Cast a Road Before Me (21 page)

“Might as well be.”

The lightness in her voice was heavy as a hammer. Maybe it was only my imagination, but it seemed she was still trying to change my mind. It seemed
everyone
was still trying. Why couldn’t they see that I was beyond that? That I always had been?

We lumbered through her bedroom and past the open door into the small nursery. Beyond lay the playroom through an arched doorway. My yellow curtains over white sheers fluttered expectantly from a slight, humid breeze. On a table by the window sat Connie’s new cut-glass lamp with a diaphanous white shade blessed with the figures of hovering angels watching over a newborn child. Something about the expression of the largest angel struck me, and then I realized what it was. Her smile looked just like my mother’s. “Oh,” I gasped, a catch in my throat. “It’s
beautiful.”

“Turn it on. See what happens.”

For a moment I could only gaze with awe at that angel. She was bent over the baby, feathery wings enfolding it, and on her face was the look of heaven’s love. Not taking my eyes off the lamp, I glided to the table and flicked it on. I drew in a breath as the angels shimmered to life. Running a wondering finger over the wings, now golden-tinged, I exclaimed, “It really is beautiful.”

“I thought so too.” Connie leaned against the wall, admiring it. “It has another switch for a little nightlight.”

I turned off the main bulb and flicked the smaller switch. The angels glimmered down to the palest of yellow. “They look almost transparent now,” I breathed. “Like angels only the baby can see.”

As if in agreement, the curtains ruffled, brushing against the shade. We left the small light on, the cut glass sparkling tiny rainbows. Turning finally with reluctance, I gazed around the room and sighed with satisfaction. “I’m proud to say I helped, Connie. It’s all so pretty.”

“I know. Thank you.” She started to say more, but turned away as tears filled her eyes. I let her be, walking to the crib to finger the baby blanket I’d made.

“Whew,” Connie exclaimed after a prolonged moment, forcing a smile. “Guess I’m just gettin’ tired. Better get back on the couch.”

I took her arm to go, looking over my shoulder one last time at that magical angel lamp.

By the time I had Connie settled once more, Miss Wilma had already informed me, “You still got time to change your mind, you
know.” I didn’t want to hear it. I searched for a way to cut my visit short, but found none. And so I filled iced tea glasses and visited, patiently explaining how my apartment and job that I’d wanted for years were waiting for me. And had I mentioned I would be volunteering at Hope Center, as my mother had done? And the city, how much I’d missed it? I sat in an arm chair, legs crossed, fingers around my cold glass, tone pleasant. Smiling. Telling myself it was wrong to be irritated; that they wanted me not just for themselves, but for Lee. When it was finally time to leave, I hugged them both, Connie bursting into tears.

“Oh, Connie, please don’t cry,” I begged, my own eyes filling. “I’ll see you again before you know it, at Thanksgiving.”

“That’s so long away,” she sobbed into my shoulder. “The baby’ll be so big by then; you’ll never get to see it in those cute newborn sleepers. And besides,” she pulled back from me, trying to control her quivering mouth, “I’m not cryin’ for myself; I’m cryin’ for Lee, ‘cause he jus’ don’t know what he’ll do when you’re gone. He don’t say it, but I know.”

I thought my heart would break in two, both for Lee and his sister. They had major problems of their own, yet each was thinking about the other. “He’ll be fine, Connie; he’ll be okay,” I soothed. It was such a trite, lame response.

I had to get out of there.

“I’m gonna pray for you before you go, all right.” It was not a question. Miss Wilma placed her large hand on my shoulder and tipped her head heavenward. “Connie, you lay hands on her too.” Breathing heavily, Connie gently grasped my upper arm. They closed their eyes. I looked at my feet.

“Dear Lord Jesus,” Miss Wilma prayed, “watch over this child. I know she’s yours, Lord; you’ve called her to be your own, even if she don’t know that yet. And you know all the trials she’ll have to go through. Please be a shield about her, protectin’ her. Work through those trials for your glory, dear Jesus. Bring her to salvation. And bring her back to us safely.”

“And thank you, Jesus,” Connie put in, “for bringin’ Jessie into our lives. For the wonderful friend she’s been, and for all the talents you’ve given her. Amen.”

