Flutter (13 page)

The next morning, I awoke from my second full night of undisturbed sleep in God knew how long. I could explain away one night, but two in a row? I rubbed at my eyes, stretched my well-rested muscles, and swallowed hard. I wanted to think that this hiatus from my loops was caused by getting away. By relieving the stress of the hospital. I wanted to believe that. I wanted to hope that maybe I was even getting better. But I couldn’t believe it. Something in me knew better. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my body was just gearing up for something, building up to something even bigger. I didn’t know why exactly I felt like that. But there it was. The fear that I was experiencing the calm before the storm.

I hiked over to the Esperanza Historical Society, which was really just a room in the back of the town VFW, full of file boxes, a couple of bookshelves, and the stale smell of cigarette smoke. I looked carefully through several photo albums that cataloged area stained-glass windows, their artists, their histories, et cetera. It turned out that stained glass had quite a tradition in the UP, and the historical society had a lot of information, beginning from the turn of the last century. But I found nothing that looked like the church in my loop.

The pair of older ladies, sisters, running the Historical
Society were friendly enough, but they hovered over me the whole time, asked me questions I didn’t want to answer. They gave me more facts about the town of Esperanza than I ever would’ve cared to know. Did I know that Esperanza was the third city in Michigan to be granted a charter for a bank? Did I know that Charlie Chaplin’s uncle once shot a movie in the town square? They finished each other’s sentences and giggled at each other’s jokes. It made me miss Gia.

They did, however, give me one nugget of useful information. They told me I should visit the Northern Michigan Historical Society in Charlevoix, which might have what I was looking for.

“It’s a lovely town. The bus goes right there,” the taller sister told me.

“Make a day of it,” the other sister agreed. “They’re open to the public only on certain Fridays. You could even make it a weekend.”

“They have more of this, more stained-glass information,” the tall one said. “And Charlevoix is the U.S. leader in imported herring.”

“Sardines too,” the other one added.

In my notebook, I wrote down the name of a volunteer they knew and thanked the ladies for their time. The sisters let me use their telephone to call the Lutheran church and set up a visit with the pastor.

When I arrived, I could tell from the outside that it probably was not the church from my loop. I knew this already
from Jeannette. But I figured it couldn’t hurt to talk to the pastor, see if he knew anything, knew any other churches in the area with stained glass.

“Reverend Sandberg?” I asked, knocking lightly on the office door.

“Yes?” He was young, maybe in his thirties, with short military-cropped hair, black glasses.

“I’m Emery Land,” I said, realizing too late that I hadn’t used my alias but figuring I was talking to a minister. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions about a church that I think is in the area.”

“Sure,” he said, finishing up what he was doing, taking notes in some sort of ledger, counting out boxes of what looked like communion wafers.

He walked with me then toward the sanctuary, sitting in the first pew, gesturing for me to sit also. I looked around as I followed him. It had been a very long time since I had been in a church, if you didn’t count my loop. This space had a nice, quiet feel to it, light and airy. Not serious and threatening like so many old churches. The sanctuary was enormous, modern, with lots of natural-looking woodwork in knotty pine. Gorgeous, really, but not the church I was looking for. There were several panes of stained glass in back of the altar, each depicting a scene for one of the twelve apostles. No abstract kaleidoscope of colors here.

I sat down next to Reverend Sandberg and asked him, “I don’t know anything about the church, really, except that it
has very tall stained-glass windows. They are abstract, colorful. Floor to ceiling behind the altar.” I fidgeted nervously, crossing and uncrossing my legs.

He didn’t answer right away, considered my question. A couple of parishioners were hanging red and green garlands from the balcony. Several large natural pine wreaths had already been hung above the doorways. I could smell the Christmas tree scent hovering in the air around us.

Reverend Sandberg scratched the crown of his head. “Hmmm, miss, I don’t think I recall any churches in this area that fit that description.”

“Oh,” I said. “You don’t happen to know of a farm called Next Hill, do you?”

“I don’t think so, no.” Seeing I was disappointed, he offered, “But let me take your name. I’ll see if I can track anything down about that church.”

“Oh, um, I’ll check back in with you, if that’s okay,” I answered.

