“You said you’d walk across the country to save her. You set the terms of the contract.”
“I wasn’t making an offer,” said Allen. “I just said it to show how strongly I felt.”
“Did you mean it or not?”
Allen collected his thoughts. “You’re saying that if I walk from here to San Diego and back, you will just give us the money we need for Yvonne’s treatment.”
“I’ll provide funds if you keep your end of the contract, giving you the chance to earn her treatment.”
“That’s insane. Do you have any idea how much planning a trip like that would take?”
The man didn’t answer, just stood there with that irritating grin on his face.
I did say it,
thought Allen.
And I meant it.
After some calculation he asked, “Will you give me $85 per diem to cover expenses?”
“I would have given you twice that.”
Allen shook his head. “Eighty-five’s enough. How will you know if I hitchhike or take a bus? Or if I even make it to San Diego?”
“We will outfit you with a GPS tracker. In addition, you will provide me with your schedule and we’ll check in on you.”
“That’s a long trip to schedule every mile,” said Allen with a raised eyebrow.
The stranger laughed and said, “You are the most precise contractor in Wayne County and probably within five states. I just don’t see you setting off on a cross country trek without having every inch planned.”
“How do you know anything about me if you just happened to overhear us talking?”
“Suffice it to say I have people.”
“Who are you?”
“That’s a triviality. Not even worth discussing,” answered the stranger.
Again the irritating refusal to disclose anything. “There’s gotta be a better way for you to spend your money,” said Allen.
“My motives are my own. Call it expensive personal reality TV if you need a way to rationalize it. Any other details to hammer out, Al?”
“It’s Allen. Please.”
“OK. Allen. Are we in agreement then?”
Allen took a moment to think. “I’d like a moment to talk it over with my wife.”
“Will it really change your decision?”
Of course it didn’t change anything. But the thought of planning months ahead for a trip like that overwhelmed him. It was hard enough to plan the daily list of supplies he would need when he went to the home store before work every morning. How could he possibly predict needs weeks or months in advance?
Because Yvonne’s life was the reward.
Three weeks later he was on an interstate two states away and Yvonne’s prognosis was improving. He’d never made a better bargain in his life.
“Slushee war!” yelled someone from a passing car. Something slammed into the side of his neck. Pain drove him forward a couple steps and cold, syrupy liquid splashed around his neck and back. The pain receded after the initial shock and the icy liquid soaked into his shirt and down his back.
Jogging away from the road, Allen looked around, expecting another attack, but the passersby seemed oblivious to him. After removing his backpack, Allen rinsed away as much slush as he could from himself and his pack then moved into the treeline.
I don’t get a shower until tomorrow night. I was supposed to wear that shirt until then. That sugar is going to attract ants and animals. Will my clothes even dry overnight?
The unknowns closed in on Allen, immobilizing him. The perfectly planned trip had been derailed by something as simple as a slush. Each doubt wrapped around his legs like a thread, and together they brought him to a standstill.
If I stop to buy a shirt tomorrow it’ll put me off schedule. Did the slush get into my pack? If they had thrown something besides a drink I might be lying in the grass bleeding instead of walking and what about Yvonne then?
Yvonne.
As much as the little changes tormented Allen, it didn’t compare to what Yvonne was going through.
So why doesn’t that make it easier to keep walking?
Shadows cast by the sinking sun crept up to him, catching Allen by surprise. He glanced down at his GPS watch.
“Dang it,” he said. “Quarter mile too far. That’s what I get for not sticking to the schedule.”
Whatever changes lay ahead, his schedule said it was time to set up camp and eat dinner. As he continued the walk into the treeline he thought,
Job lost everything and didn’t complain. I can barely deal with a slush. Job came forth as gold after his trials. But that’s not me. I’ll be lucky to be pig iron.
Gravel crunched beneath his feet as Dexter walked along the path toward the funeral home. He’d find another way to help Tracy. If she took a semester off they could find a way to get financial aid. He’d help her pay off her loans after she graduated. The stranger who’d given him the job had said something about making sure she didn’t graduate from anywhere, but there was no way he could enforce that.
A decade before Tracy graduated high school, Dexter and Dru had prepared financially for college. By the time she was a freshman in high school they had no debt, no mortgage, not even a car loan. On top of that they had $20,000 saved up. But tuition at Columbia was almost half of Dexter’s annual income. The savings shrunk and despite having no debt they were required to live frugally in order keep up the tuition payments.
They had always done what they needed so that Tracy could fulfill her dream. But Dexter had finally reached his limit. They’d have to find a different solution.
Before he knew it he was walking through the front doors of the funeral parlor. As he passed the open door of the chapel on the way to the office, he saw the miniature white casket again. The tiny hole in the ground that would be required came to his mind unbidden, reminding him of little Camille’s grave. His decision to quit was confirmed. The stranger in black could go to hell; it wasn’t worth it.
A man Dexter did not recognize approached him. The dark suit and puffy eyes marked him as the father of the child who had passed away. He asked, “Excuse me, do you work here?”
“Uh, yeah.” If Dexter didn’t feel a gloomy kinship with the man he would have said no.
“I just got here. I’m Tom Howard, Macy’s father,” he said motioning toward the open chapel door where the miniature burial box lay. “Can you tell me what happens from here?”
“That’s probably a better question for Freddy, the assistant funeral director. I can go get him for you.”
