Simple Gifts (27 page)

“You okay?”

“I don't know.” I was numb, incapable of thought.

“I'd take you to your house, but I don't think I can get this rig through the mess.” He released the air brakes and climbed out of the cab. Moments later he lifted me down and handed me the crutch. We stood for a moment, watching dazed residents sift through debris.

“You sure you'll be all right?”

“I'll be fine, Chuck. I'd offer you something for gas, but I haven't seen my purse in hours.”

Chuck grinned. “I wouldn't take it anyway.” He sobered. “I hope your family made it through all right.”

I nodded, biting back tears. Joe and Ingrid would be in the cellar. You didn't live in these parts and not take a storm seriously. But what about Vic? Where was he when the storm hit? In a farmer's field, delivering a calf? Doctoring a sick horse? Where was he at this moment? Lying hurt and alone in a pile of rubble…I couldn't bear the thought.

I reached out with my one good hand and Chuck grasped it. “I hope you meet God one of these days.”

He grinned. “You never know.”

No, you never knew when God would show up.

He climbed back into his rig. There wasn't a lot of room to turn around, but he kept maneuvering until he finally got back on the road. He lifted a hand in farewell. I waved back.

I took off hobbling down the street toward Ingrid's house, terrified of what I'd find when I got there. It must be after midnight—or early Sunday morning. I'd lost all track of time.

A large tree lay across the road, ripped out by the roots. I worked my way around it, trying to protect my injured ankle. This was an endurance test and I was losing. Downed power lines littered the ground; I trod warily, knowing I was in dangerous territory, one wrong step and instant electrocution.

When I approached our street, I saw that the front porch and part of the roof had been torn off Aunt Beth's house. Aunt Ingrid's house looked to have fared better. The old oak was uprooted near the cellar door. She'd complained about that tree earlier, that the roots were penetrating the cellar. I'd promised to have it removed. Another thing I'd not gotten around to. It looked like nature had taken care of it for me. Half the shingles were gone off her roof, but the structure looked intact.

A pile of broken boards and rubble blocked my way. I inched around it, taking me off the road and through the Brewsters' front yard. I paused in front of Joe's house. The back cottage was gone; the garage was sitting in the lane at the back of the lot. Half of Joe's house remained. The kitchen was mostly rubble. I spotted the coffeemaker, the odd looking contrivance with all the hoses running from it, sitting on the kitchen counter untouched.

Neither Joe nor Vic were anywhere around.

I picked my way to Ingrid's ground cellar and pounded on the door, yelling her name.

Her voice came back. “Here! In here!”

“Are you all right?”

Please, God, let her be.
She sounded scared. With good reason, considering what she'd been through. I should have been here with her, instead of at Woodlands with Lexy. My heart lurched. Lexy! The mother I'd only just met. Had she survived the storm?

“We're fine. Are you all right?”

“I'm okay.” Except for a few bruised and broken areas that were giving me a lot more trouble than I appreciated. I felt like I'd been beaten with a clu—

Wait! She said
we
.
We're fine.
Of course! Joe and Vic would have taken shelter with her. “Is Vic in there with you?”

“No. Joe is—and Mrs. Potts.”

“Where's Vic?” I held my breath.
Please, God, let the news be good.

Joe's voice came through the heavy door. “He went to immunize Pete Chaffee's herd around one o'clock. I haven't heard from him since.”

“Marlene?” Ingrid again.

“Yes?”

“You've got to get us out of here. There's something across the door, and we're trapped.”

The old oak was blocking the door. It was practically sitting in the middle of it. “It's going to take awhile before I can get someone to cut the tree away from the cellar door.”

“Why's that?”

“The town is destroyed. I don't know where to find help, but I'll try.”

“You've got to get us out! These walls are closing in on me. I'm likely to get the paralysis again.”

“No, you
won't
!
Don't
you pull that on me, Ingrid. I've been picked up by a tornado and dropped, been in the hospital, and hitched a ride home with a trucker who had more tattoos than a circus act. I'll get you out of there; I don't know how, but I will, but you pull that paralysis thing on me again and I'll leave you in there. I mean it!”

