Don't Kill The Messenger (16 page)

William pauses briefly to go in and retrieve more items from the house. Little by little, we are managing to salvage a lifetime of treasures. Rebecca and I stick close to him as he tells his story, not wanting to miss a detail.

“So what happened then?” I ask.

“Morning came again, just as dark as the day before. Those clouds refused to move, and the factory refused to shut down operations. By now, some folks weren’t taking any chances. They were staying in their homes, keeping all their doors and windows shut. Those who went outside wore masks or handkerchiefs over their nose and mouth. And inside of a few minutes, those clean whites they wore were stained black from the air itself. The local hospitals were filling up with Wyandotte’s residents, and word began to come back that more people were dying. The mayor stepped in and got a court order, demanding that Allegheny Zinc Works shut down the plant until such time as the inversion cleared. Now they had no choice. They did what it took and shut down operations.

“But by then, the damage was done. By the time those clouds passed two days later, twenty-three people were dead. Four thousand got sick. We lost hundreds of animals—cats, dogs, chickens. All this in a town of 14,000 people. It was like nothing anyone had ever seen before. All the vegetation within a half mile of the factory was killed. When the clouds passed and people were able to go outside again, we thought it was over, but it wasn’t. Those poisons got into the soil, into the water table, and they stayed. It affected everything in town.

“Hundreds of people moved away within the first two months after the smog. They couldn’t bear to be near this town anymore. Allegheny Zinc never rebounded either. They shut down that same year, and the exodus continued. Within a year, there were only a thousand people living here. Within two years, it was down to a hundred. Five years after the smog, only three families remained. Now it’s just Ginny and me.”

Rebecca is hanging on his every word, looking astonished at the tale. “What will you do now?” she asks. “Will you leave Wyandotte?”

It is Ginny who answers. “We’re not leaving here. Wyandotte is our home. Everyone else left, put it behind them, tried to forget that this place ever existed. We’re its last defenders. We’ve kept up the park and the cemetery, kept the church in good order. We’ve seen this town through sickness and health, and we can’t leave now, not even if this house falls to the ground.”

I look at my watch—6:55. Less than an hour until it does just that. Fortunately, we’re making good progress. But one question remains. “Where will you live?” I ask them.

“Two blocks away,” William replies, “is the Pruett house. It’s been abandoned for years, but Sanford Pruett left me the keys. I’ve used it for years for storage, kept it locked against looters and vandals. It’s livable. We can bring our things over there little by little and make that our new home. It’ll be different, but at least we’re not giving up on Wyandotte.”

Rebecca decides to ask a question at this point, one I would have avoided. “Did you lose anyone in the smog?”

Ginny works hard to stifle tears upon hearing the question, but she is visibly shaken by it, and turns away from us to compose herself. William provides the answer. “Our son Joshua. He was eleven years old. He went to school during the smog. Said he didn’t want to miss two days of classes. We kept him inside after school, but by then the damage was done.”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Did Allegheny compensate you for your loss?”

“What they did wasn’t compensation,” William says. “It was an insult. They did to us what they did to everybody who lost family in the smog. Paid for the burial, then had their lawyers make us sign something absolving the company of all blame. It tore me up, signing that. But they said if we didn’t, we’d get nothing at all.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It’s in the past,” he says. “We can’t change the things that were.”

“When we’re done unloading,” I say, “we’ll help you drive things over to the Pruett house. We’ll bring things in there with you.”

“Thank you,” William says, “and God bless you both. I know I’ll be very sad when this house dies, but your kindness has softened the blow today.”

We continue working, getting as much furniture as we can out of the house. It’s tiring work and the heavier pieces are taking their toll. Then there’ll be the fun of putting it all back in the new house. But it’s a small price to pay. These people are truly alone out here, and their words have brought me closer than anyone ever has to understanding why I’m on the mission I’m on. Maybe God did send me. I’ve never been terribly religious, but I’ve always believed. How could there not be something controlling all of this? The world is too magnificent and terrible to be the product of random chance.

