Black Noon (16 page)

The structure of the church was definitely taking on shape even to the outline of the steeple topped by a cross conformed against the sky.

It seemed as if each of the men, women, and children knew exactly what to do except for an occasional prompting from Caleb Hobbs on his “captain's chair.”

“Morning, m'boy.”

“Good morning, Caleb.”

“How is Lorna this morning?”

“Caleb, she only has one thing in mind.”

“Leaving San Melas?”

“Well, let's say going to Saguaro.”

“That is a more . . . ‘diplomatic' way of putting it,” Caleb smiled.

Keyes pointed upward toward the steeple.

“I see you've got the cross in place.”

“Those were my instructions. What's a church without a cross? And in just a few more days the place'll be ready for your sermon.”

“I noticed something else?”

“What's that?”

“I should say ‘someone' else.”

Sam Hawkins, carrying an oversized hammer, was approaching the two men.

“Mornin', Mr. Keyes.”

“Good morning, Mr. Hawkins. I see you're taking a little time off from fixing the wagon.”

“The wagon doesn't need me anymore . . .” Hawkins smiled.

“How's that?”

“All fixed . . . as good as I can fix her.”

“Will she make it to Saguaro?”

“And back,” his smile broadened, “if you care to do that, Mr. Keyes.”

“Well, we'll take it one step at a time . . . and Lorna and I are grateful to you . . .”

“Not as much as San Melas is grateful to you, sir.”

But Keyes's attention now was directed toward Deliverance carrying a tray of biscuits, followed by Bethia holding a large pot of coffee.

Deliverance looked even fresher and more illusory than usual.

“Good morning, Jon,” she smiled, “would you care for some coffee and a hot biscuit?”

“Don't mind if I do, Deliverance, don't mind at all.”

“I was just going back to the house,” Bethia said, “to look after Mrs. Keyes.”

“Thank you, Bethia, and you, too, Deliverance, I'll have that coffee and biscuit, then earn my keep,” Keyes pointed toward the construction, “by doing a little carpentry.”

Keyes felt a tap on his shoulder from behind.

“You can use this saw, Reverend,” Joseph smiled, “whenever you're ready.”

Hours later Lorna managed to make one more trip from the bed to the window and look down at the yard . . . and once more wonder what it was that drew her there last night . . . and how much, if any, was real . . . the candle . . . the chanting voices . . . the masked children . . . the live owl . . . Deliverance's cat.

And how much a miasma of the mind that depletes, obscures, and corrupts the thought process?

During those first few days in San Melas, she believed that it was the effect of the sun, of the desert ordeal that had depleted and obscured, that had confused her thought process.

But, from time to time, that miasma had come and gone, and then come back again . . . affecting her mind and body both . . . as if pressured by an unseen force, a hypnotic conjuration to conform to some somniferous command.

But whose?

And why?

Or did all this presage madness?

It was her husband whose head had been wounded, who suffered the effects of that wound with nightmarish dreams and demons, while her mind had always been uncluttered and clear . . . until San Melas.

And in a strange way, too, her husband had been affected by this place and these people who considered him a “miracle worker,” who, if not idolized him, were at least overly attracted to him: Caleb, Joseph, the Bryants, Ethan, the entire citizenry, and in particular . . . Deliverance.

Lorna was not unaware of the seemingly innocent, but inwardly wanton look in the eyes of Deliverance, even when she glanced at Jonathon Keyes. She was a beautiful young lady, with an exotic aura about her, not of her native New England, nor even of this country, but of some symmetrical blend of Scandinavian Valkyrie and august princess of Araby. Attractive, aloof, and yet inviting, especially when it came to Lorna's husband.

There were other women in other churches, where Jonathon Keyes had been invited to give guest sermons, where other ladies of the congregation were obviously attracted to him, but not in the sensuous way of Deliverance.

And Lorna couldn't help wondering, despite his piety, how much he couldn't help being drawn to her.

As she fought against the thought, she once again saw the two of them walking close together in harmonious step toward the shed.

Walking, she thought, like two lovers, as did she and Keyes years ago, from a Sunday picnic—not in any hurry to reach the place where they must part, but walking with lingering footsteps before arriving at their parting destination.

But was this the place where the two of them would part?

The shed.

Or...

This time when she opened the door and motioned toward the interior, with words that Lorna could not hear, this time would he, or would he not, accept her specious invitation to look at her latest handiwork with wax and savory scented perfumes?

She held her breath.

Watched and waited.

This time a little longer . . .

As Deliverance opened the door and went through the nearly identical procedure.

Once again Keyes reached up, this time touched her cheek, smiled, then took a step back, turned, and walked away.

Lorna breathed again as Deliverance closed the door of the shed.

“Jon, your shirt is wringing wet,” she said from the bed, “it looks like you've been swimming in it.”

“Not swimming,” he smiled, “just sweating. Helping to build that church for the last few hours. The sooner it's in shape, the sooner the sermon, the sooner Saguaro. It's hotter today than it was yesterday, and I put in more hours.”

Keyes had unbuttoned and was taking off his shirt.

“There's a nice clean shirt in the second drawer, Jon.”

“Good. And speaking of good, do you know who else was working at the church today?”

Keyes sponged himself off and reached for a towel.

Lorna was reasonably certain he was about to bring up the presence of Deliverance but cleared her throat and inquired.

“Who, Jon?”

“Sam Hawkins.”

A quizzical look came over her face.

“Sam Hawkins?”

“The blacksmith, Lorna.”

“Yes, I know who he is . . .”

“The blacksmith who's been working on our wagon.”

“Oh, yes, of course, and . . .”

“And he says it's fixed. It's ready to go, so we can leave anytime right after the sermon.”

“Jon, that is good news,” she nodded, “it's wonderful. Come over and sit here. Let me button that shirt.”

