Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [116]
“After quitting time, the paper mill blew a huge Flintstones-like whistle, signaling both a shift change and the let-off of its discharge, which overflowed the lake which poured into the hole. I stood off to one side until it climbed high enough to float me, which was only a couple of minutes. Then it floated me some more and I grabbed the rope. I pulled myself up, crawled out and stood there scratching my head.
“That feeling of helplessness doesn’t hold a candle to sitting next to a hospital bed watching chemical poisons drip into your bald, pale, chestless, gaunt, sickly, vomiting wife.”
I was quiet for a while. “I don’t understand how a God who”—I waved my hand across the river and Abbie—“can do all this…can let something so bad happen to her.” I sat shaking my head. “I mean, why?”
Moments passed. He turned up the bottle and polished off all but the last sip. His eyes were red and tequila dripped off his chin. He walked across the floor to where Abbie lay. He knelt next to her, placed his hand on her forehead and whispered, “Do I wonder why God is silent?” He nodded. “Can I explain the existence of suffering and evil?” He shook his head. “Do I sometimes despair at this world?” He was quiet a moment. “You damn right.” He turned up the bottle, grabbed the worm with his tongue, held it between his front teeth, bit it in half and swallowed. He turned to me. “Nevertheless, I believe.”
I stared at the river. The night was clear, and the moon had returned. The river stared back at me. Forty-six miles to go. A day and a half if I gave all of me. I wanted to finish, to steal back time.
I placed my hand across Abbie’s tummy. “Can I ask a favor?”
He nodded. “Name it.”
“You’ll need your collar.”
I shook Abbie and her eyes cracked. Heavy and hazy. It took her a second to come back. “Hi,” she managed.
“Hey. You feel like checking off something that’s not on the list?”
“Anything.”
“Will you marry me…again?” I pointed at Bob. “Properly?”
She lifted her head. “Love to.”
WE WADED THROUGH the swirling current. Walked up what was once the creek and into the old pond where the old wooden building sat. I pushed open the door and carried her through. Where the boards beneath me once creaked under my weight, now they were silent. Currently, the water was pew-high and rising. I waded up the narrow center aisle while Bob set Rocket on top of the altar and then pushed open a few windows to let in some light and air. The old building swayed on its foundation—one strong wind or current from crumbling. A house of cards. Next stop would be the ocean. Rocket walked around the altar considering his options while Petey stood on Bob’s shoulder studying the glassy floor below him. He said, “Hell in a basket. Hell in a basket.”
The rear of the church had been demolished by the storm. And there had been nothing delicate about it. A tree limb had fallen across the supporting timber where I’d traced the letters with my fingers. Both the tree limb and the old timber were gone. Downriver. It had taken part of the roof with it. Every few seconds, the breeze would peel up several loose cedar shingles and then let them go, where they’d flap several times before falling quiet.
Bob stood before us. Dressed in a white robe tied with a white cord and draped with a purple vestment that looked like a poncho. A large cross hung down to his stomach.