As luck would have it, Jeannette Winging came clamoring into the sanctuary, wheeling a cart full of boxes, carrying more boxes in her arms, looking flushed and harried.

“Reverend?” she called in her happy, singsong voice.

I ran to hold the sanctuary door open. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Emery! We are bumping into each other a rather lot, aren’t we, eh? And your nose! How is it? The bruises aren’t so bad, eh?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Winging.” I took some boxes from her arms. “Let me help you,” I offered.

“You know, that would be lovely, Emery. Reverend, I’m sure you don’t mind if Emery helps me load up these lights for the Cranes’ golden anniversary party?”

“No, no, of course not,” he answered. “And I will ask around for you, Emery. Jeannette, you wouldn’t know anything about a church with floor-to-ceiling stained glass?”

I followed Jeannette to the back door, at the rear of the sanctuary. We both had armloads of boxes. “No, I don’t think so,” she answered.

Reverend Sandberg held the door open for us, and I followed Jeannette down the stone steps of the church to her minivan.

“We’ll have these back for you right after the party, Reverend, so we can decorate that tree,” Jeannette called to him.

We loaded up the boxes of lights and then turned back to the church to get the rest, the reverend gone on with his own business.

“I don’t think you’ve met the Cranes yet,” Jeannette said. “He and his wife have been married for fifty years. They had always planned to have quite a big to-do for their wedding anniversary. Sally had cancer
—has
cancer. No one knew if they would make it, but anyway, here they are, by golly.

“These are the white Christmas lights, from the big tree
here at the church,” Jeannette continued. “Reverend said we could use them.”

“Where is the party?” I asked.

“Jimmy and I are going to put it on at our round barn. Clean the place up, cater the dinner. I’m going to make the cake. We really want to do it up.”

“That sounds wonderful,” I said.

“It’s going to be quite an event. Especially now. Last week, the reverend handed me an envelope. Two hundred dollars—anonymously, can you believe it? Someone donated it to the Cranes’ party.”

Jeannette looked at me. “You’ll have to come, Emery, eh? The whole town will be there. Surely, you came here hoping for a little vacation, a little fun.…”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, self-conscious, realizing there were probably a lot of questions floating around about me in Esperanza, my reasons for being here. “I’m not much of a party person.”

We finished putting the last of the boxes in the back of Jeannette’s minivan, and Jeannette turned to me, hands on her hips, squinting a bit.

“Emery, is there anything else I can help you with?” She shut the back door and dusted her hands off in a quaint motion.

“I don’t think so, ma’am.”

“Well, of course, being new in town, you need a hot meal. Come over for dinner tonight?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Winging,” I said, not wanting to get myself intertwined with anything else.

“We’ll see if Ash is free too.” She gave me a little wink then, as if she knew she was sweetening the deal.

This was even more reason not to go. I didn’t want to see Ash, didn’t want to be tempted to fall into the spell that he cast, didn’t want to care about him.

“I’m a very good cook,” Jeannette said. “But that’s okay.”

I bit my lip and thought about it. Maybe Ash had some kind of information I needed. He was tied to the loops somehow. “Okay, sure. Why not,” I said. “I’d actually love to come to dinner.” I couldn’t leave this stone unturned. I had to find out what Ash knew that could help my boy.

“Wonderful,” Jeannette said, giving me a pat on the shoulder. “See you tonight, then.”

“So, Ash,” I said, averting my eyes, knowing I sounded like a lovesick dork, “is he from around here?”

“No, he isn’t,” Jeannette said, looking for her keys in her enormous patchwork handbag. “His mom and I, well, we went way, way back, and had a falling out of sorts. We hadn’t been in touch in a long time. But Ash just showed up, and I knew, of course, about what happened to her.”

Jeannette stopped what she was doing, pursed her lips. “I shouldn’t go on.” She turned and looked at me. “He doesn’t talk much, our Ash.”

“I see,” I answered, understanding that she felt like she was breaking a trust. But I needed more information on him.

“I know about his mom,” I said, which was technically not a complete lie. I wanted to encourage her to keep talking.

“I think he’s having a crisis, Emery. He needs a safe place. That’s just what I think,” she finished quickly.

“I understand, Mrs. Winging,” I said. Because I did. I really did.

