Redeem Me (5 page)

M
y mom’s voice in my head should comfort me. “Get up and get something done. Don’t just sit around and feel sorry for yourself. Yes, it’s bad, but lots of people have it worse.” But it doesn’t.

She’d send me to church. I haven’t been to church since the Christmas Eve before they died. My relationship with God was severed the instant the Speed Demon Delivery truck hit my parents’ car. I open my closet door, searching for church clothes. If my parents were here, we’d all drive together and then go out to lunch. None of my clothes feel like church. Probably because I don’t feel like church. I slip a red and white wrap dress over my head and pair it with nude heels. It’s as good as it’s going to get at this point. I pull my hair back in a low ponytail and throw on some lip gloss. I’m still too thin, my hallowed cheeks framed by harsh cheekbones, but thanks to my recent trip to the shore I have a healthy glow.

I choose the 10:30 traditional service since that’s the one my mom always liked, and go in right before the service starts. I am one of only ten people under fifty in the sanctuary.
Even better.
I choose a pew three-quarters of the way back from the altar and take a seat. There’s one other woman in the pew with me. She’s alone and holding a Bible with a pretty embroidered cover. My mom always brought her own Bible. I try to appear peaceful as she looks over at me, but I said good-bye to peaceful a few years ago.

“Is that Charlotte O’Brien?” I hear from a few pews back.

“Good morning and welcome,” Pastor Johnson begins.

I busy myself reading the church announcements and calendar before surveying the congregation for who I need to avoid after the service. Over my shoulder I see Butch Leer limping into a pew across the aisle and two rows back. He walks with a cane from a war injury. Which war I’m not sure, but it definitely adds to his miserable bastard exterior.

I’m finally starting to understand Butch’s demeanor. I’m on a bit of a decline myself. In the two years Jason and I were together, I spent only four meals with Butch. Jason seemed just as happy without him. He told me that when his mother died it was as if his father died, too. He’d been “alone” an entire year before my parents’ accident.

Butch labors to sit down and looks up at me. I stare at him for a minute, searching for some resemblance to Jason. There’s none. Jason’s beautiful like his mother was. Butch is tall, but completely gray and wobbly. His face is frozen in a scowl that could scare a coyote. I turn back toward the front of the church; Pastor Johnson gives me a small nod and I smile back. I mindlessly participate in the service until it comes time for our silent confessions. Because really, if not here, where?

Dear God, please forgive me. I have wished death on Jason, and Stephanie, and their baby. And on everyone who knew they were together in Oklahoma. I have considered different ways to physically injure or kill all of them. I hate every pregnant and every happy person.

I’ve questioned your existence.

I’ve thought of killing myself.

Oh yeah, and after all that, if he walked in right now I’d take him in the church bathroom and have sex with him, which I hate the most about myself. I think that’s it for now.

“Hear the good news, believe it, bet your life on it, in Jesus Christ’s name you are forgiven,” Pastor Johnson absolves us. And we sing.

I don’t feel any better. I feel disgusting. I want to leave, but nothing says town scandal like running out of church after confession. I’ll save the dramatics for after I actually kill them. The offering plate is passed but I only have three dollars in my purse, so rather than embarrass myself, I pass and make a mental note to send a check. My father lectures me in my head.
“Don’t drive around without any money in your pocket. What if you have an emergency?”

The service ends and everyone files out, being received by Pastor Johnson at the front door. I stay in my seat with my head down, hoping to discourage any friendly neighbors and avoid the line waiting to speak with the pastor.

“Charlotte?” It’s the pastor’s wife, one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and she sits down next to me.

“Hi, Mrs. Johnson.” I haven’t seen her in months, but she always reminds me of my mother. And this church reminds me of my mother. I start to cry. This church was her home.

“Oh, Charlotte, it’s all right. Let God have it.” She sits next to me and rubs my back as I try to regain my composure.

“I’m sorry.” My voice is weak—one more thing I hate about myself.

“Oh, please, Charlotte. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Obviously you couldn’t hear my silent confession.”

Mrs. Johnson laughs, and I take a deep breath and actually do feel a little better.