I shut up. Leaning close to the cellar door, I listened. Real quiet. I realized I'd been screaming earlier. Not a sound came from the cellar. Had I shocked Ingrid into cardiac arrest?

A meek voice filtered through the wooden door. “Whatever you say, honey. Just do the best you can and we'll be satisfied.”

My shoulder slumped as I stared at the door. I must have sounded deranged. I took a deep breath and held my aching side. “I'm leaving now to get help, but I'll be back. I promise.”

The same meek little voice replied, “You do that honey, but don't rush; we'll be here when you get back.”

I could not believe it. I'd finally gotten her to back off. Favoring my bad ankle, I clumped down the street looking for a Good Samaritan with a chainsaw. Eons later, the sound of saws drew me. A group of men was trying to remove a tangle of tree limbs and broken lumber.

I snagged one of them. “I need help.”

He glanced at my bandages. “Looks like you do. Do you need a ride to the hospital?”

I pointed back the way I had come. “My elderly aunt and two neighbors are trapped in a cellar. A tree has fallen across the door.”

He shook his head. “Can't help, we're trying to clear the road.”

Tears rolled down my cheeks, as if someone had opened the floodgates. He frowned. “Here! Don't do that! Let me talk to Frank.”

Apparently Frank was the broad-shouldered redhead wielding a saw like a weapon. The man was flat-out clearing brush. After a few minutes the first man returned.

“Okay. Where's that cellar?”

I pointed back the way I'd come. “Over that direction.”

“Can we drive there?”

“Most of the way.” I was so tired and battered, I wasn't sure of anything anymore. We got in a pickup, and he drove in the direction I indicated. After a few minutes he said, “This looks like Joe Brewster's neighborhood.”

“It is. He's in the cellar with my aunt.”

He turned and squinted at me. “You're Ingrid Moss's niece?”

“Yes. Marlene.”

His features softened, as if by not introducing himself he'd committed a breach of conduct. “Dave Anderson. Joe's my pastor, or he was. He's retired now.”

“I know. I was at his retirement party.”

“That's right, you were. You look different.”

“My car was picked up by a funnel and…oh, never mind.” I was too exhausted to repeat the scenario.

We braked in front of the house and he opened the pickup door and got out. “Where's the cellar?”

Now that help had arrived, Ingrid wanted out! She screeched and pounded on the door. I assured her I was doing all I could, but my mind was on Vic. He was hurt, I was sure of it. I couldn't say why, but I was. I knew he was lying somewhere injured and alone, and I had to find him. But where did I start?

“Aunt Ingrid?”

“Yes—are they working?”

“They're working. They should have the tree cleared in another half hour. I'm going to look for Vic. Where is the Chaffee farm?”

“Oh, three, four miles out.”

“Ingrid, I need
exact
directions.”

Joe shouted. “Go to the highway and turn left. Then go about two, two and a half miles and you'll come to a row of mailboxes. There's a big feed sign opposite the mailboxes.”

“Turn there?”

“No, go on past the mailboxes another mile or so and you'll see a big mulberry tree. That's where you turn. Go on down the road another mile or so and you'll ford a creek, then at the top of the hill, the road forks off. Take the left fork; it'll take you straight to the Chaffee place.” His tone sobered. “Call me the minute you hear anything from him, will you?”

“I will, Joe.” For all the good it would do. I seriously doubted phones of any kind were working yet.

Transportation. I couldn't get a car through the streets. Too much debris. I hobbled back across the street to the Fara-days'. Their house looked to be intact but battered. Discarding the crutch, I pulled myself up the porch railing using my one good arm and the handrail and hit the doorbell. Minutes passed and no one answered.

Sitting down on the concrete porch, I lowered myself step by step until I touched ground, then stood and hobbled to the back of the house. I had to shove the garage door aside, not an easy task, but I found what I was after. Fred Farraday's motor scooter. The key was in the ignition.

By the grace of God, I managed to mount the scooter and with one hand, turn the machine, pointing the wheels toward the street. I switched on the key and the engine puttered to life.

