Home Another Way (5 page)
The three exchanged quick glances, and Maggie pushed away from the table. “How about dessert? I made pie.”
“I’ll help you,” Beth said, picking up some of the dirty dishes and following her mother into the kitchen.
“Was it something I said?” I quipped.
Jack smiled, kind but tired. He’d never had braces. “They think that because I’m a pastor, I always know the right words.”
“Do you?”
“No,” he said, and took a deep breath. “Obviously, we all knew Luke.”
“Obviously.”
Jack bit his lip. I should have been nice to him, but I was in no mood for charity. He shifted in his chair, looking like a five-year-old boy who’d been caught stealing penny candy.
“Sarah, all I’m trying to say is, if you need to talk, any one of us is here to listen. You shouldn’t go through this alone.”
I clenched my teeth, getting angry. Not only because some man I’d known for ten minutes thought he knew what I needed, but because of the way he said my name.
Sarah.
Like he cared about me, about what happened to me. No one had ever said my name like that. Not my grandmother, not Aunt Ruth or David, not Brad-or-Brian from the night before or any other sweaty fling. It was the way my mother would have said my name, if she had lived.
If my father hadn’t killed her.
“And what am I going through?”
“Sarah—”
“Stop saying my name,” I said, “and leave me alone. You have no idea. And you don’t want to.”
I went upstairs to my room. The bed was made, as if I were never there.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to cry. Mostly, I wanted to spit in Jack’s face. I saw in his eyes how he pitied me, and how he loved my father.
No one should have loved my father.
My head pounded again, pulsing at the temples to my heartbeat. I dug through my bag to find the Tylenol Beth had given me the day before. There were five left. I took them all. Then I put on my pajamas and got into bed. The sheets were cold against my bare feet. I should have kept my socks on.
Jack reran his conversation with Sarah over in his mind again and again, until his words blurred and all he clearly remembered were her eyes—brown and haunted with the ghosts of too many lost dreams.
Could he have said something different? Probably not. It had been a long time since she trusted anyone, and her walls wouldn’t fall over a plate of mashed potatoes and an “I’m here for you,” no matter how well his mother cooked, or how sincere his words.
Yes, he had sworn to Luke that, if Sarah found her way to Jonah, he would look after her. But she was more to Jack than a promise to a dying friend; she offered him a chance to prove his days could be counted in more than sermons and breakfast specials.
A sermon.
He still needed to finish his for Sunday. With a groan, he took a legal pad and pen from his desk and sat in the squeaky antique chair. He flipped open his Bible, scrawling a few uninspired sentences, then tore off the defaced sheet of yellow paper and threw it across the room at the blotchy watercolor one of the church members painted for him. He would not be writing anything tonight, and so closed his book with a defeated thud.
Jack pushed back from the desk, rolling to the center of the cramped room because the old floor bowed so badly. The chair wheels caught on the corner of the braided rug and stopped. Not much larger than the church’s fifteen-passenger van, the room pulled triple duty as his office and living and eating areas. The sofa, supple brown leather with matching ottoman, had been an impractical splurge, but he’d salvaged the dinette set from Goodwill. It didn’t matter that the chipped top was an ugly ‘70s avocado green, and the uneven legs caused the table to rock like the apostles’ rowboat in the storm. He rarely ate at home, and when he did, he stood at the counter in the equally modest kitchen.
The tight surroundings irritating his cluttered brain, Jack bundled up and walked out into the night. Undisturbed, the snow in the field to his left undulated softly toward the woods. He stepped into it, sank to his ankles. Then he continued walking, marring the snow, which, despite the almost full moon, did not look white but gray scale. After fifty paces he turned his head to glance back at his footprints, small black pits intruding on the otherwise smooth landscape. Leave it to man—to him—to screw up God’s perfection with his muddy feet.
Yes, he was wallowing in good ol’ self-pity, as much as he hated to admit it. His confrontation with Sarah played just a small part in a melancholy that had persisted for, well, too long. Not that he had any doubts about serving as pastor in Jonah. He didn’t. He belonged here. Still, it remained, the feeling he should be doing something bigger than shuttling senior citizens to the market or judging pie-eating contests.