“Amen.” Miss Wilma did her best to smile as I raised my eyes. “You take care a yourself now, you hear.” She gripped my hand, puffing as she and Connie ushered me toward the door.

“Sorry, I’m moving too fast,” I said, waiting for her to catch her breath. “You don’t have to walk me all the way out to the porch.”

“Well,” she grunted, casting me a penetrating look. “Steppin’ through the door don’t take long. It’s the gettin’ to the threshold that’s hard.”

I gazed back, brows furrowing, then smiled briefly. Days would pass before I understood her meaning.

I promised again that I’d be back for Thanksgiving and made Connie promise to call me if she went into labor in the next twenty-four hours. They stood awkwardly on their small white porch, swayhipped and swaybacked, waving as I drove away.

“One more day,” I breathed aloud, wiping my face as I turned off Maple. I told myself that after my tires were fixed the following morning, I would not show my face to
anyone
else in Bradleyville. Including Lee.
Especially
Lee. Parting with my Aunt Eva would be emotional enough. I did not need any more tear-drenched good-byes.

T
wilight fell and the lightning bugs magically appeared. “I got the first one; I’m lucky!” the little girl cried as she clapped a lid punched with holes over one of her mother’s canning jars. The bug flicked against his smooth-glassed prison, flashing yellow under black wings
.

“I already got three!” her friend retorted
.

Gleefully, they ran barefoot through the cooling grass, careful not to stub a toe as they chased bugs across the sidewalk. When the jars were full, they set them down to glow eerily against the cement. Swishing long hair off their sweaty foreheads, they plopped onto the bottom stair of the front porch, gazing idly at their catch
.

“Want a push-up?”

“Sure.”

As the first little girl disappeared into her house, the second scratched her cheek, stopping to sniff her bug-scented hand. Tilting back her head, she spied the first star and made a wish
.

“It’s orange flavor,” her hostess announced as the screen door banged shut. They sat side by side, peeling off the top of their ice creams and pushing them up by their wooden sticks
.

“I wished on the star.” She pointed with a sticky chin
.

“Whatdja wish for?”

“Not supposed to tell.”

“It’s okay if you’re best friends.”

“Oh. Well then, I wished the strike would end tomorrow so Daddy could go back to work.”

Her friend smacked her lips. “Better pick another one; the whole town’s wishin’ that.”

“Well, I could pick Mama’s. She said she wished Blair Riddum’d drop dead.”

“Maybe he will.” The little girl’s voice lowered with private knowledge. “I heard my daddy say Mr. Riddum was awful mad this mornin’. Stomped off from the mill and didn’t come back all day. He’s mean, ya know, and Mama says God strikes the wicked.”

She was silent for a moment, savoring orange coolness on her tongue. “Well, then, I wish he’d strike tonight.”

I
sensed it even before waking. Usually I emerge from sleep fully alert, as a child pops from water after holding her breath. But that night my sleep waters were murky and thick, and I strained against them as I fought my way to the surface. During those last few seconds of sleep, a sluggish mind can play an amazing array of tricks, swirling vague fears into a watercolor of horrors, only then to taunt that you are just dreaming. In the final horrible instant I saw my mother’s face, bloodied and begging me not to leave her.

I broke the surface of sleep, shaking, but could not open my eyes. Danger sparked my nerves.

All was silent.

My eyes flicked open. Dim moonlight filtered through my slanted blinds, spilling onto the small brass clock upon my bedside table. 2:15. I took a deep breath, my heart slowing. I looked out the window again, focusing on a faint glimmer of stars through milky haze. How long did I gaze at it before realizing the haze was thickening? I frowned as I raised my head from the pillow, squinting. Somewhere deep within me an electricity began to hum, a
phantasm of unknown evil puddling in my chest. As I watched, the cloudiness slowly darkened. Congealed. The stars flickered off, lowest ones first, then the moon. My room went black.

I could not move, could only listen to the staccato of my shallow breathing. Then from the living room, shrilly pealing through the still night, the phone rang. Its echo rebounded down the hallway, through the walls of my bedroom, my head. It rang again.

With a jerk I was in motion, throwing back the light covers and raking fingers over the carpet for my robe. I flicked on the lamp beside my bed, eyes squinting in affront, feet hastening across the floor. As I opened my door, I saw Uncle Frank yank open the master bedroom’s door as well, jerking on a pair of pants. Our eyes met briefly, mirroring each other’s fear. I followed him soundlessly down the hall, pulled up beside him as he answered the phone with a gruff “Frank Bellingham,” watched sickened knowledge spread over his face. His shoulders slumped.

