Endless Chain (4 page)

“It’s not usually like this. Last summer was dry. This summer is wet. Maybe next summer will be just right.”

“Too dry, too wet, just right…Sounds like you’ve been practicing your Three Bears,” Helen said. “Getting ready for the baby.”

Elisa wanted to slip out of the spotlight. She leaned forward. “I couldn’t help but notice there’s a baby on the way. Will it be soon?”

“It better not be,” Tessa said. Elisa thought there was a touch of anxiety in the reply.

“She’s due in January,” Helen said. “And she refuses to find out the sex. And she hasn’t chosen names because that’s bad luck.”

“No, we haven’t chosen names because there are too many choices.”

“Because it’s bad luck,” Helen repeated.

Tessa sped up some more, as if she hoped to distract or drop off her grandmother quickly. “Do you have children, Elisa?”

“I’m not married. My roommate has two. I enjoy them.”

“I never did see the point of babies,” Helen said. “Of course, Tessa’s will be different.” She said this as if Tessa had better make sure of it.

Rain began to fall in earnest, not the teasing harbinger of a storm but the real thing at last. Tessa snapped on her windshield wipers and slowed to a crawl. “I’m certainly glad you didn’t try to walk home in this.”

Elisa was glad, too. She was frightened of storms, although she did not let that deter her from going out in them if she had to. She didn’t have the luxury of giving in to haunting memories or of forgetting why she was afraid.

“You don’t even have an umbrella,” Helen chided.

Elisa looked at Helen instead of the storm outside the window. “In a real storm, an umbrella means nothing. And I didn’t want to carry anything I didn’t need to.”

“Well, we’re almost to the park,” Tessa said. “Isn’t that the turnoff just ahead?”

Elisa saw she was right. The trip was so short, so easy, in a car.

Tessa pulled into the drive leading to a village of less than a dozen mobile homes separated by tiny, sloping lots. One home, just off to the side, had a canopy and a sign in front announcing it was the office, although in truth, little business was ever accomplished there. Some of the homes were fronted by awnings adorned with hanging plants; some had storage sheds; some had a rosebush or flower borders. In a field just yards away a chestnut mare grazed on dandelions and crabgrass.

Elisa pointed to the fourth home on the right, which had a metal awning over a small plywood porch. “Right there.”

Tessa pulled alongside it. “Will they mind if I park under the canopy by the office for a minute? I’m going to get out and clean some mud off the windshield. My wipers aren’t getting it.”

“You need new wipers,” Helen said. “And that’s a fact.”

“No one would mind,” Elisa said. She thanked Tessa, who assured her again it had been no trouble; then Elisa said goodbye to Helen. She got out and stayed on the porch to wave goodbye as they turned and started toward the office, just across the gravel road.

The door was locked, which surprised her, since she had expected Adoncia to be home. To the drumming of rain on the metal awning, she slipped off her backpack and fumbled through it for her key.

Once the door was open, she started inside, but something made her turn, perhaps a noise that didn’t seem to be part of the storm, an instinct. She saw Tessa, parked now under the office canopy, slumped against the side of the car. Elisa leapt off the porch and sprinted across the road. Helen had emerged by the time she got there, and the two of them caught Tessa before she slid to the ground.

Between them they managed to get her to the steps leading up to the office. She was semiconscious, although Elisa thought she had passed out completely for at least a few seconds.

Gently she nudged Tessa’s head toward her knees. “Take a deep breath,” she said. “It will pass quickly. Just stay there until you feel better.”

Tessa made a noise one degree from a moan. Helen was wide-eyed with alarm. “She’s as healthy as a horse. Eats right, does everything right. I don’t know what could be wrong with her.”

“Has she been having fainting spells?”

“I don’t know. She hasn’t said a thing to me, and if she’d told her mother, I’d have heard about it, believe me.”

“I’m…fine.” Tessa lifted her head, then rested it on her hands.

Elisa sat beside her and rubbed her back. “Has this happened before?”

“No.” Tessa took a deep breath, but she still sounded frightened. “Something is obviously wrong.”

Elisa weighed silence against her own comfort, but she had little choice. “I wouldn’t worry too much, not unless a doctor tells you to. It could be several things, all minor.”

Tessa looked up. “How do you know?”

