Six Seconds (8 page)

18

Cold Butte, Lone Tree County, Montana

Father Andrew Stone watched the wind-groomed grass undulate across the Great Plains, mile after mile until the earth touched the sky.

Breathtaking in its majesty.
Immortal for its painful history.
So deserving of what was to come.
Soon the pope would arrive here and consecrate this

very ground, the Buffalo Breaks, where so many of

Stone’s ancestors had died.
His heart swelled at a dream come true.
But last-minute concerns were risking cancellation of

the papal visit, the first ever to this corner of the country. Stone wasn’t worried.
For if there was one thing he’d learned from an old

friend, it was that God’s plan was unstoppable. “Father Stone! We’re ready to start!”
Nearly a hundred yards back, the principal of Cold

Butte’s only school was calling him to the Papal Visit Planning Committee’s meeting on the letter from Washington.

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Stone had read it.
The Secret Service had alerted the Vatican to the latest security and foreign intelligence—more inter cepted chatter about threats and potential attacks. Un related to the letter, the
Washington Post
had recently reported that a growing number of influential U.S. church organizations, fearing an attempted assassina tion, were privately urging the Vatican to cut venues in the papal visit, including the one planned right here in Lone Tree County.
Gripping his copy of the letter and the
Post
story he’d stapled to it, Stone started for the school, certain that the visit would ultimately take place. His faith was anchored by his devotion to God and his blood ties to the land where he was born.
Stone was descended from the Swift Fox, a small Plains tribe nearly wiped out by smallpox in the 1880s. At that time, Sister Beatrice Drapeau, a nun from France, had arrived with Jesuits and stayed to minister to the dying until she died of the illness.
The sick who prayed to her memory survived.
Her story inspired Stone to become a priest. After his divinity studies and ordination he was posted to the Vatican, working among the archives on the church’s role in Native American history. There, he befriended a wise cardinal who was taken by Stone’s call to God and the nun’s legacy.
“Sister Beatrice’s sacrifice must not be forgotten.” The cardinal raised one finger to Stone before he returned to Lone Tree County. “One day, my brother, I will make a pilgrimage to Montana to honor her.”
Years later, to Stone’s awe, the cardinal was elected pope. A few months afterward, Stone’s old friend, the new pope, wrote him a personal letter.
“My brother, to remember our Good Sister, I will, as promised, make a pilgrimage to the Great Plains on the next anniversary of her death. You may pass this news to others so that they may join in the celebration.”
Stone kept the note private but went online to share the news and the date of the pope’s upcoming visit to Montana.
Unlike presidential visits, news of papal visits was often made public in advance because of the scale and preparations involved. But Stone’s revelation had long preceded the Vatican’s expected official announcement of a multicity papal visit to the United States. This frus trated the U.S. Secret Service because it gave ample lead time to anyone planning an attack.
Now, as Stone entered the school and took his place at the meeting, he braced for a heated debate on any lastditch effort to cancel the pope’s visit to Montana.
“The very thought of canceling at this stage is a pre posterous notion,” said the reverend from the office of the Bishop for the Diocese of Great Falls-Billings.
“Absolutely,” the woman from the governor’s office agreed. “We’re down to a few short weeks from the event.”
“As the letter states, U.S. and foreign intelligence have been picking up chatter about threats and poten tial attacks,” a Secret Service official said through the speakerphone from Washington. “Granted, it’s not un common, but the volume has markedly increased and gives us concern. Especially since various plots against several world leaders and several other targets have

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been thwarted in the past sixteen months. The Secret Service is in no way advising the Vatican to cancel any events. Our role is to provide the intelligence for the Vatican to make any decision.”

“These groups quoted in the
Post
want a shortened tour and suggested the visit to Lone Tree be dropped,” the reverend from the Diocese of Great Falls-Billings said.

