Over Yonder, page 8
Elizabeth looked at the screen, lost in a kind of morose daze. Woody didn’t have a shot in a frozen-over hell.
She did not notice that her boyfriend was standing on the other side of the computer monitor until she heard him clear his throat. Jason Cordell was dressed in his Class B tactical uniform. Duty belt slung low on his hip.
“You scared me,” she said. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Penny for your thoughts?” asked Jason.
Her eyes were warm. “They’re not worth a penny.”
“Sorry. I don’t have half a cent.” He took off his GBPD ball cap to reveal a mass of sweaty hair. He ran his fingers through it. “You look like someone shot your dog.”
“I think someone just did.”
“You don’t have a dog.”
“Well, if I did, this is how I’d look.”
Jason leaned onto the horseshoe desk. “I’m sorry, Liz. I’m afraid I’m losing track of this metaphor.”
Jason’s hair sort of fell over his eyebrows. Like one of the Beatles. He was in his early forties. Handsome. All Elizabeth’s female employees were crazy about him. Especially the younger ones. Although, to be fair, her female staffers were crazy about any male with a pulse, including but not limited to UPS deliverymen or those who read the gas meter.
“Are you going to tell me what’s up?” he asked.
“No.”
Jason came around the desk and held her hand. He was looking into her, not just looking at her. Officer Jason Cordell always tried so desperately to be in tune with her. Sometimes he tried too hard.
“It’s his heart transplant,” she said. “I think I’m figuring out that he doesn’t qualify. He’s probably not going to make the list.”
Jason made a face. “Are you sure?”
“He is a sixty-year-old former inmate who smokes. He has no support system, no income, and no in-home care. I talked to a cardio nurse friend today; she said it’s pointless to even apply.”
“You can’t lose hope.”
“Actually, I can. And I think it’s necessary that I do.”
Elizabeth started chewing her thumb. It was a bad habit from her youth and caused her thumb tip to resemble the tip of a baked hot dog.
Jason lowered himself to her eye level. He touched her face. “You have paint on your face. Do you know that?”
She wiped her cheek.
“Little white flecks,” he said. “They’re everywhere.”
“I’ve been on ladders all day.”
He used a thumb to wipe something from her chin. “I’ve told you. You don’t have to repaint my kitchen just because you and Rachel are moving in. I liked the old paint job just fine.”
“I’m not painting for you. It’s for me. For us. I want a fresh start. I want everything to be brand-new. I want my life to feel new again. I want a clean slate. We both deserve that.”
He wrapped his arms around her.
Jason kissed her, and she felt her body tighten a little. Jason pulled away and looked into her dark eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m great.”
Chapter 12
Melinda’s eyes were closed, heavy beneath the weight of medication. They had just removed her breathing tube. Machines were beeping. Compressors hissing. Everyone in the room was watching Woody, waiting for him to do something. Melinda’s boyfriend was standing outside the door playing on his phone.
“Are you awake, Melinda?” Woody asked.
She nodded. “Yes.” Opened her eyes.
“Are you ready for this?”
“I think so.”
In third-century Rome, Christians were killed for sport. They were flayed alive, burned as living torches, locked inside barrels full of protruding spikes and rolled down hills, attacked by dogs. On the eve of their deaths, local churches sent secret messengers to prisons and work camps to celebrate the Last Supper with the inmates. The messengers would carry bread and wine with them. Visiting prisoners was a death sentence for the messengers, but it didn’t stop them from volunteering by the droves.
Tarcisius was one such twelve-year-old boy. He was ordained as a minister and sent to the prisons with bread and wineskins tucked in the folds of his cloak. On the way, a gang attacked and killed him. They left him lying in a puddle of blood and confiscated his bread and wine. Bread and wine for last rites would later, in the sixteenth century, come to be called “viaticum”—literally, provisions for the journey. If you’ve ever wondered why children are elected to carry bread and wine during a liturgical Eucharist, now you know.
Right now, Woody felt about as competent as a twelve-year-old boy. He had not performed the role of celebrant in over a decade. But somehow he remembered the recitations. Some things never leave you. He remembered the inflections. He remembered to pause in all the right places. He remembered it all.
“Do you need a book?” the chaplain asked.
“No,” said Woody.
He moved toward the bed and rested his hand on the rail. He closed his eyes.
“Wait,” said Melinda. “Where’s Caroline?”
The chaplain said, “Jack Jr. couldn’t reach her. He left a message on her boyfriend’s phone.”
“I want her here for this.”
“We need to do this now, Melinda,” said the chaplain with a soothing voice. “There isn’t a lot of time.”
Then he nodded to Woody.
Everyone in the room bowed their head. The former inmate found a timbre of voice that originated deep in his chest. A voice he had not heard with his own ears in a long time. The words seemed to fall from his lips without even trying.
“Almighty God, look upon this your servant, lying in great weakness, and comfort her with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
A round of “amens” from the room.
He recited the Sursum Corda. The Doxology. He blessed the sacraments. He placed a wafer into Melinda’s mouth. And so began the ancient custom for which so many died.
