Читать книгу Abbey Burning Love - Donan Ph.D. Berg - Страница 4

Five days after the fire, an overcast gloomy Wednesday, Rob, senior Boulder Isle Planning and Zoning Commission staffer, rewound a hundred-foot metallic tape measure. By nine a.m., he’d already completed half the mayor’s assigned task to sketch The Abbey site in preparation for rezoning. He paused when a late-model Chrysler 300 disturbed concentration and parked across the street. A pair of shapely feminine legs swiveled out of the opened driver’s door and strode in his direction.

“Carol, what brings you out here?” He hadn’t expected a Malone—at least not one foolish enough to walk through ashes wearing a cocktail dress puffed out by petticoats and open-toed sling-backs.

“Should ask you the same.” She glanced at a glistening dewdrop on a toe.

“Partly reminiscing,” Rob replied. While partially true, he couldn’t admit his boss’s directive. “Read this morning where old-timers recounted number of family generations baptized, confirmed, and/or married in The Abbey’s Sacred Heart Chapel. Perhaps you recall Nancy and I were married in the chapel.”

“Vaguely, but me, too.” Left hand swiped stray brunette hair off her forehead. “Nancy impressed me as a good person. Its been what, how long since she disappeared?”

“Five years.” He rubbed his wrist. Boorish to mention he pondered dating Melissa after Nancy’s disappearance. Although he never found the courage to approach Melissa, he once mentioned possibility to a friend. “You’re going to need to watch your step with those shoes.”

“You’re right.” She smiled. “Decided at the last minute to stop, expect questions at today’s women’s luncheon.”

Rob fully understood Carol and Melissa traveled in higher social circles. Without being deluded the rich and powerful considered him an equal, he attended, in his city position, lavish community functions. The bluebloods and self-made elite only consulted him when useful for pet building projects.

“Other than memories, you must have another reason for being here.” Her piercing eyes probed with an underlying skeptic force.

“Mayor asked me to inspect site after fire chief reported cooled debris.”

“That’s strange, but plausible, I guess.”

He needed to shift the conversation off his duties. “My best wishes for both your sister and dad. The paper carried a nice story about him.”

“Thanks. Rebuilding The Abbey would be Dad’s best medicine. Shortly, hope to have two options for his consideration.”

Rob fidgeted; extracted measuring tape and let it snap. He didn’t wish to antagonize Carol nor have created ire upset her injured father. Aleck Malone’s donation, he had seen, topped the mayor’s 2009 campaign contributor list. “I’m not saying it’s impossible, but...” He rubbed a wrist. Could he excuse himself after he’d almost committed himself to a contrary position?

Carol’s right forefinger and thumb at her bodice’s center tugged upward. “There’s insurance and the fund-raiser treasurer protected the gala receipts. Adding future Abbey friend contributions and community fund-raisers will cause The Abbey to parallel the fabled Phoenix rise from the ashes.”

Rob gazed away as Carol slid hand across neck and under dress at the shoulder. Counted silently to ten and faced her. “You have to consider that it’s likely the fire will be ruled arson. Many people will object to your family receiving the multiple building and zoning variances that permitted The Abbey to exist as and where it did.” Carol shook head no. He continued, “Governed by impartiality and existing zoning interpretations, can’t conceive of any possible way how any staffer, including myself, would be able to recommend to the city zoning commission that The Abbey be identically rebuilt.”

Carol gazed beyond yellow crime scene tape toward a collapsed wall disfigured by fire. “This is sacred ground. Can’t fathom the city would penalize us because we were crime victims. In addition, my family’s buried here beginning with my great-great-grandfather.” Her voice rose with defiance; eyes sparked with anger. “Nobody will take this land and dream from us.”

Neck and shoulder muscles tightened. “What you talking about?” Her instantaneous scowl and his knotted stomach alerted him to expect an outburst as her eyes slowly filled with a controlled rage. “This isn’t a cemetery.”

“Yes, it is.” Her voice filled with disdain. “Would show you if we could walk behind that police tape.” She pointed two fingers toward a debris heap that the previous week had been the chapel.

“Don’t want to argue.” He glanced toward a ten-foot pile of embers, stone, and empty metal window frames. “But if your family has graves here, I’m sure the city would be more than willing to assist in their relocation. We’ve done that before when, for example, a contractor unearthed a burial site when excavating for a new building.” She folded arms beneath breasts. “Not every settling pioneer family could foresee their prairie homestead would some day mushroom into a town.”