At 7:12
pm
, the house emits a loud creaking sound; the collapse is not early, but it is coming, there is no doubt. It motivates us to step up our efforts, move faster, and get as much out of there as we can. We load boxes into the Harbisons’ car, and he drives them over to the house that will soon be their home. By nightfall, they should have enough of their possessions in place to spend the night there.

I finally find a moment to take Rebecca aside. “What’s going on?” I ask her.

“What do you mean?”

“Something’s changed. Earlier, you knew where Spring Street was, and then, when William was talking about Allegheny’s Christmas parade, I saw you … it’s like you knew about it, or like you remembered it.”

“I feel like I’ve been here before. I can’t explain it, but when he talked about that Christmas parade, it stirred a memory in me from a long time ago. Maybe it wasn’t the Christmas parade here, but I know I’ve been to one when I was little. I want to do everything we can to help these people.”

“I appreciate that, but you can’t get attached. We’re here to deliver the message, which we did. We stayed on to help them; that was our choice, but it’s not required of us. We can’t allow ourselves to get mixed up in their lives.”

She immediately gives me a disapproving glance, in time for me to realize how hypocritical those words sound. “I know what you’re going to say, and my answer is ‘do what I say, not what I do.’ They can’t come with us.”

“I know.”

“Car’s crowded enough as it is.”

“Uh huh.”

“Shouldn’t you be lifting things?”

At 7:38, we are all gathered in the front yard. Everything that can realistically be removed from the house has been removed. Most of it is on the Harbisons’ lawn, looking like the world’s most comprehensive yard sale. A few dozen boxes are already at the Pruett house which, from my brief stop inside, looks pleasant enough. It will provide shelter for them, but how much of a home it will feel like remains to be seen. Moving with two hours’ notice isn’t exactly conducive to inviting people to put their feet up and feel right at home.

The electricity has been shut off, such as it is. With no utility company in town, the pair has been living off the grid, using generators to provide their modest electrical needs. Their only phone service is via cellular, which will travel easily to the new house with them. Before the refrigerator is turned off, Ginny makes us sandwiches, which are very welcome after all the work we’ve put in. Once they’re gone and the magnitude of the work stands before us, the four of us are left in silence, as twilight begins to creep over the valley. No one is quite sure what to say or whether it is now time to leave. We’ve done everything we can for them, but it feels like leaving now would be akin to abandoning them.

“I want to go in one last time,” William says quietly at 7:42.

“It’s not safe,” I tell him. “The time is too tight. We can’t risk you getting caught inside when it happens.”

“Then would you join us in a prayer?” he asks.

“We’d be honored to,” Rebecca answers.

We form a circle on the front lawn, we four who have shared this experience. I hope that no one asks me to say a few words, because when it comes to things religious, I tend to get tongue-tied. Fortunately, William steps up to take care of it.

“Lord of hosts who watches over us every day, we thank you in this dark hour that you have seen fit to send two messengers to watch over us and aid us in our plight. Ours is not to question your wisdom or your ways. Ours is to love you and serve you and stand vigilantly over this, your fair Wyandotte. Thank you for the gift of steadfastness and longsuffering, to allow us to remain when all others have fled. Lord, we return this house to the earth from whence it came, and we thank you for letting it shelter us these many years, through storm and sun. We ask that you bless Tristan and Rebecca, and allow them long and healthy lives in which to do your bidding. All things in thy mercy. Amen.”

“Amen,” we respond together.

Seconds later, a sound emerges from within the house, a death groan of wood and nails and drywall and glass. Critical support beams in two rooms splinter and fail. Left to shoulder their burden as well, the beams in the other rooms quickly follow suit, and the little ranch house falls in on itself. Windows shatter and bookcases crumble. Large appliances are crushed under the weight of debris that seconds ago was a ceiling. Though I knew it was coming, it is still startling and very jarring. Rebecca flinches as each portion of the collapse occurs.

The destruction takes almost a full minute, as a chain reaction moves from room to room. I look at the aftermath and realize with no doubt that if the Harbisons had been inside, there is almost no chance that they would have survived.

