Damascus Road (15 page)

It would not have been impossible for me to crash the car on
the expressway. To send it flipping down the road in a 130 mile per hour
fireball. A malevolent part of me wanted that, to be done with all of this.
There wasn’t a person in the world who needed me now. What would be lost?

‘I’m not going out like that…” I whispered.

I cut the radio off and drove on in silence, brooding, my
own personal storm brewing.

I found Maddox. Buildings were pulled from their
foundations, with boards and siding and window frames thrown to the wind. A
washing machine had fallen from the sky and crushed a Ford Taurus that had been
parked on the street. I tried to see if anyone was still inside, but I saw no
one.

I found main street and the lines of homes and businesses.
There was not a single structure that had been spared. Some of them looked as
if a great hand had pushed them over and the structure had relented, giving
way. Others appeared to have been smashed flat by some heavenly anvil dropped
from above.

In the wreckage, were people, families. They stood among the
shattered glass and boards with exposed nails and picked through the remains of
their lives.

I saw a woman in a yellow sun dress, wearing her husband’s
work boots, bending over the wreckage, picking out family pictures. She stood
to stretch her back; and I could see from her face the faded terror of hiding
from the storm, then devastation of seeing what it had done to her family home.
She had cried until she had no more tears, but the trails of her weeping still
stood out on her face. She turned and called to someone, and I saw her boy come
out. He was maybe seven years old, holding a toy truck and playing in a
relatively clear section of what had been the family’s back yard.

I wanted to pull over to help her, but then I saw another
family and another. This hadn’t happened to a few people, a family even, but to
the whole city. I continued to drive, never stopping, not even at the signs. I
prowled the town, looking, searching. I avoided the wreckage strewn through the
streets. Pieces of shingles and roofing were scattered everywhere. A light pole
had fallen, and the glass shattered. I moved on.

I saw a man by the roadside, who appeared to be my age. I
pulled over and opened my window.

“Sir?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, not bothering to look up at me.

“Is there anything that wasn’t knocked down in the storm?” I
said. “Where is everyone staying?”

He looked at me and I saw the deadness in his eyes. He was
beyond outrage and anger. Some part of him had died. He looked at me like I was
nothing-an insect that had crossed his path. Finally, he raised his arm and
pointed up the way.

“There.”

That was all he said. Then he turned his back on me and went
back to work. He sounded serious about this, like a prophet pointing the way,
so I steered in that direction.

I saw it then. The church. It was still standing in all the
destruction. It was untouched. Completely unmarred. I drove up to it and saw
the people flowing in and out. The church had a simple steeple with a bell in
the top. The windows were stained glass. The siding was wood and painted white,
although this probably would have been painted again in spring.

I parked the car and got out, looking around, scanning the
faces. They all were different, and yet they shared that same quality. Sixty
years ago they would have called it shell shock. Now it was post-traumatic
stress disorder. I liked the old term better. The crowd trudged into the
building, slow and weary. I saw a side door where they exited with box lunches
in their hands. Someone had provided them with assistance.

I made my way up to the church and, rather than fight my way
in the front door with everyone else, I went in the back, slipping inside past
those who had received their meals. The place was a sea of people, and it was
more than difficult to gain headway. I fought my way up the stairs with kind
smiles and gentle nudges until I found the source of the food. In the front of
the church there was a crew of people working from cardboard crates, handing
out the lunches as fast as they could. It was a production line, and I realized
in an instant what they all seemed to be struggling to comprehend. They did not
have enough food to fill the bellies of the people waiting for it.

There she was, her brown hair swept back into a ponytail
under a baseball cap. Her eyes were like dark chocolate, and her smile was warm
and comforting, even when it wasn't meant for me.

Grace. My wife, Grace.

For a moment, I considered leaving. Just walking away and
not talking to her. She was happy from what I could see. What good could come
from disrupting her life by coming back?

My choice was gone in a moment when she looked up at me. She
looked right through me at first. Then I saw her face go from blank to surprise
to absolute joy to severe skepticism. I could have lived for days basking in
that flash of joy. She had the face of an angel. Her smile could warm your
heart and make absolutely anywhere feel like home. And yet, during our last
days and months together, I saw that smile less and less, and in its place was
a fearsome scowl that made me rue the day that I had dared to cross her path.
She could go from sweet as a cherub to avenging angel.

I didn't delude myself into believing that it was Grace's
problem alone. I knew that in all things, I shared in the blame of what went
wrong in our marriage. My share of blame was wide and deep and heavy as a boat
anchor.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi."

She blinked. I wished that I had a great explanation for
her, but I didn't.

"Need a hand?" I asked.

"Obviously," she said, cocking her head.

I took off my jacket and tossed it in the corner, ignoring
her tone. I noticed the other workers, men and women alike, but I couldn't tell
who was part of her team and who was a townie. I stopped trying to figure it
out and focused on the task at hand.

We worked together, tearing down boxes, handing out food,
and over and over again I found myself trying to look at her, to capture a
moment, to plan an opportunity where my hand could accidentally touch hers. It
did not happen though. She kept moving and greeting these lost souls that
poured through the door. Finally, I gave up any chance of connecting with her there.
It wasn’t the time or the place, so I let it pass.

When we ran out of food, I stood back and waited for the
revolt, but it never came. A man who I didn’t recognize or know stepped
forward.

“My name is Erik Balfour,” he said in a booming voice.
“Balfour Industries is pleased to provide these meals to you in this time of
need. I realize that you haven’t all gotten the opportunity to eat yet, but my
people tell me that more trucks are on the way. There’s more food coming.”

A cheer rang out through the crowd, and he actually waved
his hands to calm the crowd. His hair was blond and his eyes blue. He was the
all-American boy. He could have been running for office. When the crowd erupted
into applause, I saw Grace looking at him. The admiration in her eyes was
unmistakable.