“I—I have a sister who had the same thing happen to her.” Elisa smiled her reassurance. “She told me exactly what her doctor said. Iron deficiencies or infections of the inner ear may cause fainting in pregnancy, but most likely the baby is just pressing against a nerve or a blood vessel. None of those things are serious. There’s no danger to you or the baby, but of course you must go in to be checked as soon as possible.”

Tessa looked somewhat relieved. “I thought…”

“She thought she was going into labor and losing the baby,” Helen said bluntly. “And so did I.”

Elisa squeezed Tessa’s hand. “Most likely your doctor will tell you to be sure you change positions often when you’re sitting. Perhaps he’ll point out that since you’ve had this episode, you shouldn’t drive or sit in a car more than necessary.”

“It
was
a long drive from Fairfax, and I came right over to get Gram.”

“And you weren’t out of the car for more than five minutes when you got to the church,” Helen said. “That’s probably it.”

“See?” Elisa stood. In the moment it had taken her to reach Tessa’s side, she had gotten soaked. Her shirt clung to her chest. “How do you feel now?”

“Fine. I think.”

“Forget the groceries. We’ll go straight home, and I’ll drive,” Helen said. “I still have my license.”

“No, I’m fine now. I’ll be fine,” Tessa said. She stood, as if testing her words. “But I will check with my doctor. Right away.”

Elisa nodded. “Stretch and move around a little before you get back in the car. If you feel even the slightest bit dizzy afterward, let your grandmother drive you home.”

Tessa turned to her. “You’ve been very kind.”

Elisa considered Tessa’s words and the real truth, that this had been more than kindness. She touched Tessa’s arm. “I’m glad I could help. At least a little.”

T
he rain stopped by three, and the fund-raiser committee went to work mowing the wet grass in front of
La Casa Amarilla
and raking it into steaming clumps. A crew came to string colorful plastic lanterns from the aging oaks and maples, none of which had ever seen this kind of festivity in their century or more of life in Virginia. Another crew set up tables and covered them with red-and-blue plastic. Yet another set up a temporary platform for a mariachi band they had hired at a discount.

There was little call for mariachi bands in Shenandoah County.

Christine had promised to find her way to the church about dinnertime, when the fiesta would just be getting into swing. At four Sam rolled up his sleeves, and by six he stepped back and took a long look at what they had accomplished. He loved being outdoors, having open space around him, the fresh breeze tickling his skin. He was going to enjoy the evening.

“I’m impressed,” he told the president of his board of deacons, Gayle Fortman, an attractive single mother of three teenaged boys. “Now if the rain just holds off…”

“It’s supposed to.” Gayle’s short blond hair stuck out in a hundred directions, and she had a streak of dirt on one cheek. She had been on ladders for hours stringing lights. Two of her sons had helped and were now wheeling clumps of grass to the church compost bin.

“People will have a good time,” he promised. “Even if we don’t raise a lot of money, this gives everyone a look at what we’ve done to the house. Good feelings will be worth a lot down the line.”

“Not everyone’s happy with this project.”

He knew she wasn’t talking about tonight’s fund-raiser. “You’ve been getting calls?”

“Sam, everything you do pisses off somebody. I need a hotline.”

Sam supposed three rambunctious boys taught a mother not to beat around the bush.

“Most of the calls are from perpetual malcontents who weren’t happy we hired you in the first place,” she continued, when he didn’t defend himself. “I suppose they would call if Jesus was the pastor, too.”

“Probably more often. At least I don’t turn water into wine.”

She had a deep, satisfying laugh. “A lot of people are coming tonight. The summer’s ending. This is the final social event before Labor Day. For a last-minute, middle-of-the-week celebration, we did good, huh?”

“It’s a testament to the church’s well-being that when we decided to hold a fund-raiser, there were few dates not booked for something else.”

“You do keep things moving. I’ll give you that.”

He took that as a compliment, although it was questionable. “I’ve had four interviews for a new sexton. I’ll be choosing by the end of the week.”

“Good. Marie Watson called to tell me the women’s bathroom was not clean enough to suit her. Twice.”

“She’s only been to church twice all summer.”

“Well, we know where she spent her time when she was here.”

