Good Hope Road (7 page)

I sat there, not wanting to know.

“Do something.” Mama’s voice was so real, I looked up, expecting to see her in the room.

Instead, the hazy, unfocused blue eyes of the newborn baby watched me from the picture on the coffee table. Shivering, I turned the picture over.

I rushed to the kitchen and grabbed a grocery bag, opened it, and held it next to the coffee table, then swept the pile of papers into it. The old letter and the picture of the baby fell in last. I closed the top so I wouldn’t have to look at them, or wonder, or think. Hugging the bag to my chest, I went out the door and walked into a thick morning fog that shielded me from everything.

I couldn’t see where I was going. It didn’t matter. I let my feet move methodically beneath me, carrying me through the heavy gray stillness toward the light that was dawning somewhere beyond the shroud that covered Good Hope Road.

Bits of paper blew loose from the weeds on the side of the road, cavorted close by, then disappeared into the gray veil like spirits vanishing. A filmy child’s nightgown, white with pink lace, caught a ride on the breeze, floating like a jellyfish in the ocean. Stopping, I watched it swim higher, twist in a swirl of wind, then drift downward and skitter along the road until the fog consumed it. Who did it belong to? A little girl probably only four or five. I wondered if it was her favorite.

I reached out to catch a picture as it tumbled by. I didn’t look at it, just slipped it in the bag and reached for something else. I moved to pick up one scrap, then another, the action pulling me along like knots in a lifeline—grab one, grab the next—a greeting card, a little gold bracelet with
Amanda Lynne
engraved on it, a kindergarten graduation certificate for the little Taylor boy. I knew his parents. Nearby, I found his school picture. He was smiling all toothless in front, eyes twinkling as if he hadn’t a care in the world. I added his picture to the others in the bag until I couldn’t see the little baby with the blue eyes any longer.

I passed old man Jaans’s place, about two miles up the road from ours. I could see his house at the end of the lane. For an instant it felt like a normal day. The old cracker-box house looked as it always had, paint peeling, screens flapping in the breeze, porch roof sagging where a post leaned cockeyed. I squinted through the fog, expecting to see old man Jaans doing what he normally did since his wife died—tending his small herd of scrawny cows, talking to his chickens, sipping whiskey from the flask he kept in his pocket. When he was sober enough he’d drive down to our house, set fresh milk or eggs on the post by the mailbox, then leave in a hurry in case Daddy was home. He was the only neighbor who bothered to stop anymore.

The cows bellowed and came to the fence looking for food, and the noise jolted me back to reality.

Today isn’t a normal day. Nothing is normal
.

Old man Jaans’s pickup wasn’t in the barn where he kept it. I didn’t want to think about what that might mean or where he could be, so I started walking again.

The cows ran along the fence complaining until they reached the corner of their pasture, then stood quietly watching me walk away.

I continued toward town as the sun crested the horizon, conjuring the warmth of a Missouri July. The wispy fog withdrew into the valleys as I picked my way carefully through the debris on the road, passing farms that were not farms anymore. Where there had been homes, and barns, and families whose names I knew, there were now only piles of rubble and splintered timbers with windows and doors sticking out like broken appendages. Good Hope Road was deserted.

I descended into the valley along Judy Creek, where the fog grew thick again. I slowed my steps, moving carefully. I could hear the rushing water but I couldn’t see it. If the bridge was flooded, I’d never be able to get to town.

The sound of something moving in the cedar brush beside the road caught my attention. I stopped, unsure of whether to move closer. “Hello?” I whispered.

A high-pitched bark answered, and Bo bounded through the weeds. “Oh, Bo.” I sighed, slapping a hand over my racing heart and squatting down to pet him as he wiggled around my legs, limping on three feet. “Oh, Bo, you big, stupid dog, where have you been all night?” I stroked my hands over his wiry blue-gray fur, feeling the comfort of something familiar. “What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now? It looks like you got yourself wrapped in barbed wire and took the hide off your leg.” Bo whimpered, struggling to break free as I unwound the scrap of barbed wire from his leg. “Stop that!” I hollered, trying to examine the scratches. “Quit! Let me look at this!” Bo yelped and slipped out of my grasp, then started for home at a run. I cupped my hands around my mouth and hollered after him, but he didn’t come back.