“My Dad’s fighting for his life. Melissa lies in a hospital bed. I’ll warn you and the city right now. This family will neither relinquish the resting place of our ancestors nor renounce my father’s hard work.” Her eyes reddened. “Boulder Isle won’t take advantage of our family misfortune to throw us out.”

Rob had never before seen Carol tear up.

“I live near Menard, out in the country, because I chose to, not because an arrogant bureaucracy dictates. If my stable were to burn down, it would be rebuilt exactly where it now stands using the first contractor’s plans.”

He contemplated the passion in Carol’s eyes before his gaze averted hers. Rob heard rumors the doctors transferred her father to a specialized university burn unit. Bull said Melissa hospitalized in Boulder Isle. If he’d learned anything in handling zoning appeals, it had been to regard patience as a virtue. With his former job in public sanitation, he could be arrogant and obnoxious. He’d threaten a citizen if they didn’t conform to the rules they’d have their garbage left smelling at the curb.

Zoning decisions weren’t as clear-cut. Oftentimes the end result defied what should have been the logical application of crystal clear rules. With the Malone family, he realized the city faced clout wielded by strong, well-respected, local celebrities. Community gossip labeled Carol easier to deal with then the younger Melissa. In the last two years, Melissa emerged to be the publicly visible Malone family persona, assuming reins as the father aged.

Rob gazed into Carol’s eyes. “Don’t know the seriousness of your father’s injuries nor how long Melissa might be hospitalized. This fire created a dreadful tragedy for the entire community.” He dropped crossed arms to have body language express he wasn’t totally hostile. His throat ached. The effect of lozenges sucked earlier worn off. Lozenges had been Rob’s antidote for ignoring doctor order of no basketball. “I’ve added my prayers to those of others.”

“You know I appreciate all kind words.” Her mien steady and gaze straight to his face. “History tells me that you ignore all but the written rules in your guidance and formal recommendations to the zoning commission. In addition, you have the mayor’s ear.” She mimicked him and relaxed both arms to her sides. “Also speculate you don’t fully appreciate or understand the gigantic effect The Abbey fire has and/or will have on this entire area.”

He gazed away. He really couldn’t become publicly and prematurely entrapped in what might be future city administrative decisions. “You’re wrong, Carol.” He tried to keep his voice volume low. “Was at The Abbey when the fire broke out.” Her eyebrows briefly rose to indicate bewilderment. Then lowered to express simple dismay. “Was crouched on the floor at far front stage edge. Tried to help man find eyeglasses knocked off his head. While crawling on hands and knees, the kitchen blast missed direct hit. By good fortune the explosion’s initial shockwave rolled above my head. Stuffed a handkerchief into mouth to avoid fine dust dropping from the ceiling and crawled across the ballroom floor at the fringe of the ensuing main chaos. Ears heard the kitchen wall collapse. Blast tremors immediately caused my whole body to shiver.”

Stern in tone, Carol asked, “Why were you there?” Her eyebrows remained lowered.

His mind scrambled for words not to indicate he sought out an old girlfriend. “Purchased a ticket from those being circulated around City Hall. A flyer announced a scheduled band I wanted to hear.”

Carol intensely stared. He didn’t grasp why.

“Ever since Nancy reportedly died, I’ve heard you avoided dances and bands.” Carol stepped closer.

He began to smell perfume wafting in the whispering breeze beneath clouds trailing wisps tinted black. “I listen to bands at the CBC.”

“Doesn’t count. The only reason any guy goes to the CBC is to drink, not listen.” He couldn’t disagree. “And,” she added before a gaze to his left, “to ogle the waitresses in their skimpy serving outfits.”

He felt warmth rising in his cheeks and he couldn’t deny the spoken truth. Days ago Victoria’s short miniskirt barely covered a ruffled leotard, fully exposed when she bent forward. “Did The Abbey put up this crime scene tape?”

“Not that I know of.” Carol glanced behind her shoulder, as if she expected someone. “Perhaps, you can enlighten me.” She faced him.

“Must be the authorities found something suspicious with the fire. City hall rumors say arson’s highly suspected.” Can’t let her know he talked with the fire marshal. He observed Carol step sideways and bend at the waist to peer at the ground immediately inside the yellow tape. He had no idea what in the grass fascinated her.

* * *

Melissa’s senses didn’t require the brightly lit hospital room fluorescents this Wednesday to intuit Carol’s agitated mood. “Sis, what’s up? You get a speeding ticket?” She gazed straight ahead. The nurse had raised the hospital bed head position to forty-five degrees for the expected eleven a.m. visit.