“That’s got nothing to do with the Secret Service,” the agent said.
“We’re aware these are challenging times, but to cancel any venue at this stage is contrary to the intent of the Holy Father’s pastoral mission to the U.S.,” the priest representing the Holy See’s Secretariat of State said from Washington. “Each location plays a key role in the pontiff’s ecumenical work.”
In Montana, the day of celebration would involve a presentation to the pope at the school by the children’s choir before he celebrated an open-air Mass in Buffalo Breaks for about one hundred thousand people. There he would bless the site and acknowledge that God allows people to rise above failings to ensure the spirit is not extinguished.
“Has anyone considered the fallout of canceling the first papal visit in the state’s history?” the principal asked. “Think of what’s been done, accommodating charter groups, arranging motel rooms from Great Falls to Billings, Lewistown, Miles City, even into North Dakota. The cost, the expectations created. Not to mention all the security and background checks everyone has already undergone. And the choir. Goodness, the children have been working so hard for months,” the principal said.
As Stone followed the nods that went round the table, he detached himself from the discussion.
“At this stage, the decision is not ours,” the Secret Service official said.
“That is correct,” the official from the Holy See said. “We must await the Vatican’s final decision.”

19

Cold Butte, Lone Tree County, Montana

Logan’s face turned red.
Everyone stopped to stare at him.
You could have heard a pin drop on the floor of the

gym where fifty students from all grades had been as sembled into the children’s choir that would perform for the pope’s upcoming visit.

Sobil Mounce-Bazley, the choir director, tapped her baton on her podium. All voices hushed. Music sheets rustled, someone coughed but no one dared speak. In the silence, Sobil ran a finger down her list until she came to the offender.

Number 27. Alto. Age nine.
“Logan Russell?”
“Yes.”
“You were out of time. You threw off the entire

group, Mr. Russell.”
“I don’t care.”
Steel-blue eyes peered over bifocals at Logan and

held him for an icy moment.

Someone coughed. A snicker was stifled. “Logan Russell, you will see me after practice.” The spinster Sobil Mounce-Bazley was a legendary

music director, having led children’s choirs in London and New York until she retired to her brother’s ranch near Cold Butte. When word spread of the historic papal visit, she accepted the school’s invitation to form and lead the choir that would sing for the Holy Father.

Music had been her life, perfection her standard. But things weren’t going well today. Number 27, the lovely alto, was straining her patience.

“You want to tell me what your problem is, Mr. Russell?” she asked Logan after everyone had left.
He didn’t answer.
“I’m sure you’ve heard it said ad nauseam that to sing for the pope is a once-in-a-lifetime oppportunity.”
“I miss my mom.”
“Where is she?”
“In California. My mom and dad kinda split up and I moved here with my dad and his new girlfriend.”
“That might be tough, but it’s no excuse for rude ness.”
During her time in London and New York, Sobil had directed children who’d had parents murdered, baby brothers or sisters who’d been sold by crack-addicted relatives. Acting out over a divorce was not high on her sympathy scale.
“I won’t pry. I’ll cut you some slack. Mind your manners. Memorize the songs, practice the tempo. If you don’t improve by the end of the week, you’re off the team. Is that understood, Mr. Russell?”
It was.
* * *
On the school bus home, Logan leaned his forehead against the window and watched as cloud shadows floated over the eternal empty grassland.
He’d never felt so alone. Tears filled his eyes.
Mr. Russell.
Russell was a lie. His name was Logan Conlin.
He didn’t even know who he was anymore.
He didn’t understand anything, anymore. Ever since his dad went off to Iraq, nothing seemed right. His dad wouldn’t talk about what had happened to him over there. But when he came back, he was weird. Different. He had headaches, lost his temper all the time, argued with Mom all the time. Logan’s friend Robbie said that’s how it was with his parents before they got divorced.
Logan didn’t want his parents to get divorced.
He needed both of them. Together.
Then came the worst moment ever, on the soccer field with Logan’s coach, Mr. Ullman. It scared Logan the way Dad wanted to fight him. The look on Mr. Ullman’s face—like his dad was a psycho. At night he heard Mom crying in her room. A couple of months later, things seemed better, but Logan still feared his parents were getting a divorce.
Then it happened.
Not with lawyers and courts and papers like Robbie said.
Dad just surprised Logan at school. Just showed up in his rig.
“We’ve got to go, son.”
Dad wouldn’t say where they were going, or why. At first it was like the coolest adventure. They just drove and drove. But as they left the city behind, his dad’s face got all serious and Logan got scared.
“This will be the hardest thing you’ll ever have to face, son. It won’t make any sense to you. It doesn’t make sense to me. Your mom’s in love with another man and wants to have a life with him.”
“That’s a lie!”
“I wish it was. I’m sorry. I know this is hard, but please listen. There’s no other way to say it. Your mom and I are splitting up and you’re going to live with me.”
“Turn around.”
“I can’t. There are complicated court orders. Laws, rules we have to follow. A lot of changes I’ll tell you about later. But the bottom line is we can never go home again.”
Never go home again.
“No! You take me home right now!”
“We can’t. There are rules and the law.”
“Then let me call her. I want to talk to Mom!”
“Logan, we can’t.”
He tried to punch his dad but only hit air. Something inside Logan broke in two. Pain shot everywhere. It hurt so bad he couldn’t understand why he wasn’t bleeding.
Then he felt nothing.
When they pulled into a truck stop near Barstow, Logan snuck to a pay phone on the wall just outside the washroom and tried to call his mom. He couldn’t remember her work number, had trouble making a longdistance call. Just as the operator came on, the line died.
His father had disconnected the call, replaced the handset then hauled Logan back to the truck.
“Son, I told you we can’t ever call her. We have to stick to the rules, the laws and the court orders. I’m sorry but that’s just how it is.”
Logan cried for several hundred miles as the Cali fornia desert rolled by and he fought to understand what no nine-year-old boy could ever understand.
All he knew was that something he loved had just died.
That something he needed was gone.
And all he could do was cry.