“Lorna, I'm perfectly capable of buttoning this shirt,” he grinned.

“So am I . . . and in the first place I want to do it . . . and in the second place . . .”

“In the second place . . . what?”

“In the second place,” she smiled warmly, “I want to feel the touch of my fingers against your . . . nice, clean shirt.”

“And . . . vice versa,” he bantered, then moved and sat on the edge of the bed.

He kissed her.

“I love you, Lorna.”

“And . . . vice versa,” she bantered, then went to work on the shirt buttons.

“Say, did anyone ever tell you that you are a very good shirt-buttoner?”

“No, kind sir, because I've never buttoned anybody else's buttons before.”

“Well, you better practice some more because we're going to have some boy babies and they'll need to have their shirts buttoned for them when they're young.”

“Just boy babies, my husband?”

“You just watch the boy and girl population of Saguaro grow after we get there.”

“Oh?”

“More than just watch, my wife.”

“I intend to.”

“So do I.”

“He kissed her again. This time longer, more intensely.”

“There,” she said, “all done.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“All done. The shirt's all buttoned.”

“I hadn't noticed.” He rose. “My mind was somewhere else.”

“At the church that's being built?”

“No, but that's where I saw Bethia, and she said she was coming over to tend to you, and that's why I stayed to help out. Did she bring you something to eat?”

“She did.”

“And did you?”

“Eat?”

“Yes, eat.”

“I did . . .”

“But not enough. Lorna, you haven't eaten enough since we got here.”

“I'll make up for it after we leave.”

“Sure you will, they'll kill the fatted calf when we get to Saguaro.”

“Jon, is it as hot in Saguaro as it is here?”

“Don't think so. There's a river that runs through it, and it's not in the middle of the desert.”

“These people here don't seem to be affected too much by the heat . . . especially Deliverance. Was she at the church today?”

“She was.”

“Even in this desert heat she always seems so . . . cool, calm, and composed, doesn't she?”

“What?”

“I said, doesn't she? Deliverance, seem so . . . decorous.”

“I never thought about it,” he shrugged, “but maybe after all those years of not being able to speak . . . she's acquired . . .”

“Acquired what?”

“A certain,” he shrugged again, “I don't know . . . a certain composure.”

“Jon,” Lorna couldn't help smiling, “what's that got to do with sweating?”

“I don't know, Lorna . . . I honestly don't. You brought up the subject . . .”

“. . . Of sweating?”

“Of Deliverance, my dear.”

“You're right . . . and I'm going to change the subject.”

“Good,” he chuckled, “to what?”

She rubbed her chin in mock seriousness, furrowed her brow, and responded.

“How about that river that runs through Saguaro? What's the name of it?”

“I really don't know. Reverend Mason mentioned a river, but not by name.”

“Do you think it'll be as beautiful as the Raisin in Monroe?”

“It will . . . if you're there.”

“The Raisin River,” she reflected, “that last picnic just before we left Monroe. The four of us at our favorite spot along the bank . . .”

“. . . Custer, his eyes literally glowing with thoughts of glory . . .” Keyes said.

“Libbie, who could hardly take her eyes off of him. And you and me getting ready to pack for a new place and a new life.”

“Yes,” Keyes nodded, “and I remember, Custer and I were both in civilian clothes, but he asked that we both wear our red scarves for old-time's sake.”

 

 

“Well, Sports, this is the last camp before our paths divide—mine and Libbie's—and yours and Lorna's . . . Libbie and I by rail to Duluth and by wagon to Fort Lincoln in the Dakotas . . . and you two damn fools, by steamboat to St. Louis, then Conestoga to some benighted flyspeck called . . . what's the name of that flyspeck, Reverend . . . Sedona . . . Sonora . . . Somalia . . .”

“It's Saguaro, General, and you know it.”

“Sure I do, Reverend . . . but do you know . . . what you're in for?”

“General, nobody knows for certain . . . any more than we know if the four of us will ever be together again.”

“What do you think, George, do you think you and I will ever meet Lorna and Jon . . . after Monroe?”

“Well, Libbie, there's an old saying, ‘it's a creation-big country, but trails cross.' Ours just might do that, somewhere, sometime.”

“It's a long way from Saguaro to the Dakotas.”

“True, Lorna, and it was a long way from Monroe to Appomattox . . . and back. But here we are . . . the Reverend and I. And what were the odds of that after Winchester, Waynesboro, Falls Church, and Yellow Tavern? Thousands and thousands of dead men ago?”

“But that was war. We're at peace now. The war's over.”

“Is it, Lorna? And even if it is, what does that mean? It only means that for the time being, we're between wars. But I'll tell you something, all of you, Jon, Lorna, Libbie—we picked the right time to be born, here and now . . .”

“You mean Monroe?”

“Hell no, I . . . oh, excuse me, Libbie, Lorna, Reverend—I gave up a lot of other ribald habits, but just can't quite quit that damn curs . . . see what I mean?”

“Yes, Autie, we see what you mean and hear it, too.”

“Sorry, Libbie, I'll try to ease off, but what I really meant about time and place was the United States of America at the time of a new birth, with a whole new frontier. The land west of the one hundredth meridian to be surveyed and settled . . . there's gold, silver, and all manner of rich minerals waiting to be discovered in nature's laboratories. There're more railroads being built, one that will connect the United States to its Manifest Destiny, coast to coast. There's never been a time and place like the American West. But much of that West still has to be fought for and won. And we're a part of all that.”

“General, you mentioned Manifest Destiny. What about the Indians' destiny? A lot of that real estate belongs to them. You, also, mentioned the transcontinental railroad. The Indians won't like that. And there're rumors of gold in their sacred Black Hills where you're going, and some white miners are already sharpening their pickaxes.”