I grabbed my jacket and walked out. Being careful not to
push past the people too roughly, I got out of there as fast as I could. Once I
was outside, I could breathe again. I had to get away from the crowds and the
people.

“Jim, what are you doing?”

Grace followed me outside. She had dropped the look of
admiration. That wasn’t her expression for me. I got a different one.

“I had to get out of there,” I admitted. “That’s not the
place for me.”

“No, I didn’t mean why you are out here,” she said. “I meant
why are you here at all?”

“I was looking for you,” I said.

“Why?” She asked. “You didn’t care where I was when we were
together.”

I bit my lip to stop myself from blurting out the rebuttal
that was on the tip of my tongue.

“Grace, some things have happened since we were together,” I
said.

“I’m sure,” she growled at me. “What have you been up to? Or
don’t I want to know? Are you in trouble with the law? Is that it?”

“You know what, Grace?” I said. “That’s really very sweet
that you think so little of me. It was a bad idea to come here…”

I turned my back on her and started walking away.

“Jim…” she said. “Let’s start over.”

I glared at her and had to force myself to soften my
expression.

“Do you remember Chris Beck?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said. Her face lit up at this.

We had all been friends together. Chris was my wingman. A
great friend and an awesome guy. We shared collective history. I knew that
Grace and Chris used to talk about our relationship, even when I wasn’t there.
He was always looking out for me, presenting a guy’s viewpoint to give her
perspective. We probably stayed together longer because of Chris Beck.

“He was killed in a car crash,” I said. “I was driving. We
were hit by a semi-truck. He didn’t make it.”

Grace covered her mouth with her hand, and I could see her
eyes start to well up. I had delivered the news straight and without buffer. I
hoped that it would throw her off stride and stop her from being so harsh on
me.

“I went to his funeral, and his dad, Bill, gave me Chris’
car,” I said pointing.

She saw it but made a quizzical expression.

“I don’t remember Chris’ car being black,” she said, wiping
her eyes.

“No, it wasn’t…I…” I said.

Her weight was on her back leg, her hips cocked to the side.
She was looking at me through narrowed eyes.

 “Were you drunk when Chris got killed?” she asked.

“I don’t understand…”

“No, I think you do,” she said. “I know you, and I know that
you like to tip the bottle more than a little; if there’s a friend in the car,
then so be it. You would’ve driven with Chris in the car even if you were
drunk.”

“Yes, okay? Yes, I was drinking,” I said. “I admitted that I
was stupid, Grace. I was stupid and I messed up and it probably contributed to
Chris getting killed.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” I asked.

“Finish it, Jim,” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“You got your best friend killed because you were drunk and
then oh, surprise-surprise, you find Jesus,” her tone was sweet and
condescending at the same time.

I swallowed, and it made an audible click in my throat. I
unclenched my fists and blew out a breath.

“I can’t change what’s happened,” I said. “And I can’t
change the way that you’re going to react to it. But it’s important that you
hear this.”

“Jim, I don’t want to do this anymore…” she started. She was
waving me off, done.

“My father is dead.”

I hit her with the news, dead center.

“What? Did he go for a ride with you too?” she shot back at
me.

I stared at her.

“I can’t believe you just said that,” my voice calm,
measured.

I walked away from her and back toward the car.

“Good luck, Grace,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

I got in the Cuda and turned over the engine. I wasn’t going
to look for her. I had done my part, and she had done hers. There was a reason
that we weren’t together. I was ready to pull out when Grace ran up to the car.

“Don’t leave like this, Jim,” she said, stopping short of
touching the car. “Don’t leave like this again.”

I glared at her.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t leave, Grace,” I said. “I mean I
know I’ve been a sorry excuse for a husband and all, but when I tell you about
my dad… my father… and you say that kind of thing to me… I can see that you’re
not a completely changed person, either.”

That hurt her, and I knew it. It made me feel better. Bitch.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Maybe you're right.
You always managed to bring out that side of me."

She said this with a little smile. It was a challenge, but a
soft one.

"I was different afterwards," I said, starting
slowly. "I honestly felt like I was doing what God wanted me to do for the
first time in my life. I wanted to see my dad. No... I had to see Ellis.
Nothing else mattered."

Grace was nodding, encouraging me to go on.

"He was worried," I continued. "He had been
receiving threats, so he asked me to look into it. It was too late. They
grabbed him and took off. I was able to get him back, but the stress..."

My voice was trembling and I fought to maintain control.

"He had a massive heart attack and died in the trauma
room," I said.

"Jim, I am so sorry," Grace said. "I didn't
know..."

"I know... I know..." I said. "It's a long
story. Longer than all of that, but there's something you need to know."

"What is it?"

"Tom is still alive," I said. "He didn't die
in the war."

"What? How?"

"I don't know how, I didn't get a chance to ask
him," I said.

"You saw him?" she asked.

"Yeah, larger than life," I said. "Listen,
Grace. He's changed. He was the one that was driving the semi that hit me and
killed Chris Beck. He was the one that kidnapped Ellis and caused his
death."

She was putting it together slowly.

"Why are you here?" she asked. "Jim? What are
you doing here?"

"I saw my mom."

"You did?"

"She told me about Ellis," I said. "About how
he was never there and how she wished that he would have cared enough about her
to be there when she needed him."

"Oh, Jim..."

"So, I wanted to come anyway, but when I saw Tom... he
told me that he was coming after you. He's out of his mind and wants to hurt me
any way that he can. So, I came as fast as I could."

"You think Tom wants to hurt me?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Jim, sweetie, if Tom wanted to hurt you, wouldn't he
want to go after someone that you cared about?" she asked. Her implication
was clear.