As they reached the outskirts of Las Vegas, his dad told him they were going to meet someone. Then Dad made a call on his new cell phone and they went to a restaurant at one of the big hotels where some woman waved to them.

“Son, this is Samara. Samara, this is my son, Logan.” “Hello, Logan.” She had a foreign accent and her hand was cold when he shook it. “Your father’s told me so much about you.”

Logan didn’t give a shit.
Just like he didn’t give a shit for the banana split his dad had ordered for him. Like that would make every thing okay.
“Son, I never told anyone this but Samara helped me during some pretty horrible times in Iraq. She saved my life. She’s a nurse from England and now she’s working here in the States—in a part of Montana where they’re short of nurses. That’s where we’re going to live, son. In Montana with Samara.”
“No, we’re not! We’re going home!”
“Son, I know this is a lot to handle and it’s compli cated.”
“I hate you, you fucker!”
The banana split sailed from their table, landing in an explosion of ice cream and glass near the feet of the startled waitress.

Gears clanked and rattled, brakes creaked. The school bus stopped and the doors opened to Logan’s place.

He tensed at the postbox with the name Russell. Sticking out like the lie it was. Dad said they had to change their names, something about court-ordered property law and complex rules.

Logan hated it here.
Dad was on the road driving most of the time, leaving him with Samara. She worked for the county and came to the school more and more for meetings about the big visit. At the start, when they got here, the other kids thought she was Logan’s mom.
It made him angry and sometimes he corrected them with his fists.
He got sent to the principal’s office a lot when they first got here. His dad and Samara thought putting him in the choir would help him settle down.
Samara kept saying that she thought he had a nice voice.
She never bothered Logan much. She made sure he did his homework and she took care of most of the house stuff. She made him what he liked to eat, like chili.
It was never as good as his mom’s.
Besides, she was always busy taking these nursing courses and studying all the time. Always typing on her laptop and talking to friends on her cell phone at all hours. She had a strict rule that Logan was never to touch her phone or laptop, something about patient confiden tiality.
He didn’t want to touch her stuff. He didn’t really like her.
Sometimes, late at night, he heard her talking on the phone in a strange language. From the action movies he’d watched, he guessed it was Arabic, or something. She was from Iraq. He told his dad who explained to him that Samara had friends around the world who worked with relief groups, like the Red Cross. These people did good things and she was just talking to her friends.
Whatever.
Why couldn’t Logan talk to his friends in California?
He didn’t understand it.
Once he secretly tried to e-mail his mother from a friend’s computer but he didn’t know her e-mail. Then they tried to reach her through the bookstore’s Web site but a thing popped up about credit-card security and Logan backed off.
What if what his dad said was true about there being some stupid mean law that he was not supposed to talk to his mom.
He yearned for her today as he got off the bus and walked down the long lane that cut across the flatland to their house, an ugly yellow square thing in the middle of nowhere.
Might as well be on Mars.
Logan saw his dad’s red rig parked under the tree where he was working on it.
“How was school?”
Logan shrugged.
“All the kids must be getting excited with the count down to the big day.”
“I think I’m going to be kicked off the choir.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The teacher says I’m not concentrating and gave me some extra work to do to prove that she should keep me on.”