Jack wanted to have a Christmas pageant again. Four years had passed since the fire, and the town still mourned. He hadn’t yet pressed the issue with the congregation, but after considerable prayer, he believed it was time to try.
The wind rasped bitterly, sweeping the clouds over the moon and cutting through his pants. Turning, he walked back to the apartment, careful to step only in the boot prints he’d already made.
For too long, my days had been about sleeping and waking, about beds and blankets and who, if anyone, would be next to me. The hours between were stuffed with life, a tedious blend of walking, talking, and sometimes food.
It started again that morning. I woke, dressed in the dark, and snuck out of the inn. My bags were still in Maggie’s car. I put on my new coat and tossed the rest into the cab of the truck, and then drove into the center of town, past the variety store. It opened in an hour, at eight, so I went to the diner. I wasn’t hungry, but I needed a warm place to wait.
The same woman at the counter again told me to sit where I wanted. A few men in red-checked wool coats filled their thermoses with hot coffee. I walked to the back of the diner to
my
booth.
Jack was there.
In my haste not to be noticed, I turned and bumped against the table with my hip. Jack’s milk tipped, flooding the paper place mat and his breakfast. He jumped from the booth to avoid getting his pants wet, pulling his briefcase with him.
“Sorry,” I said.
He grinned. “For now or yesterday?”
“Both.”
“Don’t worry, my boss is big into forgiveness. Have breakfast with me.”
“Oh, I can’t—”
“Please,” Jack said. “My treat. And I promise, no questions. I’ll limit my conversation to the history of the town, and to the snow.”
A waitress pushed past me to sop up the milky mess. I flopped into the booth, with Jack sitting across from me.
“So, there’s snow out there,” he said.
I couldn’t help but smile. The waitress finished cleaning and came to take our order. About sixty and sour-faced, she looked at me disapprovingly. “Reverend, can I get you another plate?”
“Yes, thank you, Ima-Louise. I’ll have the same. With orange juice this time.”
“And you?” she asked me.
“Coffee, and whatever Jack is having.”
Ima-Louise’s scowl deepened. “The reverend is having the breakfast special. Two eggs, toast, sausage, bacon, and oatmeal.”
“That’s fine,” I said.
“And your eggs?”
“Scrambled.”
“Uh-huh,” she said.
“Um, what was that all about?” I whispered as Ima-Louise headed into the kitchen with our order.
“No one around here calls me Jack, except my sister and my mother,” he explained. “I’m sure Mrs. Saltzman found the familiarity inappropriately disrespectful.”
“I’ll remember that, Reverend.”
Jack chuckled quietly.
Ima-Louise returned with our drinks. I put cream in my coffee, and sugar, eight packets. I hated coffee, but it was too early for soda and I needed caffeine. I stirred the sludge and looked at Jack as he held a pencil in his teeth and rummaged through his briefcase. Unshaven, with restless hair, he looked more like a beach bum than a minister. He pulled out his datebook and paged through it.
“Is your social calendar so full that you need to write things down?” I asked.
“You joke, but you don’t realize that even in a little place like this, a pastor stays busy, especially when nearly half my congregation is over sixty. There’s always someone who’s sick, or who has a leaky roof or needs a ride to a specialist down the mountain. Believe you me, some days I start to think I’m just a glorified errand boy.”
The food came, hot and shiny with grease. “Tell Rose this looks wonderful,” Jack said to Ima-Louise. She continued to frown.
I tasted the eggs—salty, a bit runny, but good. Between mouthfuls, Jack told me about Jonah. Founded as a loggers’ camp in the early 1800s, the menfolk, lonesome on those cold mountain nights, began bringing their wives and building houses. Now, most of the locals worked at the paper mill or state prison, both about an hour’s drive.
“Few people leave the mountain once they’re here, though they may move from town to town,” he added.
“Really?” I asked, very surprised.
“I know we don’t have all the amenities, but who needs cable TV with views like this?” Jack said, gesturing to the snowy evergreens. “There’ve been some brave souls who have fled to the lowlands after high school, for college or adventure, but most folks are settled and happy. Kids grow up, marry their grade school sweethearts, have babies, and the whole thing starts again.”
“You didn’t leave.”
“No,” he said.
The door burst open, and Beth fluttered in. “Goodness, it’s chilly this morning,” she announced cheerfully to no one in particular. “Jack, where are you?”