“No, worse.” Carol deposited a filled paper shopping bag in Melissa’s closet and moved two plants from a fabric-covered chair seat to the floor. “Brought you your dark green small sweats and green-streaked sneakers.”

“Forget clothes,” Melissa demanded. “Tell me. You look ready to explode.”

“On way here stopped by The Abbey. Rob Campbell there measuring.”

More concerned about Carol, Melissa skipped the relief Carol’s news offered. In one major prayer petition positively answered, Rob Campbell hadn’t been listed among the killed in Sunday’s newspaper. And that caused Melissa to fret although concerned about the extent of injury. No mistake with Carol’s information no injury serious enough to disable him. “What’s disturbing?”

Carol tossed her purse on the chair. “We started talking. He said the city wasn’t going to allow The Abbey to be rebuilt like it was, where it was. I was ready to—”

“No way,” Melissa shouted. Pain gripped raw throat muscles. “Get me those clothes right now,” she demanded. She yanked the white bed sheet back, twisted it, and began to swing heels off the bed onto the floor. Carol grabbed Melissa’s fist holding the sheet.

“Hold on. There’s time; didn’t mean to upset you too. You need to recover your full strength first.”

Melissa smoothed a blue-striped cotton hospital gown. She reclined while Carol readjusted the bed’s sheet and blanket. “Were you given a reason?”

“Not really,” Carol replied, pulling up the chair. Seated, the purse squatted on Carol’s knees. “Just that there’d be no special consideration.”

“Typical Rob Campbell. Do you think Alice’s dad could help?”

“What you talking about?”

Carol’s overpowering perfume irritated nostrils. “Mr. Gunderson stopped by last night to wish me well. He told me Mayor Johnson appointed him to the vacant zoning commission position.” Carol dropped purse to the floor. “He’s to replace Mr. Salazar who’s been transferred by Matthew’s Manufacturing.”

“That might not be helpful. A nice man, Mr. Gunderson has no strong Abbey connection. Gossip says he’s invested in the stalled housing project.”

“Didn’t realize. Maybe I should sneak questions to Alice.”

“Don’t ruin a friendship. Appointment represents the mayor adding a vote for campaign better housing pledge. If we’re to battle the rumored housing project after Dad refused their low-ball Abbey offer, you can un-dump Mark.”

Carol appeared calmer. But why shift into meddling with her love life? “What about Mark?” She coughed.

“Two things. He could be housing developer attorney. And, last week he spoke glowingly of you in Bull’s store. I see he’s had flowers delivered.”

Her sister’s mention of Mark sparked a dull headache. Melissa reached for the water glass, took a sip, and returned the iced water to the bed stand. “He and I don’t have a future.” No response from Carol. “Do you think any land developer would be behind or dropped hints to encourage The Abbey fire? Or ... or, that Mark’s entangled somehow?”

“Neither.” Carol tugged neckline upward. “Why? You think he’s out to get even in an underhanded way?”

“Maybe?” Carol’s piercing eyes fixated. “On second thought, no, he wouldn’t. He brought flowers.” Feeling uncomfortable, she folded the sheet end forward from under the chin. Left elbow bumped the pinned nurse call button. It banged the bedside, dangled loose, but the distress light didn’t activate.

“Did you tell him you’d see him again?” Melissa fixed a gaze on the door. “Now, did you?” Carol’s eyes continued a focus on Melissa while she clipped the call button to a pillowcase.

“Well, no. As I recall, the nurse sorta interrupted.” Melissa sighed. “It’s over between Mark and me. I haven’t led him on.”

“You need to be sure.” Carol gazed toward the room door and back. “I’m getting telephone calls where the caller hangs up as soon as I answer. All the caller ID says is wireless customer. Think my ex’s behind it. Can’t prove it.”

Melissa rubbed hands. The judge’s signature wet on Carol’s divorce papers from Stanley, a man Carol met in Chicago seven years ago while studying to be a beautician, a profession never practiced. “Mark’s displays of anger have been directed towards himself, not me or others. Wouldn’t judge him to be courageous or vindictive.”

“I’ll grant you that,” Carol said. “If anyone set The Abbey fire, they displayed supreme cowardice. Greed could’ve been a motive. And, Mark could earn a hefty fee for brokering an Abbey property sale.”

“That’s hard to imagine.” She coughed again and waved off a glass of water. Melissa heard the familiar lunch-cart wheel squeak. The jangle of metal trays and dishes ceased. A candy striper entered with a luncheon tray.