A voice answered from somewhere on the other side of the creek. “Hellooooooo.” The word echoed in the heavy fog. “Who’s back there?”

“Jenilee Lane,” I called over the noise of the rushing water. “Who’s there?”

“Caleb Baker.” I saw him, a gray form in the morning mist, waving one arm on the far side of the water. His voice was familiar. He’d been one class ahead of me in high school, the chubby kid who made jokes all the time so people would laugh with him, not at him. He’d been away at college for the last few years. “Are you all right?” he called.

“Yes. Can I get across?” I stepped carefully into the mud at the water’s edge.

He waded in on the other side, and for the first time I could see him clearly. His chest, arms, and face were covered with blood, and his jeans were torn. “It’s not too deep, but it’s fast. Hold on to that tree as you come across. I’ll come out to get you.”

“No, don’t!” I called. “I can make it.” He looked like he could barely support himself. “Don’t come any farther. I’m all right.” Closing the bag of pictures tightly, I slipped the paper handles over my arm and inched into the torrent of muddy water, clinging to the branches of the overhanging tree as the water whipped around my feet.

“I’m O.K. I’m O.K.,” I said again and again, unsure whether I was trying to convince myself or him. “Don’t come out for me.”

I reached the end of the tree and saw Caleb close by. Bracing my feet against the pull of the current, I moved nearer to him, one step, two, three, until my fingers touched his and his hand closed around mine. He pulled me to the bank, and we stood dripping on the other side. I closed my eyes for a moment, catching my breath.

“You all right?” I felt him lean close to me, felt the warmth of his body banish the chill.

I nodded, opening my eyes. His arms and legs were covered with cuts and bruises, and one of his eyes was swollen. “Are you all right? Are you hurt bad?”

“I don’t think so.” He groaned and straightened slowly, so that he stood a head taller than me. “Last thing I remember is unloading cattle yesterday afternoon at the Gann place. Then I heard the tornado coming, and a minute later pieces of the barn were flying everywhere, and I went flying with it like Superman. I must have hit my head somewhere, because when I woke up, it was sometime in the middle of the night and I was pinned under some pieces of the barn wall. I had to wait until the sun came up to figure which way was out. When there was some light, I crawled through a hole and started toward town.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?” I leaned closer to look at the cuts on his face, thinking that there seemed to be far too much blood on him, considering that the cuts were minor.

He nodded, moving away. “Just cuts and bruises.” He braced his hands on his knees, shaking his head. “I still can’t quite get . . . get it straight in my mind, I guess. One minute, I’m delivering cattle from the auction in Kansas City, and the next minute, I’m pinned under the side of a barn and eight . . . maybe ten hours have gone by. I kept laying there in the dark, thinking. . . .”

I didn’t hear the rest. “You were at the cattle auction in Kansas City?” Hope swelled like a tide within me. “Did you see a white diesel flatbed with a brown stock trailer? Did you see Nate and Daddy there? They were hauling a load of brindle cows. Please tell me you saw them, Caleb. They haven’t come home.” I met his eyes, realizing how strange it was for my hopes to be resting on Caleb Baker, who had never said a single word to me all the years we were in school together. I was as invisible to him as I was to the rest of them.

Caleb’s face turned grim, and I felt the hope in my chest sinking like a breath exhaled. “I only saw them first thing in the morning, Jenilee. I know they were there, but it was a big auction, and I left right after lunch with Mr. Gann’s first load of cattle. I’m sorry. I wish I had news for you.”

I nodded, hugging the bag of pictures against myself, listening to the dull crinkling of the brown paper. Despair prickled hot in my throat, and I turned away, unable to talk. I started walking, clenching my fists against the bag and taking deep breaths, determined not to cry.

I painted the image in my mind, trying to make it real, trying out a dozen stories about where Nate was, and what had happened to him, and why he wasn’t back yet. All of them were logical, they made sense, they could happen, I told myself. I couldn’t give up hope. It would be like quitting when Nate needed me most.

