Chapter
Two
Safe
on other side of the doorway, Meghan chided herself. Jack hadn’t even glanced
her way before shuffling to a murky corner of the den. He searched for
something but didn’t think to turn on the lights. Still numb with grief, the man
probably wouldn’t have noticed if she’d plowed into him. She’d been indulging
in too many melodramatic love stories lately. Now she was trying to live them. Since
when did her neighbor make her head spin?
“Gotta
be here somewhere,” Jack said, fumbling inside a roll top desk.
The room unnerved Meghan
as much as her host did. The rest of the cabin hardly seemed like a house of
mourning, but the den’s burgundy window shades hung all the way down as if
closing out a dazzling summer day instead of a dreary May evening. A gold swag
lamp loomed over a brown leather recliner beside an entire wall of books. She
smelled smoke and felt the warmth of a recent fire, but the nearby hearth held
only ashes and a few scraps of yellow paper.
Meghan
took a step back, toward the light. “Please call if there’s anything I can do.”
She’d said something similar at LaVonne’s memorial service. She’d impulsively hugged
Jack and the girls, too, but didn’t dream of attempting it again. He hadn’t
called then and Meghan knew he wouldn’t now, although he nodded as he neared.
Shadows deepened the dark circles rimming his restless eyes. His wide shoulders
slumped as if life’s battles had finally beaten him.
Jack
shoved a handful of bills toward her so suddenly she almost jumped. “Please
take this, Meghan. You’ve earned it. I’ve kind of been letting things go. . .
.”
“No,
I’m glad to do it, Jack. I’m . . . so sorry about LaVonne.” Meghan resolved to treat
him just as she had when his wife was alive. Over the years she’d eventually succeeded
in squelching every attraction to other males. None ever hit so hard or fast.
She began her retreat. “Remember,
I’ve got summers off, so I can help watch Beth.” Triathlon training kept Meghan
busy, but maybe during break she could assist the girls with their schoolwork,
too. In any case, she wouldn’t be taking up her time with melodrama for a
while.
Jack
made no reply. He’d lost more than his smile since December. Meghan appreciated
an athletic frame, knowing the effort it took, but the man seemed reduced to mere
muscles and bones. “I’ll . . . check on you all from time to time.” She
couldn’t let him starve. The church ladies’ condolence meal deliveries had probably
stopped months ago. She wanted to pick up the slack but all she’d ever mastered
were sticky buns. Hardly a meal to feed a man and his family.
“Thanks
again.” He waved, his palm smudged with ashes. “You’ve been a lifesaver.”
She
smiled, then wondered if she really had saved a life today. “Ah, Jack? I just
found Bethie alone by the burn barrel. You really should think about putting a
lock on the front door—one she can’t reach.”
“I
will.” He looked heavenward. “Can’t understand how Bethie got the door open.”
He edged to the threshold, blocking Meghan’s exit. “The entry door’s not easy for
even Marie to open unlocked, and I locked it. How’d a baby get through by
herself?”
“Beth’s
really not a baby anymore.” Though the blocked exit distracted Meghan, she realized
all the Foresters needed watching over. LaVonne had been a saint, completely devoted
to her family. How would they survive? Lord
Jesus, please help them. And raise up others who’ll help, too. So much need
overwhelmed Meghan, but she felt she should at least try to say something helpful.
Jack
saved her the effort. “Good evening, Meghan.” He didn’t even meet her gaze but stared
at the floor. Though the girls acted sad, he seemed far more lost. His short,
blond curls, like his middle daughter’s darker ones, looked equally in need of
a comb and a mother’s touch.
Meghan
raised her hand, then saw what she was doing and jerked it down. “Bye, Jack.” Pushing
past him, she strode toward the light without looking back. That settled it. No
more drama for a while. Whether her near-action had been born of motherly or
wifely instincts didn’t matter. She had no business possessing either. Besides,
Jack had already cued her to leave, evidently wanting to get back to whatever
he’d been doing in his man cave.