Carol pushed chair away from bed and stood, purse in hand. “Well, let’s plan a party to celebrate your release. Your coughs tell me we’re talked too long.” Melissa nodded. “Fluffy will be glad to see you. Never seen a Bichon walk aimlessly with head scraping the floor for extended time periods. Got a women’s fashion show lunch in a half hour.”

“I miss her, too. Thanks for the clothes.”

“Think about Mark. Bye.”

* * *

While toying with food, Melissa’s brain shifted into overdrive. If Carol met Rob, Melissa’s death or serious injury fears could be cast aside, however, she agreed with her sister he shouldn’t be counted within the circle of Abbey supporters. She shoved the half-eaten lunch tray to the bed’s edge for pick up.

Melissa reached for a restorative moisturizer initially created to heal parched, inflamed skin ravaged by cancer. Of its thirty plus ingredients, Melissa loved the lavender and licorice root. She applied it four times a day. After each facial cleansing, she followed doctor’s orders to play it safe and not apply makeup and held off on trying to obtain the Haberlea rhodopensis, a member of the African violet family, touted to accelerate cell turnover. Yet, she felt self-conscious when greeting well-wishers. Twice, yesterday and today, she’d been able to phone Father to tell him she loved him, however, she couldn’t really understand what he mumbled. She recognized the word Abbey.

The sharp voice from the hallway cautioning excited youngsters about running meant late afternoon visiting hours had started. She looked up when she heard knuckles rap wood.

“Bull, nice of you to visit.” He appeared to be an octopus with additional arms attached behind him. The identities became clearer as Bull shuffled forward to bedside. Steve and Rob waited barely inside the door.

“We were told to be quick,” Bull said, placing small box on nightstand.

Melissa gazed at Rob, his head bent forward shielding his bad eye. “You can all come in.” At a distance Rob looked great while she self-consciously counted three days since shampoo rinsed grit from blond strands. Reason slowed a kick-started heart. If he’d been at a table eleven rows from the stage near the kitchen service door, how’d he make it uninjured out of the ballroom? She delayed asking. Monday’s newspaper editorial urged better exit location as a survey of seat location and survival pointed out seventy per cent of those killed or seriously injured had been seated the greatest distance from the two flanking stage exits. She recalled the kitchen had an exit on the far side accessible only to those physically in the kitchen. Enough. Be thankful. Steve and Rob had taken one step forward. “Believe me guys, I’m not infectious.”

“We only wished to see how you were doing,” Steve said. “Lisa sends her best.” He edged three half steps toward Melissa. Rob stood motionless.

“Rob, Carol relayed your kind wishes for me and our father.” Melissa bit her tongue and didn’t mention The Abbey restoration. If a fight loomed with the zoning commission, she couldn’t win it from a hospital bed. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied without changing his position.

Melissa’s renewed scrutiny didn’t alter conclusion Rob exhibited no physical effects of having been inside The Abbey when the explosion occurred. If he left before the fire, that would explain why she hadn’t seen him from the stage. Every recent gala had ten or so ticket purchasers who arrived for a brief cameo appearance and then scrammed. Wasn’t uncommon and would explain napkin on chair. She berated herself for not being more aggressive. For example, she could’ve asked Sarah if she’d seen him park his car or walk to the entrance. Nevertheless, logic told her a “no” answer would be inconclusive for he could’ve walked from City Hall and entered through the chapel front doors. She sighed, not wanting to question Rob like he was an arson suspect with Bull and Steve present. Or, display romantic interest. While she still desired to learn who’d rescued her, the goal slid to number two.

“You guys stopping really appreciated. Perhaps you could do me a favor?”

“Sure,” Bull and Steve said in unison. Rob expressionless.

“I’ve been overwhelmed with plants and flowers.” She glanced at each, lingering the longest on Rob. “Would you each take two to the nurse’s station? Ask the supervisor for directions to deliver them to other fire patients who may be gladdened. Please leave me the card to remember to thank the giver. Start with this bouquet of daisies and carnations on my nightstand.”

“Saddle up nursery caravan.” Bull flashed huge grim. “We’ve job to do.”

She heard without acknowledging Rob’s good afternoon mumble before he trailed Bull with two plants in hand. The clock ticked toward supper as Melissa greeted three neighbor groups for short visits.

The last allowed visitor walked in stiffly. A teenage girl wearing a red bandana hugged a mother’s waist. Versed in the girl’s history of repeated hospitalization for tests and cancer treatment, Melissa recognized and deeply appreciated the girl’s extraordinary courage and supreme compliment.

The mother unclasped the daughter’s arms. Unwilling to let go, the girl grabbed and clung to the mother’s right elbow with both a step away from the bed’s foot. Melissa requested the mother to close the door.