One of Gayle’s sons called her away, and she lifted a hand in farewell. “I’m going home for a shower, but I’ll be back in half an hour. If the caterer doesn’t show up in fifteen minutes, call me?”

He watched her go and wished he had four dozen more just like her in the congregation.

The caterers did arrive, and competently erected grills and serving tables before they began to set out covered bowls of salsas, guacamole and sour cream. The Sunday school superintendent arrived with the largest donkey piñata Sam had ever seen and strung it from an appropriate tree limb far away from where the food would be served.

He slipped home for a quick shower, too, and changed into a colorful shirt and dark pants.

He beat Christine to the party by close to an hour. The mariachi band, dressed in full black-and-gold regalia, was playing a lively version of “La Bamba” when she arrived in an off-the-shoulder white dress cinched at the waist with a wide silver belt.

“The fiesta has begun,” she said, kissing his cheek, then wiping off her lipstick. “And they’re actually in tune.”

She sounded surprised, and he couldn’t chide her. Considering what the committee was paying the band, he had expected the men to take turns strumming one guitar. Instead, seven members had arrived, complete with elaborate costumes and expensive instruments.

“They’re great,” Sam said. “You ought to hear them sing
‘Malaguena Salerosa
.’” He hummed a few bars.

“Better them than you.”

People began to come forward to be introduced to Christine. He did his part, and watched her chat with his parishioners and those of the surrounding churches who were helping with
La Casa.
He had seen Christine in action a thousand times and knew how much more energy she was capable of expending, if she thought it mattered. She was polite tonight, even friendly, but he knew—even if no one else did—that her heart wasn’t in it.

“Fajitas, Sam?” she said, when they were temporarily alone again. “They’re serving fajitas?” She gave a low laugh.

“I’ve eaten four. Come on, I’ll load up your plate.”

“I’ll just take a pass. That’s a week’s worth of calories on a tortilla. Cheese, sour cream, guacamole.” She rolled her lovely green eyes.

“It’s a party, Chrissy. Worth a few fat grams.”

“Plastic lanterns and piñatas do not a party make, sweetie. There’s nothing to drink, is there?”

“Not with children present.” He felt a flash of annoyance that she would make a point of that. They had never served liquor at family functions at The Savior’s Church, either, a fact she was well aware of, since she was the headmistress of the private school associated with that congregation.

She made a face. “I’ll just go see what I can find that’s safe to swallow. I’ll catch you later.”

He didn’t volunteer to go with her. Instead, he wandered over to the tree where the donkey piñata hung. Two dozen children stood in a wide circle watching a blindfolded second-grader swing a plastic bat in the donkey’s general direction.

He was squatting on the ground, surrounded by four elementary schoolgirls who had just finished explaining what they would do with the bounty if they opened the piñata, when someone spoke above him.

“We can safely say it will take dynamite to crack that facade.”

Sam stood to find a cleaner, happier Gayle. “We’re preparing them for a life of frustration.”

“In ten minutes someone will take a chain saw to that thing and be done with it. The kids won’t care, as long as they get the candy and toys.”

“I’ve had a load of compliments on what we’ve done with the house, and a good number of checks accompanied them.”

“Terrific.”

“Sam!”

Over the strains of
“Cielito Lindo,”
Sam looked for the source of the shout and finally spied one of the deacons, a man in his late seventies named Early Meeks, coming from the direction of the church. Early was tall and completely bald. He drew attention away from the hair he lacked with brightly colored neckties and suspenders. He was a favorite of the Sunday school children, who appreciated his flair for comedy.

Early looked anything but comic now. Sam excused himself and went to meet him halfway.

“What’s up?” Sam asked.

“We have a situation in the social hall.”

“Situation?”

“George Jenkins is here.”

George’s presence surprised Sam. Jenkins was the member of the board of deacons least likely to go along with any good idea. He had opposed
La Casa Amarilla
from the first, expounding on the need to “pull together” as a congregation, which was George’s own code for “keeping outsiders away.” He had been overruled on
La Casa,
as he was usually overruled, a fact that made him even more determined to make trouble for Sam. Sam gave silent thanks every time he remembered that George was serving his final months of a five-year term.

“His son was here earlier today,” Sam said. “There was another
situation
during that little visit.”