Sure enough, the den
door shut solidly behind her as he returned to his unnatural habitat. Meghan prayed
he’d hibernate long enough for her to take a more gracious leave of his girls. Jack’s
needs defied her feeble efforts, but nothing baffled God. Maybe she could find
some nice, Christian lady from church to help him too, with more to offer than
she had. Easy assignment.
Relief
at her resolution grew with each step she took toward the blazing, fragrant
kitchen. Taylor had every light in the room on, from the stove’s hood lamps to
the high, recessed gimbal bulbs shining every which way to the huge antler
chandelier casting a halo around the curls of Marie, studying at the adjoining dining
room table.
Taylor stirred a wok on
the range with a big slotted spoon as scents of steaming rice and fried garlic
and onions wafted outward. Maybe lack of food wasn’t one of the Foresters’ problems.
How could any man’s appetite resist this onslaught?
“Mm.”
Meghan sniffed a respectful distance from the stove. “What are you making?”
“Venison
stir fry. Would you like to join us for supper, Miss—Meghan?”
“No
thanks, Taylor. I was about to head home.” Meghan tried to strike up several
conversations, but the teen merely nodded and tended her sizzling veggies. Finally
Meghan decided to attempt a teacher-student relationship with the girls another
time. Like when their father was absent.
“Meghan?”
Marie’s striking hazel eyes, probably an inheritance from her mother, sparkled
with mischief all her own. “Ask Tay how much she’s looking forward to driver’s
ed.”
Though ideal, the suggestion
seemed suspect—or maybe the one suggesting it did. Not sure if Marie was
setting her up, Meghan turned to Taylor.
“I’d
rather ride a bicycle my whole life!” the older girl exploded. Meghan let
Taylor vent to her heart’s content as she and Marie set the table. For four.
Supper looked about done by then, so Meghan patted Bethie’s head as a goodbye
and stepped into her tennis shoes.
The gesture backfired. Bethie
shoved on her red rain boots, sticking with Meghan as she turned the lock. “Mommy
Bye-boh owdye,” the child insisted.
Taylor
ran to the rescue, holding Bethie who cried, “Mommy! Mommy Bye-boh owdye!”
Taylor
cringed as Bethie wailed, “Mommy Bye-boh! Mommy Bye-boh owdye!” The toddler sounded
so distressed. And so loud.
Where was Jack? Although somewhat relieved he
didn’t appear, Meghan felt troubled for the girls’ sakes. She knew their mother
had homeschooled them. What kind of an education had they received the past
half year? What kind of parenting?
“Don’t
worry, Bethie,” Marie soothed. “Mommy’s Bible isn’t outside.” She rushed to the
family room and started ducking under furniture. “Beth calls any book a Bible,”
she explained, “but it’s getting close to her bedtime. Sometimes Mom read her
Bible while she nursed her.”
That
sounded like another cue to leave. The poor family needed to eat. “I’d better
go. See you at church tomorrow.” Meghan wondered if she should drop off some
sticky buns on Sunday, too. Taylor was more than competent around the house,
but it didn’t seem right for a girl to shoulder so much responsibility. Besides,
no one refused Meghan’s sticky buns. Not even Jack.
Meghan
broke into a run as soon as she cleared the porch. Her stomach longed for
Taylor’s stir fry even if it did contain venison, but she consoled herself with
promises of a microwaved potpie and hot-air popcorn hors d’oeuvres plus a mug
or two of mocha cappuccino—after a quick shower, she thought, then caught a
whiff of ashes.
Oops.
From the lip of the burn barrel, Jack’s flashy box stuck out defiantly. The
thing had more lives than Sir Purr! The light rain had ceased, but the box
would be impossible to burn now, and Jack made it clear he wanted the job done
today. Little chance of that in his open barrel. Her barrel, however, stood by most
of her garbage cans under a tall tin roof, protected from rain. She could let
the wind dry Jack’s box a while there, then burn it once and for all.
Now
glad for wearing her grungiest clothes, Meghan wiped the worst ashes from the
box and hefted it onto her hip, heading as fast as she could toward dinner—minus
a movie.
+++
From
the den recliner, Jack heard the baby’s cries and later, the front door’s slam.
The roaring pain of his heart made everything seem so distant, so unimportant.