When closed, Melissa slid out of bed feet first, walked barefoot to the girl, and wrapped both arms around the girl’s shoulders. Melissa gently comforted the girl in a big loving hug. She whispered into the girl’s right ear. “Jane, thank you. I’m blessed to know you. You’re a strong young lady. We all love you, now and always.” The mother’s hand touched Melissa’s as Melissa released Jane.

“We love you too, Melissa,” the mother said. A mother Melissa understood always told Jane she’d never have to stay in a hospital for more than an hour. Melissa couldn’t sleep imposing such unreality upon a child and, simultaneously, couldn’t negate the underlying hope the action attempted to foster. “Jane and I must go. You understand why we can’t stay long.”

Melissa walked bedside, pressed the nurse call button, and slid onto the mattress, chilled toes under a sheet. She blew a kiss to Jane. The girl’s rebounding smile displayed a dimple.

As mother and daughter left, Melissa’s emotions tugged on both heart chambers as Jane clamped both hands hard onto her mother’s arm. Melissa experienced the pain of losing a mother early. A helpless mother with a child ravaged by cancer must endure even greater pain. The nurse arrived to disrupt Melissa’s thoughts. “I’m exhausted,” Melissa explained. “Please thank anyone else waiting. My energy’s sapped.” The nurse adjusted Melissa’s bed to horizontal and flipped a quiet indicator on the door to do-not-disturb.

Melissa dropped a heavy head on the pillow. She’d spent years conditioning mind, heart, and soul not to be buried by emotion. Jane chiseled a chink into the wall erected around Melissa’s heart. The girl celebrated a thirteenth birthday last month at Wally’s Club, Melissa’s employer. Jane’s doctor confided to Melissa and Jane’s mother that even with aggressive chemotherapy and the best scenario Jane wouldn’t reach twenty-one years.

Cancer didn’t instigate Melissa’s sobbing waterworks. She’d written out a resolution prior to The Abbey Gala to revamp her life. She prayed she could attain both a loving relationship with a male partner and fulfill Father’s legacy of Abbey good works. The fire had a cause. First and foremost, no matter the fire’s cause, it fell upon her shoulders to galvanize community support for rebuilding. A community couldn’t deny Father’s dream. Citizens needed the rebuilt Abbey as a memorial to the faith and generosity of those who perished. A new Abbey would cleanse the tarnish of past misdeeds committed within its walls. That, to Melissa, spoke of a rational God’s plan.

* * *

Melissa reached into the hospital room closet for the sweats and sneakers Carol delivered the day before. She’d spent a restful Thursday morning. Hope rode warm sunrays dancing on walls and floor. Her throat improved fifty percent and lungs didn’t ache on the first three or four deep breaths. At the floor’s nursing station, she cajoled a friendly nurse into hinting that Pedro’s room could be found with a walk down the west wing. Pedro’s younger sister, barely four-foot tall, stood outside a room door.

“Juanita, how’s Pedro?”

The dark eyes closed. Melissa refrained from caressing the fluffy black hair. “They took him away.” She rested a heel on a toe. “They took him.”

Melissa bent forward and wrapped arms around Juanita’s shoulders, tried not to squeeze too hard, and held on unable not to sob. Through tears Melissa asked, “Where’s your mother?”

“She said to wait.”

If Juanita cried, the eyes didn’t show it. Sad eyes, terrifically sad eyes.

“Miss Malone, are you all right?”

Melissa released Juanita and turned to gaze at Mrs. Lopez, Pedro’s mother. “Si. Juanita says Pedro’s gone.”

“His spirit in heaven. Funeral maybe three, four days.”

Melissa leaned against the hallway wall to prevent a collapse. The expected happening unexpectedly always ripped to the core, drove the hurt into the soul. Pedro played basketball in The Abbey ballroom both before and after coming to Wally’s Club. “I’m so sorry. Sorry I didn’t visit him before today.”

Melissa slumped into Mrs. Lopez’s arms until summoned assistance arrived. Two nurses guided Melissa into a wheelchair destined to make the return room journey less complicated.

* * *

After two bites, Melissa’s stomach balked, acid rose to burn inside her chest, and she bypassed lunch. With the doctor’s earlier blessing and notice at two p.m. to the nursing supervisor, Melissa carried two flowering African violets to the patient third floor sunroom.

“Young lady, there’s an open chair next to me. You can add more than sunshine to my day.”

“Mr. Pfitzenmaier, your sweet talk will have me blushing in a minute.”