“Leon never really struck me as a chip off the old block.” Early nodded toward the church. “But you’d better come quick. George is making threats. We’re trying to keep him out of sight.”

“We?”

As they strode toward the church, Early explained that several partygoers had removed George to the social hall. “I was coming for the party, too. I heard a commotion just inside the front door and went to check. Apparently George doesn’t know the party is elsewhere.” He hesitated. “Actually, George probably doesn’t know much of anything right now. He’s had more than a few drinks tonight.”

Sam was grateful the men had stopped George before he destroyed the good spirit at the fiesta and made more of a fool of himself in the process.

“Maybe if he has a chance to insult me he’ll calm down and we can get him home. How did he get here?”

“His car’s in the lot.”

“He’s lucky he didn’t kill somebody on the way over.
They’re
lucky.”

“We won’t let him drive home.”

Sam briefly considered calling the sheriff and having George removed from the premises, but the temptation passed quickly. There were better ways to deal with George, both for his sake and that of the church.

They reached the building and entered through a side door. When it closed behind him, Sam could no longer hear the band or the happy squeals of children. They turned down several corridors, ending up in the large room where most social events were held. Sam saw George in the corner by the door, flanked by the other men Early had mentioned. George, in his forties, was not aging well. He had coarse, bulldog features, a perpetual scowl, and a physique that was more out-of-shape wrestler than boxer.

Everyone but George looked uncomfortable. George looked furious.

Sam wasted no time reaching the others. The other men stepped away, leaving him to face the angry man.

“What’s going on, George?” Sam kept his tone carefully neutral.

“You’re…what’s goin’ on, preacher.”

Early had been right. Jenkins was clearly drunk. His words were slurred, his face flushed, and his eyes were not quite focused.

With effort, Sam remained polite. “There’s probably a better time and place to explore our differences. Why don’t I come to your house tomorrow, and we can talk about this all you want?”

“You…’ umiliated my boy! Right in front of…of his frien’s…and those damn quilters….”

Sam had guessed this visit was about Leon. He wondered how much of the story the boy had told his father and what his version had sounded like.

Sam explained. “Leon tried to take a sledgehammer to the new sign. I stopped him and sent him home. That’s about it for the facts.”

George took a step closer and stuck his finger in the air near Sam’s nose. “You had no right!”

“George, I was trying to keep the sheriff out of it.”

“I’m gonna get you fired. You see…if I don’t.”

Sam hoped that was all the man needed to say. He saw no point in listening to more. “Why don’t you go home now? One of your friends will drive you. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Sam started to turn away, a mistake he only realized when he heard George’s angry grunt. He whirled back just in time to see a fist coming directly at his face.

Sam was a coal miner’s son. He had spent his childhood years in a Pennsylvania coal patch defending a skinny younger brother from the sons of other coal miners. He did what came naturally. Lifting one arm, he blocked George’s punch, stepping sideways as he did. George, off balance to begin with, stumbled forward and fell to the floor at Sam’s feet.

Everyone stared. George lay as still as a corpse.

“He’s breathing,” Early said at last.

Sam felt only a touch of remorse. He had not punched Jenkins, only blocked his poorly aimed attack. He squatted and put his hand on the man’s neck. Jenkins’ pulse was strong and steady.

“Would that be a new version of turning the other cheek, pastor?” Early asked.

Elisa waved goodbye to the neighbor who had dropped her off at the church for the evening. She had promised to return when Elisa finished, despite Elisa’s assurances it wasn’t necessary. The Latino families at the park watched out for each other. During her months in residence, Elisa had done her share of favors for some of the young mothers, and the favors had been returned in a number of ways.

The night had turned cooler, and despite the afternoon storm, the humidity seemed to be dropping. She could hear music playing and wondered if her ears deceived her. Someone was singing in Spanish.

“Miss?”

Her head shot up, and she gazed in the direction the voice had come from. A young man—all too familiar—materialized from the deepening shadows at the front of the church.

She took a step backward. “What do you want?”

“Please…” He put his hands out, palms up, in supplication. “I—I’m sorry about, you know, that thing with the sign.”

“Were you waiting here just to tell me that?”

Leon Jenkins—now she remembered his name—shoved his hands in the pockets of baggy jeans. “I—you’ve got to help me.”