Vonnie would care. He couldn’t, without her.
“Dad,
phone. Dad? Dad!” Marie pounded so long that it finally reached him. He barely
remembered to turn on the lights before opening the door.
“You locked me out!”
Marie shoved the cordless receiver at him.
He and Von had included
a keyed lock and excluded phones when designing the den. The room was a peaceful,
quiet think tank where they’d built their castles in the sky. Now the den was
just quiet. Usually.
“Dad
. . . are you okay?” Marie cocked her head at him before she left.
He
tousled her curls and tried to smile, taking the phone and locking the door
behind her as was his habit since he’d started spending so much time with the
lights off, doing nothing. It wasn’t really nothing, but he doubted anyone, even
his girls, could understand that grieving was the hardest work he’d ever done—and
far less rewarding than remodeling a sewer.
“Hello?” he croaked
into the receiver. Not another sympathy call, he hoped. The unending calls and
cards just added to his loss.
“Hey,
big bro. What’ve you been up to?”
“Not much, Ellie.” Too
true. He leaned back in Vonnie’s favorite chair, stifling a groan. With manual
labor, you got somewhere. Since Von died, his thoughts kept rotating in the
same devastating tornadoes. He could shut off the lights, and did. But he
couldn’t unplug his brain.
He wanted to ask his
sister if he’d done everything right, though they’d already covered that. Extensively.
Even Ellen thought Vonnie suffered mostly from fatigue and hypochondria. Dying
had never been part of the diagnosis. The doctor said they’d run a few tests
but assured them she probably just needed rest. Who could’ve imagined an angiogram
would kill?
“I’ve
got some good news.”
Finally.
Jack began to relax until he realized how strained she sounded. “What’s wrong?”
Ellen
laughed weakly. “Never could trick you. Or LaVonne.”
He winced.
The sound of Vonnie’s name still brought pain, especially when it was his own
voice awakening himself as he’d done several times the past half year. When he
could sleep.
Suddenly
he sat upright. “Is the baby okay? Are you?”
“I’m
fine. So is he.”
“He?
I thought you weren’t going to find out in advance.”
“I didn’t.
I had Jackson Joe by C-section last night—way too early, but a perfect birth.”
“Great!”
His first nephew and named after him, too. “You’re sure you’re both okay?”
“We’re getting the best
care on the planet, I think. Joe wouldn’t tolerate anything less.”
He leaned back again. Then
it dawned on him. What was he going to do with his girls?
“Jack,
I hate to say this, but Joe wants someone else to watch the girls next month.”
Fine,
but who else? He and especially Vonnie had little time for relationships
outside their family. Homeschooling during the cold months, gardening during
the warm months, and the baby for twenty-four months before her death had consumed
Von. Years earlier she’d felt God calling her to homeschool their girls and so
she gave up the profession she loved—temporarily, she thought. But the past sixteen
years Vonnie had cared for their children night and day, entrusting them only
to Ellen or her own brother and his wife, and then just a handful of times.
He needed Von, of
course. He couldn’t turn down the out-of-town summer job he’d recently been
offered. His old high school buddy, Carl, had even thrown in room and board.
Ellen sighed. “I’m so
sorry to let you down. Maybe I’ll be okay sooner than Joe thinks.”
“Your job now is to
take it easy.” Jack knew enough about C-sections to realize it would be a while
before even a tough cookie like his baby sister could take care of active
little Bethie.
If the girls watched
her though, and stayed at Ellen’s, things might work. Maybe they’d even help
her out. “Ellen, could you use some extra hands?”
“Don’t worry, big bro. My
neighbor’s looking after me and Joe’s taking paternity leave.” She laughed,
stronger this time. “In some ways, this’ll be a vacation compared to having
Jaclyn.”
After their chat, Jack
sat in the dark, trying to think. Something else to figure out. Alone. He
reached for the lamp and turned it on. Von’s Bible lay next to his on the desk.
She’d read it here every day. He tried to, though he circled a lot in that area,
too.