The older gentleman, sitting on an armless wooden chair with a walker at his side, flashed a broad, yellow-stained, ragged-edge-tooth smile. Streaming sunlight from a south-facing window warmed legs encircled with pressure bandages below the knees. Melissa carefully avoided bumping either leg. Additional gauze wrapped both palms with the nicotine-stained fingertips barely visible. “Doubt that. A pretty lady like you must get compliments every day from men younger than seventy-five.” She set one violet on the room’s center table. “And, please call me Oscar.”

The second violet, she decided, should adorn the east windowsill. Melissa greeted two women patients before she honored Oscar’s invitation. One woman responded with a scowl before Melissa turned to Oscar. “How are you today?”

“Doing okay.” He bent sideways, closer. His large, black-rimmed glasses nearly fell off his nose. “That’s if I can sneak a cigarette.” He laughed. “How’s your father? He took a terrible blow from that ceiling beam.”

“He’s in Iowa City. Not too good. We’re all praying for him.” Oscar bowed his head. “Were you at The Abbey Gala?”

“Yes, indeed. Haven’t missed one in thirty years although they’re tamer now.” He placed a bandaged hand in front of his mouth. “Enjoyed myself in the old days. Never had woman refuse a good banquet invitation.”

Melissa sat up straighter, crossed legs at the ankles. “Where were you seated, if you can remember?” She wasn’t trying to be cruel.

“Let’s see, maybe sixth row of tables, aisle on the hallway side.”

She tried to mentally twist perspective from standing on stage to being on the ballroom floor. “Would that be on the left as you face the stage?”

“I’d say so.”

A bath-robed gentleman, newly arrived, stood at the sunroom’s entrance and stared at Melissa and Oscar. A woman in a blue blouse flexed her index finger to have the new visitor come to her. He started to. Melissa lost sight of him as she returned gaze to Oscar. His gala presence intrigued Melissa and closest exit would’ve been via the vestibule she’d been carried through. “You remember seeing a woman being carried out on the shoulders of a man?”

“Yep, sure did.”

Melissa’s fingers to an inside wrist estimated a forty-point pulse rise. “Did you recognize the man?”

“Yep, Clarence Jenkins.”

Melissa couldn’t mentally picture Clarence. She’d heard the name. Possibly a farmer. He’d have calloused hands. “Did you see the woman?”

“Like I said. Maybe a double arm’s length in front of me. Embarrassing it was.” Oscar’s exposed fingertips rubbed his chin.

“Whatcha mean?” Melissa’s stomach twisted into knots; heart palpitations constant, ready to zing off the chart. Was she the woman?

Oscar coughed, a hoarse raspy effort requiring the hand gauze absorb spittle. “Women in short dresses shouldn’t to be carried. You get my drift.”

“Yeah. But maybe you recognized the woman?” Melissa held her breath.

“Oh, yep,” Oscar said. “Pretty woman like you.”

“You saw me?” She could hear the blood pressure cuff pop.

He glanced toward the door. “Would you happen to have a cigarette?”

“Sorry. Don’t smoke.” Fingers inside wrist counted normal plus thirty.

Oscar coughed. Harsh hacking, scraping coughs filled the air. He bent forward; hugged his chest. Melissa noticed Oscar’s strained facial muscles.

Expanded exploding goose bumps poked sweats fleece lining. Heartbeats and breathing quickened as lungs and core organs commandeered blood from head and extremities creating dizzy sensations and unsteady legs should she attempt to stand. Where did staff or patients hide the nurse call button? Even in a sunroom there had to be one. Distant persons out of focus and the woman in blue didn’t move.

The bath-robed man, at the sunroom door, shouted through cupped hands for a nurse followed by an echoed shout of “help.” Nurse in green scrubs ran into the room, stopped on extended right leg. Patient outstretched arms and fingers, except Melissa, pointed at Oscar.

Melissa lowered head to knees to expel the dizziness, be able to stand erect, and to walk to relieve the building tension. Tightened muscles like stretched bungee cords imprisoned her within the chair. The nurse, with hands in Oscar’s armpits, in slow motion pulled and pushed him upright. “Breathe deep,” she said. “Once more.” The nurse’s right hand dropped from beneath a shoulder to his wrist, and then pressed the throat’s right side. Melissa prayed a strong pulse existed. Oscar repeated hacking coughs. The nurse wiped chin with a Kleenex from a uniform front pocket. “Were you smoking earlier today, Oscar?” He shook head no. “You lying?” He repeated the headshake.

The nurse eased Oscar into his chair. “You’ll be okay. Stay sitting and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” The scrub uniform departed. Melissa’s ten-second count confirmed personal near normal pulse and the dizziness evaporated.