“Then you’d better do it and focus, son. This is a big deal. Like meeting the president. You don’t want to blow it now. Samara worked hard to get you on the choir and you’ve put in the time.”
Logan looked out at the horizon and blinked at his problems.
“Want to tell me what’s on your mind, son?”
“Are you going to marry Samara?”
His father wiped his hands on a rag.
“I don’t know. We take things day by day, you know that.”
“Are you and Mom ever going to get back together?”
“We’ve been over that a thousand times, Logan.”
“How come if this pope thing’s such a big deal, I can’t call Mom and invite her? She would like to see this. Please.”
His dad sat on the truck’s step and pulled Logan closer.
“We’ve been through this. We can’t call her, ever, we can’t see each other. It’s over. It’s finished. We might not like it, but that’s the way it happened with the court stuff. We just moved on with our lives.”
“I tried to call her and e-mail her, Dad.”
“What? Dammit, Logan! When?”
“When we first moved here and a few times after.”
“I specifically told you never, ever try to call or contact her. Logan—” his dad looked away to soften another lie “—the court ordered us to do everything that we did. We are to have no contact with her, ever.”
“But I was really sad and you were gone. I tried to call but I couldn’t get through. It’s like our phone here won’t let me call our old number in California. Same with e-mails.”
His dad nodded and told him he had a block arranged with the phone and Internet companies. All part of the court’s rules, he said.
“Dad. I don’t understand. What happened?” Tears filled Logan’s eyes.
“We’ve talked about this, son. We’re just not part of her life anymore. That’s why we moved here. You’ve had friends whose parents got divorced. Well, it’s like that. People change. Mom changed. So we had to start over. Start a new life with new names in a new place.”
“But how can she just stop loving us? I don’t believe she did. I mean, that last day I saw her, she was hugging me. I told her I was worried that you might be getting a divorce. She said it wasn’t true, that she loved you and that she loved me.”
“Stop it, Logan.”
“How can she just not love me anymore? She’s my mom. She has to love me. I know she wouldn’t just stop loving me. I want to call her, Dad.”
His dad put his hands on Logan’s shoulders and looked him in the eye.
“I know this has been hard. But you’ve got to try not to think about the past. It’s not easy, I know. But we’ve got Samara, and believe me, son, after all we’ve both been through, she’s the right person in the world for both of us right now.”
A motor hummed as Samara’s van pulled up to the house.
“Hi, guys,” she called, smiling. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Logan said. “Can you make tacos?”
“Sure.” Samara looked at Jake then back at Logan. “Think you might give me a hand with some groceries in the van?”
That night, they ate a quiet dinner together.
Logan’s dad turned in early because he had to leave early in the morning for a job that would take him to Spokane, Salt Lake City, then Great Falls before he got back.
That evening after the dishes, Samara and Logan went outside to the chairs under the big tree. Under the brilliant stars, and to the sound of crickets, she helped him with his music. In the light that spilled from the kitchen window Logan saw concern on her face, as if something major was heavy on her mind.
“Logan,” she said. “I want you to know that no matter what you think about me, and no matter what anyone says, you and your dad are the two most impor tant people in the world to me.”
Logan said nothing as she gazed up at the Milky Way.
She seemed sad.
“Soon,” she said, “you’re going to be part of history. Soon, everything will be as it should be.”
The tear tracks running down her cheeks glistened in the starlight.
“The joy we crave will return for all of us, I promise you.”