Her brother called, “Back here,” and Beth came over.
“Oh, Sarah, hi.”
I gave a little half wave, too early for me to share her exuberance. Half her face glowed white from the wind, her scars a molted purple.
“Scoot over,” she told Jack, and he did. She took the toast from his plate and ate it.
“Help yourself,” he said.
“You never eat your toast.”
“Maybe that’s because you never give me a chance,” Jack shot back, tugging on her stubby ponytail. The simple motion made my nose tighten in that oh-no-I’m-going-to-cry way.
I sniffed and shoveled cold oats into my mouth.
“When do you start work?” Jack asked.
Beth sighed. “Now. I’m running late. The garage door froze close. I was out there with a hair dryer.” She took a few bites of egg.
“Do you want my bacon, too?”
“If you don’t,” she said, and grabbed the fatty strips. “You only like it crunchy, anyway.”
“You know me better than I know myself.”
“I’ll see you later,” Beth giggled, and was gone, into the kitchen.
“I wish I had her energy in the morning,” I groused, throwing back the rest of my coffee in two sharp gulps.
“She’s always been like that. Sunshine, my father called her,” Jack said. “She and Mom. If I had my way, I’d still be in bed. Mornings are not my thing.”
“Your father, he’s . . .”
“Dead. It’s been nearly ten years. Beth was just a kid, and I was in college. Mom was devastated. She and Dad were a couple of those grade school sweethearts.”
I pushed the rest of my eggs around my plate. Jack looked at his watch. I hadn’t put mine on.
“So,” he said.
“So.”
“So,” he said again.
“You just said that.”
“Well, I’ve covered the weather and the town’s history, so there’s nothing left for me to say.”
I looked him straight in the face. “I doubt that.”
He met my gaze for a moment but lowered his eyes as Ima-Louise came to pick up the dirty dishes. She stacked them loudly, one on another.
“Ted Armstrong just rang,” the waitress said. “His eyeglasses broke, and he can’t see to find his old ones. He wanted to know if you could stop by and help, when you were done.”
Jack wiped his mouth and tossed some money on the table. “If he calls again, tell him I’m on my way.”
“There needs to be a sign when you come into town, warning that Big Brother is watching,” I said.
“I eat here every morning of the week, same time. Except Sunday.” Jack pulled on his coat, hat, and matching gloves I was sure his mother knitted for him, or some other blue hair. “People know where to find me.”
He extended a wooly hand. “Bye for now. I’ll see you again. There are only so many places to hide in Jonah.”
Through the frost-streaked window, I watched him get into his truck and drive away. He was nice, in a milk-drinking, boy-scouting sort of way. I wondered how long it would take me to get him in a compromising situation. I had no doubt I could, and really, Jack would probably thank me. If Patty Saltzman was anything like her mother, he desperately needed another option.
It took me the entire morning to remove the boards from the cabin’s three windows.
I’d only used a hammer once before, and that was when I chased David around the house, swinging it at him. We had been married about five months, arguing about whose turn it was to wash the dishes. I found, now, that I was much less adept at using the tool for its intended purposes. The nails bent when I hit them, broke as I tried to pull them out of the plywood. I repeatedly gouged the cedar siding and my fingers.
Finally finished, I unloaded the cleaning supplies from the truck. Mrs. Brooks at the variety hadn’t given her condolences this time, or blathered on about her husband’s cancer. She bagged my bleach and sponges with a hushed “Thank you,” and “Please come again.” When I asked to use her phone to call the utility company, she mutely pushed it across the counter. The service representative assured me the power at the house would be turned on tomorrow.
Inside the cabin, my breath visibly curled from my nose. I opened the woodstove, stuffed in some logs and crumpled newspaper, and tossed a lit match onto the heap. The paper smoldered, glowing red around the edges, then fell away in sooty flakes. I rubbed my hands in front of the flames, but my eyes burned. I blinked once, twice, trying to clear my blurred vision.
The air in the cabin thickened and turned gray. Smoke tumbled from the open stove. I slammed the door, cast iron clanging, but the smoke continued to escape. Opening one of the windows, I hung my head outside, coughing, and gulping the frostbitten air.