“Do you want to talk? If not to me, maybe to Mark or one of the deacons? There’s a lot of wisdom in the ten-thirty service.”

I shake my head. “I want to go home, but maybe next time.”

“Charlotte, promise me there’ll be a next time.”

“I promise. I’ll come back next week. I kind of have to.”

Mrs. Johnson raises her eyebrows in confusion.

“I stiffed you on the collections.” I smile and leave Mrs. Johnson sitting in my pew.

My pew.

I give Pastor Johnson a little hug on my way out, and with a sympathetic posture he tells me how wonderful it is to see me.
Even Pastor Johnson’s heard about Jason and Stephanie?
Why am I surprised? As I walk down the front steps of the church, I see Butch by his car. He’s leaning over the hood and something’s awkward about the scene. I run over to the car and he’s grabbing his knee.

“Butch, are you okay?” I ask, taking him by the elbow to support him.

“I’m fine. Get off me!”

I jump back as his words roll around in my head, the sound of his voice disorienting me. His voice is Jason’s. I never noticed before, but he sounds just like him.

“What are you staring at?”

I acclimate to the pain and shake my head to gather some thoughts. “Are you okay?” I ask again.

“Of course I’m okay. I was just resting.” Butch starts to move and his right knee gives out, causing him to fall onto the other. “Goddamn it!”

Nice talk on the church lawn.

I bend down, grab Butch under his arm, and hoist him up. He brushes himself off but can barely walk. “I think you should go to the hospital.”

“Have you lost your goddamned mind?”

“Just about, yes,” I say, and not waiting for his response add, “Look, you can’t drive. I’ll take you home.”

“The hell you will!” he says as I lead him to the passenger side of his car and wait for him to unlock the door. He stubbornly stands in front of it on one leg.

“Whenever you’re ready, old man. I’ve got nothing but time.”

My father would be furious at me for speaking disrespectfully to Butch. He always shook Butch’s hand and shared a few kind words. He’d say, “Butch, like every veteran, deserves our respect. They’ve surely earned it.”

Butch takes the keys out of his pocket and unlocks the car. I open the door and help steady him as he carefully falls into the car. He lifts his right leg up and carries it in without bending it. I walk around to the driver’s side and get behind the wheel.

We silently drive out of town. I want to say something, but I’m cognitively paralyzed, and I don’t want to hear his voice—Jason’s voice. It’s a straight shot out of town to the Sinclair farm, and for the first time I wonder how the Leers ended up here. I grin, thinking of the train tracks that sever the Sinclair lane. It always reminds me of the Polar Express. As we pull up, a train is approaching the lane.

“On a Sunday?” I say as I pull to the side to wait while the train passes.

“Yeah. They’re testing something.”

I wave like a child.

“First train you’ve ever seen?” Butch asks, salty as always.

“Something about a train makes me wave at the engineer.” The train consists of four cars and is moving slow enough that I can see the engineer’s face clearly as he waves back.

Butch and I return to our silence. The train passes, and I put the car in drive and head down the lane of the Sinclair farm. His house is a small, unpretentious white rancher on the left of the lane. I pull his colossal sedan onto the lawn and park as close to the tiny house as possible.

“Trying to hit the house?” he asks.

I ignore him and get out of the car to help him. Beyond Butch’s house is a large pole barn, before the lane breaks into a circle with the Sinclairs’ white farmhouse at the keystone. The L-shed, packing shed, and another large building are behind the farmhouse.
Is this all Noble’s now?
The last time I talked to him was at the fair in August and he said his parents were leaving for Florida after Labor Day and he would be on his own with the farm. I shiver, remembering the way Noble hugged me that day. He knew about Stephanie.

By the time I get to Butch’s side of the car, he has his door open and is swinging his legs out of the car, trying to get up without my help.

“Give me your house keys,” I say, holding out my hand.

“I’m not giving you shit. Now get out of my way.”

“You Leer boys really know how to treat a girl.”

Butch stops trying to get out and looks at me apologetically. I smile to let Butch know I don’t hate him, at least not yet. He drops the keys into my outstretched hand and stares out the car window. I try several keys in the lock, not wanting him to speak any more than necessary. The lock finally turns and I try the handle, but it’s locked, too. Again, I start the key game. The second lock turns and I open the door, which leads into a shed area. It’s hot and foul-smelling from lack of ventilation. I see the inside door and its three locks and want to give up, but I know that’s probably what Butch expects.