Getting a solid grip on the handle, I eased my sprained ankle to the footrest, then gave the machine a little gas, lifted my good foot, and roared out of the garage.

If it wasn't my time to go, I was sure pushing it.

Fifteen

F
allen trees and metal made for a harrowing ride through town. Crews were clearing the streets and highway, but it was still a tortuous maze. I couldn't gain any speed because of debris cluttering the road. I scooted around a pile of lumber that looked like it had once been someone's shed. A downed tree blocked half the road, but by concentrating, I eased past. Power lines snaked and sparked on the highway. One swerve, one mistake, and it would be my last.

God, give me safe passage and let me find Vic.

Thunder rolled in the distance; a light drizzle dampened my jacket. Parnass Springs would never be the same. The town would rebuild—people here were tough—but it would not be the same.

I slowed to let a horse cross the road. Where did he belong? It would take weeks to sort personal property.

The scooter tooled down the highway. I was surprised at how easily I'd adapted to the cycle. At first I was scared to death and in agony, but now my former riding skills came back, and I was comfortable behind the handlebars. When Vic and Fred taught me to ride in my youth, neither would have envisioned a time when I would be racing down the road on a rescue mission. I moved as one with the machine, grateful for the wheels beneath me. My mind thumped an erratic mantra:
Let me be in time, please God. Let me get there in time to help Vic.

For all I knew, Vic had sat out the storm safe in the Chaffees' cellar or basement; every rural household had one or the other. But I couldn't rest until I knew for certain that he was safe. That this worry gnawing at me was unfounded.

I located the mailboxes, and a mile farther, the mulberry tree came into sight. High winds had taken out the trunk and branches, but it was a big tree and it was beside the junction of a new road, so I assumed it was the right landmark.

Without letting up on the gas, I made the turn, slid, then righted and gunned the machine down the gravel road. My ankle throbbed and my broken arm reminded me of the insanity of the ride, but I had to find him—needed to feel his calm assurance. Maybe he would never forgive me for the deception I'd perpetrated. Maybe he didn't feel the undying love Joe had spoken about. But I had to find him, no matter what. Never had my love for Vic Brewster been more passionate, more urgent, than now, when I didn't know if he was alive or dead.

The scooter flew down the road throwing mud and gravel. The creek came into view, swollen by heavy rain. I plowed through churning water without letting up on the gas. Water showered, blinding me, but the cycle emerged on the other side and I gave the engine full throttle. The road was clearer here, not as much debris littering the way. I had to watch out for the occasional tree, but I was making excellent time.

Rain clouds roiled overhead. Another mile and what was once a farmhouse and barn appeared. Both were flattened, as were the outbuildings. The Chaffee farm had taken a direct hit from the tornado. Could anything have survived?

I pulled up in front of a pile of rubble and let the machine idle. A man, woman, and three kids ranging from around ten to teenager looked up when I braked. I stared at the small cluster of the Chaffee family, searching for Vic. He wasn't among the dazed survivors.

Mr. Chaffee approached. “Do you need help?”

“Vic Brewster. His father said he was out here.”

The man nodded, brow furrowed. “He was. We were working cattle in the pen back of the barn when we saw the storm brewing. Barely had time to drive the herd out to pasture and get my family into the shelter before it hit.”

“Vic? Did he go into the shelter with you?”

He shook his head. “I tried to get him to, but he was worried about his dad. Said he had to get back to town and make sure he was okay.”

“He left?” I couldn't believe what I heard.
Left.
He forfeited a storm shelter to drive into the teeth of the storm because he was worried about Joe. Only Vic would have done that. “How long ago was that?”

“I'd say ten minutes before the storm hit. He was driving fast, maybe he made it back to town okay.”

I shook my head. “He never made it.” The words dropped like ten-pound bricks in my heart.
Where are you, Vic?
I hadn't seen a sign of his truck on the ride out.

Mr. Chaffee frowned. “Could have taken cover somewhere along the road. I wouldn't worry; Vic Brewster grew up in tornado alley. He knows all about storms. He wouldn't let himself be caught out in one.”

