Jeremiah walked past the deserted park. Echoes of a pickup basketball game floated from the past on a dry wind. Children used to play here. On occasion, Jeremiah would join their games, sinking one from the top of the key or blocking the shot of a ten-year-old who knew him as Mr. Jerry. He missed the laughter, the innocent simplicity of youth. A girl watched from a billboard, her stare soft, seductive, empty. The photo of the product she sold had long faded. Only the invitation remained.
The dry wind blew an empty bottle past his feet. He put his hands into his pockets, mainly to give them a place to rest, and kicked at the ground. A rock clattered down the gutter and into the mouth of a storm drain.
A powerful thirst lodged in his throat.
Shadows floated and fluttered all around. He looked up hoping to see a crow, a sparrow, any living creature spinning circles in the heavens. Sheets hung off balconies and fluttered in a field of cloudless gray. Dirty, dusty. A shroud prepared for the living who didn’t know they had died. He bowed his head and resumed his march.
“Hey, baby. Come over and let momma show you a good time.”
Ragged hair, more gray than blonde, clamped her cheeks. Black and yellow teeth sneered along with the words. The top of her blouse lay open, exposing ashy skin and an arc of red sores across the left side of her chest. Her hands clutched a bottle of dollar store vodka like a young lion protecting its first kill in a month.
Jeremiah stopped and faced her, his heart flesh and steel at the same time. He wanted to tell her, let her know Jesus still loved her, still had a plan for her. His hand touched her arm and the words came out.
Lust, leprotic, insatiable, shone through the red of her eyes. “You can bring him along too,” she said.
At that moment, he knew only sadness.
“Why you walkin’ away? Don’t you ….”
Her voice faded behind him. The hum of the city, low and empty, buzzed along with the wind. That incessant, hot wind. Heat billowing from a blacksmith’s forge. In the distance, the gray sky silhouetted a yard of discarded construction equipment. Long, rusted drills mounted on outstretched, metal arms. The well they dug half-finished, the project abandoned for lack of funds or because no water flowed beneath that field. One out of three wells struck water, providing just enough hope to extend the delusion.
A distorted figure lay against the gutter.
Baruch waited at the end of the driveway. The odor of ripening apples, which once welcomed him, survived only in his memory.
He hid in Jeremiah’s apartment for months, waiting for the latest uproar to blow over. It hadn’t. From the scant information he could get his hands on, the reliable information anyway, the national police had searched every corner of the city for Jeremiah, every house around his uncle’s farm for him. Without success, of course. The people who didn’t or couldn’t cooperate with the police whet the appetite of a hungry labyrinth of informal prisons which had sprung to life over the last year. Those who did cooperate didn’t fare much better.
President Jehoiakim offered him amnesty, would forgive his misinformed and misguided soul, being the generous president he was, if only he would give up Jeremiah’s whereabouts. Baruch didn’t entertain the thought. He would die to protect Jeremiah. He would probably die even if he gave Jeremiah up. The president’s word held the weight of an assassin’s bullet.
The last month trapped inside drove Baruch out. His disguise consisted of a hat pulled down around his eyes and an attempt at growing a beard. Divine guidance had returned him safely to the farm the way it had the first time. At any moment, the Lord could decide to remove his protection. Baruch understood the risks. The desire to see his family overrode the fear.
His uncle’s house seemed strangely hollow, as though all life and substance had drained away. No sound, no light came from within. The joyous scream his aunt let out whenever he walked up the driveway didn’t greet him. Robbie’s hands didn’t slap him on the back with the usual, playful welcome for the city cousin. All was empty, still.
In the horse pasture, fresh ruts chewed up the earth, running through fence lines which no longer existed. The horses themselves were gone. Run off. At least one killed, a reddish-brown pool its pillow as it lay breathless on the ground. The vehicles, which created the ruts, had vanished, the ridges the only sign they had ever tread the land. The police must have tired of waiting for him to show up. Baruch scanned the farm anyway just in case a patrol had stayed behind. A lifeless wind blowing through lifeless apple trees accompanied his search. Neither of them found anything.
Small, the size of a doll. Jeremiah pulled off the knit blanket. The open mouth searched for a drop of milk, called for the mother who left her there. Hollow eyes, which no longer saw, stared from emptiness into emptiness. She couldn’t have been more than a couple days old. Her life outside the womb had the same value inside the womb. At least, he found her before the dogs did. Unlike the other two.
The blanket wrapped around her and fit beneath his arm. She felt like rubber, a strange thought for such a solemn occasion. Was this God’s punishment or was it the natural result, the only possible outcome given the hardness of people’s hearts? He dismissed the philosophical discussion and hurried down the street. A churchyard a few blocks away would provide a final resting place for her.
The door slid open. Another quick search offered both relief and disappointment. No sentry waited for Baruch. Neither did any member of his family.
He had expected a bigger mess – tables overturned, cushions ripped open with their intestines strewn across the floor, broken dishes, a callous disregard for the owners of the house. Other than a misplaced cushion and a few fallen books, though, the living room appeared as normal.