In the next instant, he was a caricature of purposeful motion, banging down the phone and picking it up again. I knew by then what was happening but was afraid to know where. Fingers spinning, he dialed the volunteer fireman he was assigned to inform.

“Lee Harding’s house,” he barked. “Maple Street.”

My insides fell away. “Oh,
God.”

Images of Connie and Miss Wilma and Lee trapped inside trampled through my head. “I’m going with you!” I cried to Uncle Frank as he raced past me to fetch shoes and socks. I ran to my bedroom, snatching pants and a shirt from my closet, fingers trembling over buttons.

“Where is it, where is it?” Aunt Eva shrilled as she bustled out of her room. In the distance a siren wailed, then another.

“The Hardings’, and I’m going!” I yelled, trying to shoot past her. Horrified, she grabbed me by the shoulders.

“No, Jessie! You can’t fight a fire.”

“I’ve got to help Connie and Miss Wilma. They can’t move fast enough.”

“You’ll not get there in time! Lee’s surely gotten them out.”

“Aunt Eva,” I pushed away, “I
have
to go!”

“Let her be, Eva,” my uncle commanded, shoving into his second shoe.

I cut around her, banged through the back door to the driveway. Uncle Frank gunned the Buick’s motor and squealed onto pavement as I perched on the edge of my seat, gripping the dashboard. We ignored stop signs, glancing from street to sky, now black with curling smoke. As soon as we skidded onto Maple, we could see the yellow-orange greed of the fire, four blocks away. The house was burning like a torch.

“Lord Almighty,” Uncle Frank breathed, “we’re too late.”

Chaos ruled. Neighbors ran down the sidewalk, barefoot, shirt flaps untucked. Cars of volunteer firemen were parked haphazardly two blocks down, the fire trucks blocking the street. We jerked to a stop as close as we could and spilled out of the car.

The noise was terrifying. The fire was a splintering roar above men’s shouts and pummeling columns of water. Two hoses, held by rigid-muscled men, sprayed back and forth, up and down, a bare spit against the flames. Other hoses were aimed at rooftops on either side of the Hardings’ house. Some of the volunteers were clearly tiring, and Uncle Frank hurried to help.

“Stay back, Jessie; you can’t do anything!” he yelled as a breeze blew squalid heat across my face.

I stared at the crackling house in utter disbelief. “Did they get out? Did they get out?” I begged of anyone who could hear. Horror-filled, questioning eyes met my own. Through welling tears I turned back to watch the fire fatten, blur. An entire wall collapsed into black ashes that floated eerily through the night. At the sight of that collapse, panic struck me, as pure and coating as at the instant of my mother’s wreck. The flames, the heat, the crowd crushed me with collective, smothering arms, and my knees turned to jelly. My own weakness infuriated me. I
had
to see if they were still alive.

Staggering off the street, I flailed over the curb and into the soft grass of a neighbor’s yard, irrationally thinking to duck through shadowed backyards. But as the cloying heat fell away in sudden darkness, I dropped like a stone to the ground, frozen in fear. I couldn’t bear to see them dead, I
couldn’t
. Memories of stumbling to my mother’s car, banging helplessly on smashed doors, screaming at the carnage inside, raced jagged-edged through my brain. I could not
live
through such a thing again. Tears squeezing out of my eyes, I rolled over, hugging my knees to my chest. After a moment, self-disgust sucked again through my veins, and I clenched my teeth, willing myself to get up.

A wailing in the distance. I registered it slowly. Another fire truck, I thought, raising my head to listen. Then something moved in the backyard of the house next door. The silhouetted figure of a man. I froze—watching—the cords of my neck straining. At the keening of the siren the man turned, a wan porch light falling across his features. Later, I would question what I’d seen. Had his expression truly been smug? Had his hair really been a grayed yellow, cut bushlike above his ears? Had his nose been too large for his face, his open lips thin, cheeks hollowed? Within a split-second he was gone, tucking down his head and fading into the darkness.

The siren grew louder and my breath caught once more. Bradleyville only had two fire trucks. And the sound was different.