Out on the lawn, William and Ginny watch their peaceful home’s demise in stoic silence. Once it is done, Ginny begins to sob into William’s shoulder. Though he is staunchly playing the role of the comforting husband, his eyes tell me that his heart is breaking, and that he would like nothing more than to weep with her for their loss, a loss that their God saw fit to warn them against but not to prevent.

Moved by it all, Rebecca comes to me and puts her arms around me as well, resting her face against my chest. “We did it,” she says quietly, with a degree of satisfaction.

“Yes we did,” I answer.

“You were great.”

“Thanks. You were pretty great yourself.”

The Harbisons take a moment to compose themselves, and then approach us. “There aren’t words strong enough to thank you properly for what you’ve done,” William says.

“You’re alive and safe,” I reply. “That’s thanks enough.”

“We don’t have much money, but if there’s a way I could repay you—even if it’s just for the gas it took to get you here from Atlanta …”

I decline with a raised palm. “I couldn’t, but thank you. For reasons I don’t quite understand, this is what I do. God’s given me enough money that I can focus on this and not worry about making ends meet.”

“Then you’re truly blessed,” William says. “It’s getting late, and you must be very tired. Will you consider spending the night with us as our guests?”

“That’s very kind,” I reply, “but we couldn’t impose. You’ve got a lot of setting up to do in your new home, and the last thing you need is guests under foot, getting in the way. There are hotels at the last interstate exit we passed. We can spend the night in one of them before heading out in the morning. But thank you. You’ve been so thoughtful, even with everything you’ve been through today.”

Ginny looks over at us. “What will the two of you do next?”

“You’ve caught Rebecca on her last mission,” I answer. “Tomorrow she goes home, back to school and to her family.”

“Then you’re not married?” Ginny asks, surprised.

We both give a little laugh. “Not hardly,” I say. “Actually, we’ve known each other all of three days. I delivered a message to her and then agreed to take her home to her family.”

“Watching the two of you together,” William comments, “we thought you were married. You work so well together. I never would have guessed you’ve known each other so short a time.”

“It’s been a very interesting three days,” Rebecca says. “We’ve formed a very strong friendship in that time.”

“What happens when you leave Rebecca at her home?” Ginny asks. “Will you ever see her again?”

All I can do is answer honestly. “We don’t know. I certainly hope so, though. I’m very glad to know her. And I’m very glad we could help you tonight.”

“I hope you don’t think us foolish for wanting to stay here,” William says.

“Not at all,” I reply. “Your home is your home. I respect that.”

“You’re one of the few. Friends and family don’t come here anymore. And it’s not even out of fear. They’ve dismissed us as deluded and irrational. They believe we’re clinging to a dead town. But Wyandotte could live again if people cared. Eighteen years ago, when Allegheny Zinc Works destroyed this town, the plant manager made a big speech to the people about finding new frontiers and looking towards the future. What he was really telling them was to run away, forget that Wyandotte ever existed, and bury the truth about what happened here. Everyone else may have done that, but we refuse to give Calvin Traeger that satisfaction.”

My mind races. In the seconds that follow the utterance of that name, a thousand thoughts fill my head at once. Instantly, so much becomes clear. Above it all, one thought becomes paramount, and I have to find a way to convey it to my traveling companion. I am close enough to her that I hear the gasp escape her throat; fortunately, the Harbisons are too far away to hear. From the corner of my eye, I see her start to take a step forward, ready to pour forth her astonishment. Swiftly, I catch her wrist with my hand, stopping her forward progress. I turn to face her ever so briefly, just long enough to burn a look into her eyes that conveys an unquestionable command:
Say nothing.

She sees the look and transfers the momentum of her step to something resembling a natural movement to be closer to me. I put my arm around her shoulder and try like hell to stifle back the anxiety in my voice. I feel my heart racing. “He was the one who made the decision to keep the plant open?” I ask.

“Yes. And for as long as I live, I’ll hold him responsible for all those deaths.”