“Need you help,” Melissa pleaded. She tried to balance the need to respect Oscar’s health with her unquenched curiosity. The events added urgency. “Clarence Jenkins carried a woman.” Oscar nodded. “Know name?”

“Shirley. Clarence carried Shirley.”

Melissa exhaled to maintain body equilibrium. Shirley a mystery woman. All she knew, Oscar named a woman not her. With the realization Oscar hadn’t identified a black dress, body tension collapsed like a released inflated balloon. “See anyone else?” She expected he hadn’t, but ask she must.

“Yep.”

The Oscar roller coaster ride continued. Should she doubt acceptance of his current and prior statements? “Being carried?”

“Not that. Only saw Clarence.”

“That’s okay.” Melissa’s forearm laid on the walker aluminum. “Will you be all right if I leave?” Not that she’d been much help a few minutes ago.

“Coughing comes and goes. Nothing compared to the leg pain at night. Stepped on burning wood; caught pants on fire. Had to beat out the flames with bare hands. Did see Emil Gunderson’s daughter, Alice, on the floor. Wave of people kept me away. Had to follow fireman to an ambulance. That help?”

She knew it didn’t. “A little.” Oscar smiled. “You should know Alice broke arm, but is doing well.”

“Yep, thought so. Saw her in the hall the other day with a therapist. Think heard boyfriend’s in a top floor room. I’m not sure. Hard to keep track with so many coming and going.”

Melissa noticed the woman in the blue blouse kept staring at her. “If you remember any other man carrying a woman, please get a hold of me. Or, if you hear someone else remember. Will you do that?”

“Anything for a pretty lady.”

Melissa rose and walked around the center table to say hello to the staring woman. The second woman who scowled spoke first. “You’re a Malone, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Melissa Malone.”

The woman’s gray hair stretched tight across scalp into a bun. When she spoke, face wrinkles deepened into furrows. Melissa thought the room hot with the sun’s rays although the woman wore a knitted sweater, buttoned top to bottom. “You Malone’s should feel guilty so many people died or were hurt bad. That Abbey shoulda been torn down years ago. It’s a travesty for what happened there.”

“Don’t know what you mean,” Melissa replied. “The Abbey has been a community asset. Children and families have benefited by Abbey programs.”

“Wouldn’t expect a Malone to admit to the evil left by people living there.”

Melissa didn’t feel the coldness of evil in flushed skin. “I’ve been in The Abbey often. Evil doesn’t exist, not even in gang graffiti for students respect the opportunity for wholesome fun.”

“What about the past? You can’t ignore the past.”

”I’ve heard stories, but offered no proof.”

“Proof! You want proof?” The woman’s hysterical shouts caused all to gaze at her. The seated woman’s cane, waved back and forth across touching knees, nearly struck Melissa. “I’m your proof.”

Melissa gasped. “What? What proof?”

The clutched cane and the woman’s upper torso sank into the sunroom’s webbed chair. She took a hankie from a left arm sleeve and wiped the spittle from parted lips. “My mother was raped by one of the monks. Her cousin too.”

Melissa stretched an arm to grab a chair, dragged it across the floor, and sat facing the two women, an embroidered name of Rose visible on the blue blouse collar. “Bet your name’s Rose.” The lady in blue smiled. Melissa gazed at the second woman. “What’s your name?”

“Constance Mildred.” The woman stared at Melissa’s green sneakers.

“Can you help me understand?” Melissa gazed to the lady in blue, but didn’t wish to ignore Constance for she realized the hospital often treated county mental health facility residents. These patients, considered not to pose a danger to society, lived with severely damaged reasoning powers. Melissa didn’t know if Constance qualified, or for that matter the lady in blue.

“My mother and her cousin came here as novitiates from Poland,” Constance began. “Monsignor McAleer assigned them a room with a bunk bed in The Abbey basement. He said once they completed their vows they’d move to the regular nun quarters. He’d take them one at a time when the bells struck two to a room behind chapel altar, choke them naked before he violated them.”

Melissa’s hand raised lower jaw. She’d heard something strikingly similar. A monsignor by that name reassigned. “Those are serious charges.”

“Not charges! Truth!” The woman shifted from side to side in the chair. One foot stomped the floor. “My mother got impregnated by this priest. She ran away in shame. And, her cousin went insane.” She stomped a foot once more. “Won’t tell you where it is, but I paid for a DNA test three years ago. It confirmed Monsignor McAleer as my father.”