I wanted to believe, wanted to so desperately, but I knew Vic. He hadn't made it back to town.

Mrs. Chaffee had been sorting through the rubble that once had been her home. Now she held something out to me.

A picture frame with cracked glass revealed a smiling bride and groom. The Chaffees, older now, but there was still a glow in her eyes when she looked at him. Would Vic ever look at me like that again?

Frank Chaffee's eyes followed his children. “We're all alive, unharmed. That's the important thing. God was good to us—you'll let us know about Vic? We've been worried sick.”

“I will—thank you.”

Anxious to be on my way to find Vic, I asked the Chaffees if they needed anything. When they said they didn't, I turned the cycle, preparing to leave. The farmer's truck had been slammed into a tree. The car's hood was sprung, knocked upright and blocking the windshield. His tractor lay tossed aside, upside down.

I left, going slower this time, searching the ground for tire tracks. Vic had to be somewhere.

I was begging now, all pride thrown to the wind. I had to find him, had to tell him that I loved him and was sorry for deceiving him. Had to know he was all right. If necessary, I'd drive this road until I ran out of gas; I had to find him.

Oh God, please. I' ll do anything—I' ll never miss another Sunday service; I' ll do my Bible reading religiously—not religiously, faithfully. I' ll never tell another lie; I' ll spend every vacation working at a homeless mission…

On and on I promised, trying to bargain with God, though I knew better. Bartering wasn't the way to get God's attention. Finally I stopped the cycle in the middle of the road and bent my head, letting the tears course down my cheeks.
God, he's yours, I know that, but please, allow me one more chance to make amends, to tell him I love him and how deeply sorry I am for betraying him all these years. I'm undeserving of your grace, but Vic isn't. I'm the culprit, not him.

Calm settled over me. Now I cruised more slowly, searching both sides of the road. Halfway back to Parnass Springs I found the tracks where a large vehicle had gone off the road. The ruts veered down an embankment toward the creek. With my heart in my throat, I climbed off the scooter and peered over the embankment. I spotted Vic's truck, lying on its side.

I half climbed, half slid down the bank, praying with every breath. The passenger's door had been ripped off. The truck's interior was a shambles. I spotted a bag of jelly beans, split open, the contents spilling on the inside floor. I caught back a sob. Vic and his jelly beans. Jelly beans, for him, were other men's cigarettes and coffee. His lunch box lay on the creek bank, mashed into a distorted tangle.

“Vic! “
I held my breath, listening. Nothing. I shouted again and again, walking up the gravel bar, searching. Finally I shuffled back to the truck. He
had
to be somewhere in the vicinity.

I called until I was hoarse.

Nearly defeated, I walked around the truck, powerless to leave until he was accounted for. I gave one last, desperate call, terrified there wouldn't be an answer.
“Vic!”

The sound was so faint I almost missed it.

“Marly?”

I stopped dead in my tracks. “Is that you?”

“I knew you would come.”

I went lightheaded. He
knew
I'd come? He had that kind of faith in me? Tears blinded me. “Where are you!”

“Under the truck. There's some sort of depression here; I'm pinned down. I can't move.”

“Don't worry, I'll get you out.” I limped around the truck and still couldn't see him. I had no flashlight; I hadn't thought to bring one. And it was dark, so very dark.

“I don't think you can get to me. You'll need help.”

“I'll ride back to town and get someone. I won't be long. Hold on.”
Oh God, let me find someone to get him out before it's too late.

“Marlene, wait! Dad?”

“He's okay. He and Ingrid were in her storm cellar when I left town. Is the pain bad?” He didn't answer.

“I'm going for help! Hold on!”

My eyes were so blurred with tears, it was a miracle I could see to climb the steep embankment. Vic was alive. Now I had to get him out of there and see how badly he was hurt. He'd sounded weaker with each word.

Pain seared my ankle. I bit back tears as the medication began to wane. Every bone in my body burned with white-hot torture, but none of that mattered now. The scooter roared as I raced off.