He looked toward the desk,
noticing an empty spot where Vonnie kept her laptop. He vaguely remembered the
kids watching DVD’s on it—proof positive that Von was dead. She’d reserved her laptop
for professional, polished work, preferring the simplicity of pencils and yellow
legal pads for journaling and prewriting. Over the years she’d built up a
collection of stories and fragments, descriptions of flora and fauna she wanted
to embellish, memorable dialogue, records of her hopes, her dreams. Their
lives.
At least, those were
the things she’d told him about. He’d never understood why Von felt compelled
to keep parts of her writing secret, even from him. She wrote early mornings or
stolen moments during the day, even while nursing, stowing everything in the padlocked
trunk that pulled out like a drawer behind the bookshelf’s false panel. Long
ago she’d made him promise to destroy all her writing upon her death. Although
it had almost killed him, he’d been faithful. Each page, each notepad, along
with several discs and flash drives, was gone.
Mechanically he started
another fire, feeding it with a few overlooked scraps of the letters he’d
burned—their love letters. They’d had a mutual pledge about those. Some things
were meant to be private. He understood that. Reading them now would be
unbearable anyway.
But her collection . .
. Jack sighed, retreated to the recliner, snapped off the lamp, and stared into
the gluttonous flames. The collection had been so much harder to let go. It almost
seemed part of her. She called it her brain—an uncensored, unadulterated
stream-of-consciousness response to life. Up to this day, not one yellow page
had ever left the den. If the older girls knew the collection existed, they
would’ve begged him to keep it and he couldn’t have refused. It was bad enough
that Bethie caught him transferring the bulk of it into Von’s paisley photo box.
He’d doggedly destroyed the rest here, alone. As much as he could stand, in
fact. Page by page, it burned and his tears flowed and his heart broke.
Thank God Meghan had
unwittingly spared him some of the torture.
Jack watched the
pulsing embers, then whacked them with the shovel until they were dead. He left
through the back door, wandering around the yard Meghan had mowed and tidied. Slowing, he passed the garden and seedlings he
and Vonnie had planted, the ones they’d planned to sit under with their
grandchildren. Von had loved the scrawny maples. They weren’t even big enough
to string a hammock from, but she had loved them. Had loved him. Had loved the
girls.
Who would now?
He reached the burn
barrel and stared at the empty spot on the ground where he’d set the last box he’d
smuggled out containing Von’s brain. Swallowing, he tried to force down the
fresh sense of loss rising in him. It seemed incredible that so much could be
suddenly, irrevocably gone, as if God had been sleeping and let it happen—as
He’d been when Von died.
The rain had stopped. Jack
wasn’t sure when. Bracing himself, he looked into the barrel. Empty, except for
the precious ashes. He saw it but couldn’t believe it, so he thrust in his hand
and sifted the ashes, damp except for one dry dent.
Moisture that the sky
hadn’t deposited ran down his face. He hadn’t guessed he held so many tears. At
least no one could see him losing it out here. What secrets had Von written
that he and the girls would never know? How many pages were running through his
fingers? How many words? How many years?
He reeled, hit by the
first, blinding flash of the anger he’d tried so hard to control. For once Von had
been wrong. The collection wasn’t her brain. It was her soul. And she’d forced
him to destroy it, reducing the very best of their children’s legacy to ashes.
Destroying her one chance to live on, for him and the girls. He wound up to
slam the barrel just as his fingers brushed against something.
He picked it up, wiped
it off. A lighter. The one he’d loaned Meghan. A little, nearly invisible, bomb
. . . waiting only for the next fire to explode.
Maybe God wasn’t
sleeping.
Jack wiped the lighter
as he took the long way home, letting the clean spring wind blow away his tears
and buffet his ragged curls and unshaven face— as invigorating as a cold
shower, as promising as a new start. Sometime during his walk he managed to thank
God, too. Years of grieving lay ahead, he knew. Vonnie’s death still altered
every angle of his world, but a flame of courage relit his soul as he held the
would-be bomb. Perhaps the lighter would’ve caused only a minor explosion, but
the Lord had protected Jack and the girls from it. He’d even let Jack know He’d
protected him. God wasn’t sleeping after all.
So maybe the time had
come for Jack to wake up, too. 
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