she’d flatlined.

The very time she’d had her vision.

“You all right, dear?” Ethel asked.

“Sorry, Mom. I just got a headache.”

“Don’t let’s talk anymore. Royal, you drive nice and smooth now. Let my daughter rest.”

Oh, yes. Sweet rest. She needed that.

But she knew she could not rest. Not now.

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2

It felt like a time warp when Millie saw the old house. Her mother still lived here, would never think of leaving. Wouldn’t even consider changing the basic look of the place. Adobe style on the outside with a flagstone walkway. Cactus plants in the garden under the front window. The lone oak tree that stood like a sentry guarding the ghosts of the past. She’d read books under it as a little girl. Desert shade for an inquiring mind.

The house, built by her father and a group of locals when Millie was ten (she helped dig out the tiny portion of sandy dirt that became the back steps), looked just as it did in the sixties. The capricious weather of California’s high desert (though the townspeople hated
high desert
as a designation; not good for tourism) seemed to have paid it respect and treated it gently over the years. There was a solidity about it that provided comfort.

Royal scurried around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door for Millie. She swung her legs out carefully, remembering what Dr. Cross said about her ribs — no sudden movements or turns.

A rivulet of warm desert air caressed her face, bringing with it the scent of sage and wildflowers. It was soothing and familiar. There was nothing quite like the breezes here, and she’d loved them growing up. The air was simple, unpretentious. Above all, clean. Not filled with the waste of busses and cars and industry. The act of breathing here was unpressured.

Yes, coming home was the right thing to do. Healing could happen here. Quiet rest. She wouldn’t have to think about anything. The desert did not make demands on you. It did not ask you questions. This was just the place to regain equilibrium, forget thoughts of death and dark visions. Become normal again.

Royal popped the trunk and started getting Millie’s bags. A noise made Millie look up, toward the roof. The sun was behind the house and she had to squint. But there was definitely something moving on top of the house.

Her first thought was that a TV reporter had managed to precede them. He was lying in wait until the car came, ready to get his exclusive. She almost ducked her head. Then she noticed the ladder against the house. Whoever was up there must be a worker of some sort.

“Hey there, Ethel,” the worker said, leaning over the edge of the roof.

“Come down offa there,” Ethel said. “Meet my daughter.”

Terrific. All Millie wanted to do was go inside, into her old room where her mother still kept a bed, and sleep. She was not in any mood to talk to strangers.

But this was her mother’s house. She would follow the rules. A quick greeting, then inside.

The worker came into focus now. Millie first noticed his denim work shirt splotchy with sweat. He had a leather tool belt around his waist and wore blue jeans.

As he descended the ladder she noticed that his tanned arms, glistening with perspiration, were strong. This was a man who did not shy away from hard work.

When he turned from the ladder Millie was greeted by a friendly pair of eyes with a set of hard wrinkles at each corner. His hair was dark with a hint of gray at the temples. He looked about her age.

His face was not that of a construction worker, but of an academic. Strange, but he looked like a young Thomas Riley, her colleague on the Court. And everyone said when Tom Riley was a young lawyer in Wyoming, he was the spittin’ image of Gary Cooper — solid, rugged, quintessentially American.

“Howdy,” he said, taking out a red bandanna and wiping his hands. He extended it. “I’m Jack Holden.”

Millie caught sight of her mother grinning off to the side. She shook his hand. “Millie Hollander.”

“Welcome home.”

She forced a smile and a nod, but felt the slightest bit put off by the sentiment. Who was he to welcome her to her own childhood residence?

“That’s Pastor Jack,” Ethel said.

Oh no, Mother,
Millie thought,
you didn’t. You didn’t set me up to meet this man, did you?

“So nice to meet you,” Millie said without enthusiasm. Then she noticed what looked like a string of faded, colored beads around his neck. It reminded her of the hippies in the sixties.

“Heard a lot about you,” Holden said. “Personally I’d like to say it’s a privilege to meet you. I visited the Supreme Court once.”

“How nice.”

“Didn’t hear an argument, though. Wondered what I’d do if I ever had to make one.”

Millie wanted to get inside the house.

“Will you stay for dinner?” Ethel said.

No!
Millie’s mind screamed. She was about to say something about being tired when Holden spoke.

“Now, Ethel, your daughter’s come a long way, and I’m sure she’s tired. Probably doesn’t feel much like socializing.”

“Maybe after church on Sunday,” Edith said.

“I’d love to,” Holden said.

A firecracker of pain went off at the base of Millie’s neck. “Mr. Holden,” she snapped. “I am here just to get some rest. Excuse me.” She turned and walked into her childhood home.