“What the hell are you doing in there?” he yells, and I jump at the sound of Jason’s voice.

“My nails,” I yell back as I finally get the third lock. Making him angry has a certain appeal to me. “What exactly is in here that’s so freaking valuable?”

With both doors open, I come back out and the fresh air soothes my mood. Butch is sitting in his car with his legs facing out, one hand on the dash, the other trying to find a point for leverage. The scene is too familiar to trying to help my grandmother in and out of cars. These low ones are the hardest. He tries three times to pull himself up, and I just watch because offering help is useless until he’s desperate.

“Damn knee,” Butch spews, and I think he’s about ready. I close the door halfway and wrap my leg around it. I use both arms to support his right side. Butch pushes off the dash and once he’s up, grabs the top of the door to steady himself. His relief on his face turns to appreciation and I just smile, not wanting to make a big deal of it. Between Butch’s cane and me supporting his side by the arm, we’re able to get inside, but it’s not pretty.

I keep an eye on the floor, making sure nothing will threaten Butch’s footing, and don’t look up until I have him safely in a chair at the kitchen table. When I do, I’m in shock. The last time I was in this house was the day of Jason’s mom’s funeral. The luncheon was out back and I came in to use the bathroom. The house still spoke of her then, but now it screams of neglect. In the three years since she died, the house has become dark and decayed. There are stacks of carefully tied newspapers and magazines in every corner of the room. The windows are dirty and the dust-covered curtains block the sun. There are open jars on the counter, some with white mold forming atop the food, and dirty dishes in the sink. The house is too warm and stuffy, and it smells as if the windows haven’t been open all summer. Papers, empty envelopes mostly, are strewn across the table with notes scrawled on them, and there are several empty cans holding pens and pencils. A dish with what looks like dried-on egg sits next to a half-empty cup of muddy coffee. When I try to lift it, I find it’s stuck to the table.

“Leave it!” Butch barks as I pry it loose. I carry it to the sink, and a large black bug crawls across the peaks of the dirty dishes strewn in it. I’m not sure if it’s the smell, the heat, or the sound of Jason’s voice, but I feel dizzy and steady myself with the counter.

“What happened to her?” I ask.

“To who?” he yells, angry now.

“To Mrs. Leer. There’s nothing left of her,” I say as I turn around and motion toward the room.

“She’s dead, goddammit.” Butch’s words house the years of loneliness and anger I’m embarking on. Is this what will come when I let go of numb?

I find a glass in the cupboard and wash it, fill it with water, and go to the freezer for ice. The freezer is empty except for some ice that’s formed into a giant block.

“Oh, Butch,” I whine as I place the glass down.

“Shut up,” he snaps.

I sit down beside him. “You can’t live like this.” My voice is gentle. This man needs to be taken care of.

“No one cares how I live,” he says, quieting down.

“Who’s your doctor?”

“Grubb, why?” he grumbles.

“Because you need to see him about your leg.”

I google Dr. Grubb in Salem County on my phone. The number comes up and I press call. I’m surprised when a familiar voice answers the phone.

“Yes, I’m calling on behalf of Butch Leer.” I pause as Mrs. Dubois explains that Dr. Grubb’s phone is forwarded to her on the weekends, but she has his appointment book. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Dubois.” I intentionally leave out my name. “He’s hurt his knee and needs to see Dr. Grubb.” I look at Butch and notice his coloring’s not good either. His skin’s as gray as his hair. “He could use a general physical, too.” Butch rolls his eyes and reminds me of Jason. I wish he were here right now. I wouldn’t even try to kill him. “Yes, ten o’clock will work. Thanks. We’ll see you then.”

Butch scowls at the mention of both of us going.

“I’m coming back at nine-thirty tomorrow to get you. We’ll go to Dr. Grubb’s and to lunch. While we’re out, a cleaning crew will be in here straightening up.” He starts to simmer and I want to get out of here before he boils over.

“For the love of Christ, get out of here. Would you?”