“I don’t know how my poor wife is going to make it through this,” said Tom, looking into the doorway of the chapel. The casket was not visible from where they stood. He just stared into the chamber. “You’re must be pretty used to this, huh?”
“Actually, no. Even after seventeen years it’s nearly impossible to deal with.” Dexter’s voice cracked and he had to turn his head and wipe his eyes. He wanted to offer a bit of strength, but had none to spare.
Tom stared back at him, his own tears threatening to trickle down his face again.
“Macy was such a special girl. I know all parents must feel that way, especially after losing a child. But she was so kind and outgoing, there wasn’t anyone she couldn’t make friends with. She loved telling jokes—to strangers, to me, to her mom. Funny jokes, dumb jokes, jokes she made up that didn’t make sense. But she always got a laugh…”
“It may be none of my business, but can you ever forgive your wife?” asked Dexter, hearing the pleading in his own voice.
After wiping his eyes and blowing his nose, Tom answered, “If it weren’t for Sherri I wouldn’t have had four and a half wonderful years with Macy. I could never blame her for what happened. I just wish I knew how to help her cope.”
“Losing a child is the hardest thing anyone can go through,” said Dexter. “How are you going to deal with this?”
“Well, whenever I start thinking about her not being here I force myself to remember the time I had with her. It may sound stupid but I tell myself her favorite knock-knock joke. The one about an interrupting cow.” He laughed out loud, but the sound was cut off by the lump in his throat. He added, “I’m just glad I had those years.”
Freddy came out of the back room, obviously surprised to see the emotion on Dexter’s face. He also noticed Dexter’s still clean clothes. He introduced himself to Tom and expressed condolences in the warm, pitying way learned only in funeral director school. Then he asked Dexter if there was anything wrong.
Dexter shook his head. “I’m just heading out now.”
Tom offered Dexter his hand and thanked him. “I don’t know how we could get through this without the support of friends and family, and even complete strangers.” The hand shake was firmer and longer than it had to be.
“My condolences to you and your wife,” answered Dexter. He turned and walked outside. He didn’t get into his car to go home, and he didn’t walk toward the equipment shed. He walked toward the only part of the cemetery he hadn’t visited since being employed there. It was a row he knew better than any other.
The walk wasn’t long, even though it had taken him seventeen years to arrive. By the time he stood in front of his daughter’s headstone, he felt the weight of a long journey finally completed.
An angel graced the upper corner of the white marble stone. The words inscribed under the cherub were as crisp as they had been the day it was placed at the grave.
Camille Jean Wilkinson
March 1, 1991 – June 2, 1994
“Our precious angel”
Our precious angel
, he thought as the tears flowed in a steady stream. Dexter had forgotten the inscription. For seventeen years he remembered the paramedics who had arrived almost instantly, scooping little Camille up and driving off in the ambulance. He remembered telling Dru about the gate. He remembered the casket being lowered into the ground. Every negative experience was preserved perfectly. Guilt had worn deep tracks into his mind from frequent replay.
In less than five minutes Tom Howard had helped him realize he was doing it all wrong. He dug past the guilt and despair and thought back to the first time he saw his little Camille. Wrinkly, pale, and covered with a white waxy film, she had inspired an overwhelming sense of wonder. Camille was the firstborn of the twins. Dexter never could tolerate blood, and expected to have a hard time at the delivery, but it turned out to be as close to a truly religious event as he had ever experienced.
Camille’s first steps came to mind. A week before her first birthday she took a few steps across the thin blue carpet in their living room. Her blue eyes were bright, both at the thrill of walking and her parents’ reaction. After two or three successful attempts she ended up next to Tracy, both clinging to the couch. Camille took Tracy’s hand and set off with a smile and a squeal. Tracy let go of the couch at her sister’s tug. They pulled each other off balance and ended up in a heap on the floor, but Dexter could still remember her bright, inviting eyes as she dared to share what she had discovered with her little sister.
Just a month before she was killed, she and Tracy had discovered the drawer with the Sharpie markers. Dexter found the girls covered in ink scribbling on their bedroom walls and carpet. He lost his temper and both girls were crying by the time he finished yelling. He left them each in a corner of their room when he stormed out of the room with the markers in his hand.
He had intended to leave them in time-out for a minute, maybe two. Five minutes later Camille walked up to him with her head down. All he could see was the top of her blond, curly head.
“Daddy?” she said in a voice that could only be described as angelic. “I’m sorry I colored on my room. Do you still love me, Daddy? I still love you.”
He hugged her and assured her that he loved her very much, then went into the girl’s room and made sure Tracy knew it as well. They spent the next half hour snuggled on the overstuffed chair reading
The Cat in the Hat
and
Where the Sidewalk Ends
. It was the last time he had lost his temper with the girls.
He spent a few more minutes at the gravesite conjuring memories of her life to combat the memories of her death that until today he had foolishly never discouraged.
Feeling stronger than he had in almost two decades he retrieved the backhoe and tools and drove to Section 10, Lot 21-A. The ditch he dug was small repayment to Macy’s dad, who had taught him the proper way to grieve.
In Control, Cheryl cheered when Dexter opened the shed door and began loading tools onto the backhoe. Jonathan and Marcus looked at each other and both sighed in relief.
With the crisis averted, Jonathan sent Oscar a text message to inform him that his services would not be necessary after all. It was Oscar’s job to be the axe when a person chose to let it fall. Marcus had sent the original text telling Oscar to get ready, but Jonathan insisted on sending the stand down message himself.