“The body of Christ. The bread of heaven, keep you until everlasting life.”
The chaplain passed Woody a chalice draped in white cloth. He lowered the rim to Melinda’s lips. The wine flowed into her mouth, but most of it dribbled onto her hospital gown.
“The blood of Christ. The cup of his grace, his salvation, and his mercy unto all. Unto you. And unto me.”
Melinda began coughing. It looked like she was about to choke on the wine. A nurse stepped in and wiped her face.
Melinda spoke between wheezing. “I’m sorry, Woody.”
Woody touched Melinda’s face. Her skin was warmer than he expected. He closed his eyes. “May the Lord Jesus Christ lead you on the way to everlasting life, Melinda. May he lead you into the everlasting peace of eternal union.”
The chaplain made the sign of the cross.
Two nurses crossed themselves.
The Major jingled the change in his pockets.
Melinda reached out to hold Woody’s hand. She clasped it between both of hers. Her fingers were pure bone. But in her eyes he thought he saw a flicker of peace. Behind the mask of death, he saw the young woman he fell in love with so long ago. And in her eyes Woody saw himself. Not as he was today. But the way he used to be.
“Promise me you’ll take care of her, Woody.”
He squeezed her hand.
“May you find the forgiveness and peace Christ has brought. And may the Lord God watch over me and thee while we are absent from one another—Mizpah.”
“Mizpah,” she whispered.
At that moment, a red-haired young woman entered the room, clutching the straps of her backpack. She was very beautiful. She was very pregnant.
And she looked just like her dad.
* * *
The Major dug a cigar from his pocket. He had been cutting back lately. He was a big believer in moderation. He restricted himself to smoking only one cigar at a time. And it was his policy never to smoke while sleeping.
Woody and his dad were standing outside of North Knoxville Medical Center, watching the snow fall. The aftershock of Melinda’s death was still heavy in the air.
Woody’s dad handed him the pack of De Nobilis. Woody removed one, wet the tip with his mouth, then bit the end. He sat on the bench near the hospital entrance beside his dad, caught in a daze.
“I always liked her,” said the Major. “She had a lot of sass.”
Woody smiled. “She had plenty.”
Melinda Boyer’s family had moved into the parsonage when Woody was four years old. Her dad was the priest of Saint John’s. Melinda was the quintessential preacher’s kid. Buck wild. Mischievous spark in her eyes. Kiss-my-grits attitude. Always in trouble. Woody and Melinda were joined at the hip from day one. They passed an entire childhood among the creek beds, climbing trees, or seated on the saddles of Schwinns. He had never even considered that Melinda was a real girl until they hit their teenage years and hormones got involved. She was his first couple-skating partner. His first summer love. His first kiss. His first wife.
It was Melinda’s dad, Father Roger, who baptized him when Woody was sixteen. Woody’s family had not been religious. It was Melinda’s father who took Woody under his wing while Woody’s father worked double overtime on ironworking crews.
Woody flicked his lighter and got his ember started. He passed the lighter to his dad.
“Do they let you smoke inside prison?” asked the Major.
“Only in the movies.”
“That’s unconstitutional.”
“Take it up with the BOP.”
“Not even just a cigarette?”
Prisons in the US banned smoking. If you were caught smoking, you faced serious disciplinary action. Emphasis on caught. There was a thriving underground tobacco trade inside. Inmates smoked “pinners”: tobacco rolled in toilet paper. They contained just enough nicotine to make you mad.
“I couldn’t make it inside,” said the Major, eyeing his cigar.
Woody removed the phone from his pocket and dialed Elizabeth’s number. He wandered away from his dad for privacy. The phone rang, but no answer. He looked at his watch. It was late, after eleven. He dialed again. Nothing.
“What did you expect?” asked his dad. “You never answered her calls.”
“Funny. I don’t remember asking your advice.”
“See? That’s your first mistake.”
Woody dialed Rachel’s cell. This time there was an answer. Only it wasn’t Elizabeth or Rachel. It was a man. Strong and confident.
“Is this Jason?”
“I’m sorry,” said the voice. “Who is this? This is a nine-year-old’s phone.”
“This is the nine-year-old’s dad.”
The man’s voice changed from police officer to buddy-buddy. “Woody? I’m sorry, man. Your name didn’t show up on the screen, my mistake. Listen, Rachel’s asleep right now. You want to talk to Elizabeth?”
“Only if she’s nearby.”
“Well, I’m watching her stand on a ladder right now. And I hate to get her off the ladder because I kind of like this view.”
Woody felt a stabbing ache inside him. It hurt more than he had anticipated.
“Hold on,” said Jason with a laugh. “I’ll get her for you.”
“Thanks.”
Woody heard more laughter in the background. Indiscriminate voices talking playfully with one another. Life is a party.
Elizabeth said hello.
“Little late for a sleepover, isn’t it?” said Woody.
“We’re repainting Jason’s kitchen.”