I heard Caleb walking beside me, saw the outline of him moving stiffly, rubbing his head. I didn’t look at him or talk to him. I knew if I did, my resolve would crack. I didn’t have the strength to do anything except keep walking as a cold numbness started where my clothes had been dampened by the water and spread over me.

Even the numbness, even the cold were not enough to block out the terrible realities of the storm as we neared Poetry. Each step closer to town brought destruction that was more complete, disintegration of the houses more absolute, until finally we crossed the path of the beast on the final hill above Poetry.

I stood frozen in the road, my gaze sweeping a circle, my mind trying but failing to comprehend.

How can this be . . . ? How could this happen . . . ?
I wanted to shout, but my lips were mute.

Nothing remained. What had once been a small subdivision was barren earth and streets strewn with bits of wood, brick, and stone. The houses had been lifted from their foundations, so that nothing remained but slabs with twisted conduits sticking out and cement stairs that led to nonexistent porches.

All the trees were gone, the trunks snapped like kindling. Climbing over a fallen tree in the road, I stood looking at the neighborhood, remembering a quiet circle of asphalt with perhaps eighteen or twenty homes and massive pecan and oak trees. Cars in the drive-ways, flowers in the flower beds, toys in the yards.

People. Families. The man who owned the feed store, the lady who worked at the bank, the second-grade teacher who just got married, the Andersons, the Jenkes, the Halls . . .

Staring at what was left of their homes, I tried to connect the image with the neighborhood I remembered, but it was impossible to comprehend that both were the same place.

Beside me, I heard Caleb whisper something.
There’s nothing left,
I thought he said, but perhaps it was the voice in my own head. The numbness inside me separated me from the warmth of the day, from the scene around me.

A faint sound of sobbing pressed through the shell.

I turned to see a woman, motionless like a statue on the steps to a nonexistent porch, her head in her hands. I wanted to go to her, to ask her what had happened and if I could help, but I couldn’t force myself to step into that horrible place.

A half-grown cat emerged nearby. Mud-covered and missing a patch of hair along its back, it limped toward me. Squatting down, I touched it, the sensation of its fur weaving through me. Caleb picked it up and gently set it on top of the bag in my arms.

“Here, Jenilee, you know about animals.”

The woman on the steps raised her head and looked at us.

“Mrs. Atherson?” I wasn’t sure if I said her name or only thought it. She didn’t react. My high school gym teacher just looked through me, then slowly put her hands over her face again, first covering her mouth, then sliding her fingers upward, shielding her eyes from the scene around her.

Caleb staggered backward, bumping into my shoulder. I glanced at him, noticing that his skin had gone pale, his face damp with a mixture of sweat and blood.

“Are you all right?”

He didn’t seem to hear me at first. I asked again, touching his arm and shaking him.

He shook his head, reeling sideways, then nodded, blinking hard. “Uh-huh. We better get to town.”

“Here, lean on me.” I slipped under his shoulder, and we continued over the hill toward Poetry, his steps heavier, less steady than before.

In my arms, the muddy cat nestled into the folds of the bag and closed its eyes. My mind crawled into the warm space beside it and hid there. I hardly saw what was around us: the road littered with twigs, papers, bits of houses and cars, fallen trees, smashed cans of food, dented pots and pans, broken glass, the bases of shattered lightbulbs, toy animals with the stuffing hanging out, a mangled bicycle, a splintered baby crib.

Beside me, I heard Caleb gasp in a breath, and I looked up and saw what was left of Poetry.

Nothing remained of Main Street. Where buildings had stood for over a hundred years, there were now only crumbling brown sandstone frontispieces. The wooden walls, the heavy old doors, the blurry blue-tinted plate-glass windows were gone. Vanished, as if someone had dropped a bomb and vaporized anything that was not made of brick or stone.

It was not like anything I could have conjured in a dream. I tried again to connect the image in front of me with the picture of Poetry, where old men sat on benches along the main street, where kids Rollerbladed in the park, and cars lined the street by the café. The images would not meld, as if one could not possibly be the shadow of the other. I clutched tightly to the bundle in my arms, not wanting to see.