A fine layer of powder had crept over the hard surfaces, a dusting of country snow. Aunt Margaret would never allow this to happen if she were home, if she were alive. Was she? Baruch’s inquiries led nowhere. A single person dared to help him, through hushed tones over a public phone. She didn’t provide much information other than to confirm what he knew. He couldn’t even get the name of the prison complex they now called home. If it was Reston Penitentiary, the closest to the farm, they had probably already learned their eternal fate. Except for Sara. They would keep her around for personal use until they tired of listening to her beg for mercy.
He wondered how the rest of the nation seemed so unaware. Of the prison complex, of the evil within, that they were next on the list. Then again, the people seemed unaware of anything either good or evil anymore. Baruch corrected himself. They were aware. They just confused the two.
The list of commandments had grown daily. Each one punishable in its own way.
Thou shalt have no god but government. Thou shalt report on your mother and father to the authorities. Thou shalt bow to the whims of the sexually perverse or risk their wrath. Thou shalt take what you need from those who have what you want. Thou shalt lust after your neighbor as yourself. Thou shalt condemn those who condemn the murder of the innocents. Thou shalt lie and slander and destroy as your father kicked out of heaven has done.
If only he had turned himself in, the police would have left his family alone.
He told himself the lie one more time.
Lannie rubbed against his leg and purred expectantly. He picked her up and sat down on the couch. Her soft, calico fur soothed his nervous fingers. Aunt Margaret smiled at him from the wall, her white, lacy dress wrapped around her body and stretched in an arc by her feet. Uncle Joe stood by her side, tense hands memorialized by the camera’s eye.
Robbie and Thomas and Sara appeared at various stages of life. Thomas with his blue ribbon. Robbie beaming with pride, a fish on the end of his line, later in full uniform with the insignia of his unit on his left sleeve. Sara running in the middle of the pack at her cross-country race. Her graduation from college. Her head on the shoulder of her fiancé, who refused to help when Baruch called for information.
He didn’t regret writing Jeremiah’s words. The Lord had told him to. Not Jeremiah. The Lord. It was the closest he had come to hearing an audible voice from heaven. Everything would work out for his good whether or not he survived the uproar.
Jeremiah had assured him he would survive. Baruch didn’t have the same confidence. Not with what he knew. Not with what he saw with his own eyes.
A knife entered the stomach and pierced through the back side. His face contorted as though it wanted to scream but couldn’t. The blade lifted up then twisted. His blood leaked onto the floor. President Jehoiakim pushed him off the blade and let his body fall. Instinct, pain curled it into a ball. The president pronounced a few final words, words Baruch didn’t comprehend, as the guards dragged Uriah’s body away.
Life spilled onto the floor, leaving a trail flowing behind.
He shut his eyes.
Cars filled the lot. Stained-glass windows broke the light into a rainbow of colors. The marquee read, ‘All are welcome,’ with a reference to Matthew 11:28-30.
Jeremiah stepped inside, avoiding the parishioners milling around in the lobby. The blanket grew heavier under his arm. He followed the signs to the church office and found a woman dressed in black with a white collar reversed about her neck. A momentary grimace washed over her, recognition of the man who stood in her door or recoiling at the smeared, ragged clothes which covered his body. Repulsion suppressed, a plasticine smile returned.
“How may I help you?”
“I found a child in the streets. I was hoping I could bury her here.”
“Of course, my son. Hand her to me. I’ll have Gerald take care of it this evening.” She opened the blanket to look. “Will you stay for the service?” An invitation to leave masquerading as an offer.
A knot took residence in his stomach. “I think I’ll head out.”
“Are you sure? We’re having communion tonight.”
“Thank you for taking care of her,” Jeremiah said as a reply.
Tired bones turned from the doorway and headed towards the lobby. Nearly empty now, the last few parishioners filed into the sanctuary, drawn by the chords of an electric guitar. Jeremiah trailed them in, curious and having nowhere else to go.
Loaves of bread rested on small tables in the back. A man tore off a piece and handed it to another man walking with him. Their progress took them down the main aisle to the front. Jeremiah found an empty seat in the last row. A head turned long enough to give a slight nod to him before returning to nod along with the rhythm of the drums.
Two more songs followed. Lyrics about ‘loving no one more than you.’ Indistinguishable from the radio hits, just sung with a more solemn expression. The woman from the office appeared from a side door. A white robe with purple writing draped over her body. She waved her hand up and down as though an unspoken blessing fell from it. An invocation and announcements concerning a charity drive formed the interlude between songs.
“A special treat tonight,” the woman in the white robe said. “A celebration of the Lord and praise for the earth that sustains us.”
Five girls, not quite teenagers, traipsed onto the open stage. Matching attire covered their frames. Light brown tights. Sheer dresses of the same color. Bare arms, painted faces, hair tied into braids sweeping around the sides of their heads.