Woody drew in smoke and released it. “Is that what they call it these days?”
“Did you call to inquire about my personal habits, or are you calling to be a horse’s ass?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Woody looked at his dad, leaning against the wall. The old man was picking his nose with his thumb.
She said, “You’re in no position to get mad at me when you haven’t answered my texts all day.”
“Do you leave a toothbrush at his house?” Woody said.
She was whispering now. “Listen to me. What I do with my private life is none of your business.”
“It’s my business if you’re doing it on the kitchen table in front of our daughter.”
“Oh my God. I’m hanging up now.”
Woody felt the greenery of jealousy consuming him as he watched interstate traffic go by in the distance. Snow was falling heavily. He had not felt this kind of covetousness in so long that the sensation was almost foreign. It was confusing. He didn’t know what to do with the resentful envy that was eating him alive.
“There’s no need to be like this,” she said. “Jason is trying to be part of our family. He just wants in.”
“Yes, he certainly wants to get into something.”
“You have ten seconds to get to the point or I’m hanging up.”
Woody looked into the sky at the stars above. He flicked his cigar into the snowy parking lot. He tried to figure out how he was going to tell her he had a daughter with a woman she hated. But no words came to him. There had been no love lost between Melinda and Elizabeth.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Where are you?”
Pause.
“Knoxville.”
This was met with a hush.
“I’m kind of going through a lot right now, Liz. I need to talk to someone, and I don’t know who else to call. I don’t have anyone who will listen to my—”
They were interrupted.
It was Jason. She gave him a quick answer. Her voice was wifey. Feminine. Happy. Without the maternally nagging overtones she used on Woody.
And that was when it sank into Woody’s brain fully. He hadn’t seen the truth quite as plainly as he did now. But the fact was, Elizabeth Barker was not his. She hadn’t been his in ten years. Not really. In her kindness, she had maintained the illusion for his sake. Suddenly, Woody felt thoroughly and everlastingly stupid.
He hung up the phone and lit another cigar.
Chapter 13
The funeral home sat off the interstate in a large pasture framed by mountains, graced with a temperamentally gray sky. It was a pole-barn structure, similar to a cattle auction warehouse, except for the homemade painted plywood steeple on the roof.
The casket was nice. Nicer than Caroline expected. Red oak. Gold hardware. The lining was purple satin. Her mother was wearing a gold, lowcut dress Jack Jr. had selected. The funeral director told Jack Jr. the neckline was too low. The morticians tried to talk him out of it since this was a celebration of life service, not a two-for-one special at the Bazoom Room. But Jack Jr. insisted this was her mother’s favorite dress. So the morticians made it work. The blond wig on her head, the final touch, made her mother look as though she had died while performing a Dolly Parton tribute routine.
Oh, what cosmetic atrocities are committed in the name of open-casket funerals.
Jack Jr. stood beside the coffin, weeping. “They did a good job on her.”
Caroline stared at her mother and wondered whether she and Jack Jr. were looking at the same remains.
Jack Jr. wiped his face. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without her. I don’t know how I’ll survive.”
“You’ll keep going,” said Caroline.
Jack Jr. looked at her. “I’m not strong like you.”
Caroline pulled him close. “I’m not strong. I’m just dumb.”
Jack Jr. held her tightly and sobbed. He reeked of weed and aftershave, and his pupils were the size of a single atomic particle.
The service was poorly attended. Eight attendees altogether, not counting Jack Jr., Tater, and herself. There was no preacher. There was no eulogy, no prayer, no sermons. Like many addicted persons, her mother’s world had grown so increasingly small and isolated that very few could mourn her.
On the front row sat the two men Caroline had met in the hospital: Woody and Amos Barker. They kept staring at her when they didn’t think she was looking, but she saw them gawking. The men wore neckties and slacks. They hadn’t moved from their spot on the front row all morning. Caroline had not spoken to them. Not even once, because they were weird. She had no interest in talking to a couple of strangers who had introduced themselves as her mom’s friends. She was not about to listen to some memory they had of Melinda that would require her to slap on a plasticized smile and pretend the woman in the casket hadn’t robbed Caroline of her childhood.
When the visitation was over, the older man began limping his way to her. The younger man waited by the door, staring out the window.
The man named Amos took her hand, lifted it to his mouth, then kissed it with his dry lips. “I know you’re busy today, sweetheart. But if you have the time, we’d like to buy you a cup of coffee and talk.”
She noticed the middle-aged man watching.
“Coffee?”
“You drink coffee?”
“Yes. Where?”
The old man pointed to the IHOP across the street. The cerulean roof was visible through the funeral parlor window.
“We’ll have a booth in the back.”
“Uh . . .”
“It would mean so much to us.”
“Well, I . . .”
“We’ll be there waiting.”
Caroline watched the funeral parlor staff start to move through the chapel aisles, picking up trash and straightening chairs. They were already closing the place down.
“It’s just . . . I’ll have to ask my boyfriend if I can go.”
The old man smiled. “Or you could just tell him.”