The trip back to town seemed interminable. The situation there hadn't changed much. The whine of chainsaws filled the air. It took half an hour to locate a truck with a winch to lift the pickup off Vic. At first Tate McNeal refused to come with me, but when I told him Vic needed help, he dropped his protests and agreed to go. Tate and Vic had been friends since high school. I knew I could count on him. I struggled into the cab and gave him directions to the Chaffee place.

“He's gone off the road and down the creek bank. A little farther and he'd have been in the water.” The thought scared me so, I had trouble breathing. I had come that close to losing him. If the truck had landed on him in the water, he'd be dead by now.

Tate braked when I pointed out the jagged tire tracks. We piled out and started down the rocky embankment. When Tate shined the flashlight, the wreckage looked even worse. How could anyone be alive under that mangled truck? It would take a miracle to save Vic, but God was in the miracle business. I hoped he was ready to send another my way.

Tate eyed the truck's grotesque angle. “You say Vic's under there?”

“Yes, I talked to him.” But he wasn't talking now. Was he still alive? I knelt by the front bumper, trying to see in the darkness. “Vic? Can you hear me?”

Nothing. Tate rounded the front of the truck. “Here. Let me see.”

He knelt, shining the light underneath the pickup. After a moment he got to his feet. “He's there, all right. But he's not moving. We've got to get him out.”

“How?”

He flashed the light up the creek bank. “I've got to find a way to get the truck down here so I can hook onto Vic's pickup. That bank's too steep for me to navigate. I'm going to walk down the creek a ways and see if I can find a place to pull in.”

I watched him walk away, taking the light with him. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Lighting flashed. The storm had moved on, but light showers persisted. Unable to do anything, I half-crouched beside the pickup and prayed as I'd never prayed before, prayed that Tate could find a way to get his truck down here, and finally I prayed for myself. That God would give me the courage to accept whatever happened.

The rumble of Tate's truck broke the silence. I watched as he drove slowly down the creek bank toward me. He stopped at a wide space and turned the truck around. For a heart-stopping moment I was afraid he would get stuck, but he managed to gain traction and ease the rig around until it was pointed back in the direction he had come.

He gave a sharp whistle. “Over here! Take the flashlight and shine it on Vic's truck, so I can see where to back up. Tell me when I get close enough.”

My teeth chattered in the night air as Tate climbed into the cab and slowly backed toward the wreckage while I held the light steady. Inch by inch he eased back. I held my breath. This had to work; it was our only hope.

“Stop!” I screamed the warning, afraid he couldn't hear me over the sound of the diesel engine. Red taillights spilled over the creek bed.

Tate got out and walked to the back. “I'm going to hook onto the front bumper and winch it up. When I get it off of him, you pull him out.”

“We don't know how badly he's hurt. I'm afraid to move him.”

“Look, Marlene. The way that thing is lying, and as close as it is to him, I'm afraid to leave him there. One slip and that pickup could do him in. You read me?”

I read him, all right. “Okay, you lift the truck off him. I'll get him out of there.” Tate was right; we didn't have time for proper protocol. We'd worry about the consequences later.

The motor growled to life, and the chain tightened with a jerk. “Keep going! It's moving. It's in the air!”

Slowly, the front end of the pickup rose until I could crawl under and get a grip on Vic's shoulders. I pushed backward, dragging him with my one good hand. Pain shot through my body—agony nearly blinded me—but I pulled with every ounce of remaining strength. Eternity passed before we were clear of the pickup. I collapsed next to Vic for a moment, trying to catch my breath.

Tate sprang out of the truck and crunched across the gravel toward me. “What's the story?”

I knew what he meant: Is he alive? I reached over and checked Vic's vitals. He roused enough to open his eyes and attempt to speak, but he was confused, barely aware of who I was. His breathing was heavy and uneven. “We've got to get him to the clinic.”

“Negative. Not sure Doc Johnson's place is still standing. He could be hurt himself.”

“We'll find an ambulance, then, to take him to Boone County Hospital.”

He shook his head. “None available. They're all out. No other way to do it, we've got to take him ourselves.”

I glanced at Vic, unconscious now. “We can't move him without the proper equipment. I need blankets, saline solution, a stabilizing board for his leg, I need—”