I stopped in that afternoon at Sam’s Broken Egg on my way back to the cabin. I wasn’t that hungry, but I needed a place to stop and rest. I sat down on one of the stools at the counter. There were only a few people in the diner with me, none I recognized.

“What’ll it be?” the waitress, Daisy, asked as I took off my coat, my mittens.

“I’d like a hot chocolate.”

Christmas music played over the speakers in the diner, and I heaved a big sigh. I was tired, so tired. My shoulders hunched forward, and I nervously tapped on the countertop as I waited.

“You should go bowling,” a voice said, and then I saw a large, hulking shape sit down next to me. He smelled of alcohol, cigarettes. His flannel shirt had a large orange stain on the front of it.

He leaned over to me, too closely, too intensely. “Want to go bowling?”

It was Mr. McGarry from the post office.

“No thanks. I don’t really like bowling.” I noticed now the abnormalities in his features that I hadn’t that first day, the thickness in his speech, the wide-set eyes.

“You haven’t bowled here yet.”

His hair was greasy and his breath sour, and he scooted much too close to me. His eyes had a funny, dilated look to them, and I didn’t like it.

I tried to smile and just ignore him politely, but he leaned way too far into my personal space, and he tapped me on the shoulder.

“They play rock-and-roll music there too.”

“Okay,” I said. “I just want to have my hot chocolate, though.” He settled back in his seat a bit.

The diner door opened and the bell clanged several times, as it was now working toward the dinner hour. The place filled up quickly. I was thankful for the crowd, hoping, wishing my hot chocolate would just hurry up so I could get out of here.

I stole a glance at Mr. McGarry, and he was still staring at me. He was obviously a little off, a sad case. I thought of how Jeannette said he was harmless. I was just getting worked up over nothing, right? Not everyone in this world was out to get me.

I looked over and smiled at the poor guy and instantly regretted it. He grabbed my hand, which I immediately drew back. “Let’s just go now. Let’s just bowl one game,” he said.

“No,” I said.

“I used to be the pinsetter,” he said proudly.

“Yeah?” I said, trying to be polite, craning my neck for the waitress. The diner was bustling and busy. I looked for someone to save me from this conversation. The young mom at the door with her little girls, she couldn’t have been less interested. The fry cook behind the counter, oblivious. The diner was full, humming with noise, conversation, and no one was paying any attention to us.

Mr. McGarry stood up then and said, “Let’s go!” and he grabbed my arm. In retrospect, it was probably just the exuberance of a man with a childlike mind, but at that moment, panic swirled in my belly. I tried to pull my arm away, but he had a good grip on me.

Suddenly a man broke in between us, wrenching Mr. McGarry’s hand off my arm. “Let go,” he growled.

The force in Ash’s voice startled me, made me take a step back. Mr. McGarry jumped backward and looked up at Ash in confusion. Ash’s shoulders were set squarely, and the muscles in his jaw flexed angrily.

I watched the recognition of Mr. McGarry’s innocent intentions register on Ash’s face. Ash’s features softened. He let go of Mr. McGarry’s arm then. “Burke, she doesn’t want to go bowling,” he said flatly. “And won’t Father Morgan be missing you right about now?” Ash threw a friendly arm around Mr. McGarry, avoiding my eyes.

“I s’pose, Ash,” Mr. McGarry said. Ash walked him toward the door then, ignoring me altogether.

I settled back into my seat, unsure what I had been more scared of—Mr. McGarry’s grip on my arm or Ash’s violent reaction.

I watched through the picture window as Ash walked Mr. McGarry out onto the sidewalk. My breathing was shallow, nervous. Ash stood there talking with him for a long while, Mr. McGarry getting all kinds of excited with his conversation, no doubt about bowling, his hands flailing, a big simple smile on his face. And Ash just stood there nodding, adding a word here and there. I watched Mr. McGarry from this distance, and he seemed sympathetic, feeble even. I shook my head. Maybe all he needed was someone to lend him an ear, and Ash was certainly giving him that.

My hot chocolate came, and I drank it quickly, noticing that my hands were shaking. The hint of a smell crept up on me. Ammonia. I took a deep breath and braced myself, waited for the flutter. But something changed then. It died down inside me, my breath coming in slow, uneven spurts. It gradually disappeared, leaving me spent but here. Why? How? I had no idea.