The music started and the girls twirled in asynchronous unison. A singer twilled about the love of Christ and the bosom of mother earth. The girls bent forward as though they were mother earth’s representatives. One of them did a backwards cartwheel, holding an upside-down split for a second before another girl caught her and rolled her across her shoulders. Another pair of girls shimmied up and down each other’s torsos. The crowd applauded. The man beside Jeremiah nodded along and clapped to the beat.
Jeremiah entered the office and retrieved the blanket.
Light and music filtered out of the stained-glass as he continued down the street.
By the third house, Baruch had almost given up. The blinds would flutter each time. He imagined an eye peering out before a single slat would fall back into place.
At the last house, he heard Kaley’s excited yet muffled cry, ‘It’s Baruch.’ Her mom quickly shushed her as footsteps echoed away from the front door. Generations of farmers lived side by side, working together, sharing with each other when one farm had a difficult year. But now the people didn’t know Baruch or his family, any association with them too great a risk.
He let his fist pound on the door anyway. The doorframe rattled with each strike. No answer. Again, he tried. After a minute, he walked away. A few steps off the porch and the lock clicked open. A woman with dyed brown hair and a body honored by childbirth emerged from the darkened interior. Her eyes darted back and forth before she motioned to Baruch to come inside.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said even as she offered him a drink.
Baruch accepted the glass of water and took a seat. The woman he had known since he first learned to crawl joined him in the front room. Her hands moved constantly, her gaze returning often to the front door.
“They’ll be back,” she said.
“I didn’t see any sign of the police,” Baruch said. “Haven’t since I arrived.”
“Not them,” she said. “My husband and boys. You can’t let them find you here.”
Baruch’s face scrunched up.
“I told them not to,” she continued without explanation, “but they didn’t listen. I told them it wasn’t Christian to do it.”
“To do what?”
A sob leaked out. “They knew where Sara was hiding.”
“What happened?”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t Christian. I understand why they did it. They would’ve taken our boys. I told them not to.” Her body began to convulse.
“Do you know where they took my family?”
She nodded. “Reston,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Baruch. If I could’ve done something … anything.”
Baruch leaned over and rested his hand on her shoulder. Reflex, as he had no desire to comfort her. He set the glass on a side table.
“I’ve got to go,” he said.
“Where are you going?” she asked. Her voice sounded a little too interested.
“I might cross into Tennessee,” he said. “They won’t look for me there.”
“I know the area well. Used to drive down to Bristol when the border was open. I could recommend a good hotel if you need one.”
“Sure,” he said.
She wrote down a couple names. “They’ll treat you well,” she said. “Now, go before my husband returns.”
The door shut behind Baruch. He turned once and watched the slat lower into place. Halfway down the driveway, a stiff breeze carried a small piece of paper away from his hand.
She was there like she was almost every evening. A small group of her friends huddled together, their heads bowed in prayer. From across the street, insults hurtled at them like fiery darts from an enemy held back by a fraying leash. The sign in front of the clinic read, ‘Women’s Health Center.’ Women emerged from the clinic, proudly holding up the number of fingers corresponding with the number of abortions they had there, shouting in defiance of those who dared condemn their actions with the unconscionable act of prayer and an offer of another way.
Jeremiah handed her the blanket. She touched his shoulder and said, “I’ll take care of her.” He left minutes before the first rock landed in the middle of the group.
The tip of the sun peered over the ridgeline to the west. Baruch lowered his face into the wind and wandered aimlessly through the streets. Newspaper articles drifted through this mind.
A coward. A traitor. A thief. Each day, a different accusation. Each week, a forced retraction on the final page. The damage was done, the job lost, his home and all his possessions taken from him. Where could he go? How long before they found him? Should he just give himself up and get it over with?
A few streetlights fought against the encroaching night. The girl watched Jeremiah from the billboard. Her eyes called out a siren’s song, an invitation to wanderers searching for shelter.
Beneath her gaze, two men hustled their product, temporary relief from the constant hopelessness, the car drove up, its windows dark, lowered enough for the end of the barrel to peek out, a spark, a bang, a man ran in a lazy arc oblivious to the hole in his heart until his legs collapsed onto the street, a woman standing on the points of her toes leaned into a stopped car with its window lowered, her breasts collapsing through the window as she accepted the offer and climbed in, and she laughed, and he laughed, and the paper burned, releasing the odor, that odor, of temporary relief as they cursed and swore and fought and stole and killed, the weight of the darkness pressed down on him.
And suffocated him.
A fallen tree provided a seat. The constant pain in his stomach a reminder that he hadn’t eaten well for days. A star streaked across the sky. Baruch raised his head and followed its path. He smiled at the beautiful, white trail it left in its wake. Another shooting star, this one closer, growing larger. Red and orange and white. It fell to the ground at the edge of the darkness. An orange ball rose into the air. A rumble, like the echo of a train approaching through a tunnel, followed a minute later. Two more shooting stars aimed for him. His feet knew what to do before his head did. They tossed him forward, running to nowhere, anywhere. Behind him, the world exploded into a shower of sulfur and brimstone. Breath of the dragon’s mouth. The fiery talons of Russian gunships releasing their first volley of arrows into an unsuspecting but deserving people.