Royal brought in her two suitcases, with Ethel close behind.

“Millie,” Ethel said, in a way that made Millie feel like she was ten years old.

“Not now, Mom, please.”

“He’s my pastor.”

“I know, it’s just — ”

“You could try to be pleasant.”

“Mother, I’m sorry. I just want to go lie down.”

“Then you do that,” Ethel said. “Just remember, a tree doesn’t fall too far from the fruit.”

Millie had no idea what that meant. But she was no longer in any mood for talk. Her head was starting to pound like a gavel on a judge’s bench.

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3

She dreamed of dark clouds.

In the dream, Millie sat in her judicial robes, in her chair on the Court. The courtroom was empty. And the walls had been taken away.

Black storm clouds rolled in, like an advancing army. She tried to get out of her chair but found she could not move. It was going to start raining soon. She had to find shelter.

The rain came. Lightning flashed. Peals of thunder exploded around her. She could not get away. There was no shelter. And then she saw something on the horizon. Help. Someone coming to help her.

But as the figure got closer she realized he was in black, and sticking out of his robed sleeves were long, slithery fingers, like snakes . . .

She woke up breathing hard, her ribs protesting. Muted sunlight filtered in through the window, indicating late afternoon. She lay there several minutes until her breathing was back to normal, then carefully got out of bed.

Ethel was preparing a meal in the kitchen. When Millie entered Ethel barely looked up from the peas she was liberating into a Tupperware bowl.

“Have a little sleep?” Ethel asked.

“A little,” Millie said. She was not going to mention the dream. “Can I help you with those?”

“Grab yourself a handful, why don’t you?”

From the big bowl of rich, green pea pods Millie scooped up a healthy portion and set them in front of her. When she was a girl she’d always liked cooking with her mother. The love of cooking was the one thing they shared in common.

“How are you feeling?” Ethel asked.

“A lot of sore spots still. When I first get up it hurts most.”

“I mean inside.”

Millie pushed out three raw peas into the Tupperware bowl. “Inside?”

“That’s what I said. I want to know what’s going on in that head of yours.”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“You goin’ back inside your turtle shell, huh?”

Millie looked away. “I haven’t heard that in a long time.”

“You been in fancy Washington, D.C., is why,” Ethel said. “You remember the first time?”

Millie did, very much so. But her mother had on her storytelling look, and Millie let her go.

“You were nine years old.” Ethel said. “You came in from school with red eyes, like you’d been crying, and you ran in past me. I was cleaning or something. But I went right after you. And when I got to you, you wouldn’t tell me what happened. You remember that?”

Millie nodded.

“I kept asking and asking,” Ethel said, “but that old stubborn streak in you was a mile wide, even then. And you said you were going into your turtle shell. You took to your room with a book, like usual, and wouldn’t talk about it.”

A stab hit Millie between the ribs. She well remembered that day. Three fourth grade girls had approached her at recess.

Your mom’s a goody-two-shoes,
they said.

Millie tried to get away, but the girls grabbed her arms.

Nobody likes you or your mom, you Bible thumpers. That’s what you are. Why don’t you dry up and blow away?

“I told your father about it,” Ethel said, snapping Millie back to the present, “and he laughed and said ‘She’s your girl.’ And whenever you used to crawl away with a book, not talking about things, I’d say to myself, ‘She’s going back in her turtle shell.’ ”

“Mom — ” Millie stopped herself. If only her mother had ever told her she approved of Millie, even though she had rejected her childhood faith, maybe they could talk more openly now.

“Why don’t you take a walk?” Ethel said.

“Walk?”

“Like you used to. Can you? I mean, with your ribs.”

“Oh, yes. Dr. Cross told me to walk.”

“Down to the square. You used to like to do that. Go on. I’ll have dinner for you when you get home.”

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4

As Millie strolled, dusk dropped its red and orange cloak over the valley. She followed a dirt path lined with rabbit bush and scrub oak that wound its way from the back of Ethel’s home into town. Millie could see across the valley to the Santa Lucia range, where the legendary mountain, the Sleeping Giant, lay. The outline of the mountains, from around Henderson up toward the 232 highway, gave the impression of a man sleeping on his back if you looked at it just right. It was the only tourist attraction in the town of Santa Lucia.

Climbing a small rise, Millie came to the outskirts of town. Santa Lucia looked the same to Millie. It was as if a dome had been placed over it, preventing any aging. There were paint jobs, of course, and some sprucing up. City Hall had a new flagpole, with a grand, golden eagle on the top.