Melissa grabbed both chair arms. Constance, if her real name, provided a verifiable story. Without a doubt and for the sake of The Abbey, Melissa tried to think of a way to put the cork back into the bottle. Enough people in the sunroom could’ve heard to enflame the community in one gossip cycle and doom The Abbey’s rebuilding. “I believe you. When we’re both out of here, let me invite you to Wally’s Club. Never knew of your heartache.”

“That’s okay. A pretty girl like you probably has a nice home, handsome husband, and a houseful of kids.”

“No. I’m single.”

“Pity.” The woman in blue nodded to Constance’s remark.

Melissa excused herself. Her initial thoughts to visit additional fire survivors tabled. In her room, without changing into a hospital gown, she lay supine atop sheets with both eyes closed. She’d relied before on visualization, a goal achieving method. She pictured herself standing in the kitchen, an apron tied around waist and two young boys eating lunch. This won’t work. I’ll never be the 1950s stereotypical housewife painted in Norman Rockwell fashion by the sunroom’s woman in blue. Nor give up Wally’s Club. She opened eyes to see a nurse in green scrubs leave.

Melissa realized first visualization attempt began too shallow and stereotypical. She visualized Jane and Pedro’s strength, especially Jane’s courage to confront debilitating fears. Jane, conditioned by a controlling mother, abhorred hospitals and passed out numerous times within their walls. Melissa visualized relationship commitment as a fear that knocked her out. Sarah suggested in a late night gabfest Melissa needed to get past outward appearances and grasp inner feelings. As Sarah phrased it: feel the pulse of the other person’s heart and soul.

Her search for Rob Campbell at the gala was to have been a journey to explore Sarah’s suggestion with Melissa willing to be the pursuer. Rob’s employment didn’t meet an ideal of a high-powered job with material trappings. His bureaucratic mid-level position with the city allowed time to be at home without frequent extensive travel. She hadn’t heard any damaging scuttlebutt. From prior personal experience with the zoning commission, he exercised a strict code of right and wrong. From youthful paper route to high school basketball to decorated military service he both knew and was revered by many in the community. That would be good for Wally’s Club. Stop Melissa. This soul searching is personal, not business.

Contrary to Sarah’s admonitions to disregard, she considered Rob’s handsomeness a plus, notwithstanding the black patch issued by the U.S. Army to protect his left eye socket until an acrylic eyeball could be inserted. He must have sexual ability. She released a schoolgirl giggle. Although he and Nancy didn’t have kids, they were together years before her disappearance after his return from the Army. It wasn’t like either sought a divorce or an annulment. Yet, Rob hadn’t seemed to move on after Nancy’s disappearance. Cancer patients couldn’t obtain the most life offered until discovering a focus outside their own skins and Rob’s apparent chronic introspection a concern. But couldn’t she likewise condemn herself? However, she couldn’t evaluate or determine what was indeed true without knowing Rob better. If absolutely hostile, he wouldn’t have visited with Bull and Steve although his actions markedly reserved. The card with the boxed Willow Angel bore his signature, along with Bull, Steve, and Lisa.

The Abbey fire complicated all future attempts to “touch his soul.” The quest, admittedly limited, to identify the rescuing mystery man had been fruitless to date. Oscar lifted hope’s spirit only to quash it by identifying Clarence ostensibly carrying his wife. Then the plant delivery to spread joy to others hospitalized brought forth apparent truth of previously rumored past sexual slavery sins associated with the historic nunnery. Constance’s pronouncement delivered with passionate, seething anger and undeniable proof, if verified. Although decades in the past, vestiges of clergy abuse would dry donations and kill Father’s dream. She couldn’t let that happen even if it meant a future destiny lived to the grave as a frustrated old maid.

Eyes opened at the sound of footsteps. The nurse returned to record vital signs. Melissa remembered a promise to call Father.

* * *

At ten o’clock the next morning, Melissa waited in a wheelchair inside the hospital entrance with wet concrete visible through the glass doors. Hands folded discharge papers, cinched a plastic bag pull cord safeguarding few soiled clothes, and the Willow Angel Rob presumably contributed to.

Early morning raindrops no longer bounced off the concrete and Melissa required little help in getting into Sarah’s Ford Taurus. They chatted about their mundane morning activities until Sarah remarked the day represented the fire’s first week anniversary.

Melissa asked her friend to detour past The Abbey before dropping her at home. Within minutes, Melissa’s lower jaw slacked when presented with the destruction panorama beyond the lowered passenger window. Reality clashed with the brain’s memory of a towering bell tower, biblical stained-glass windows, and Father’s shade garden and curving mulch pathway.

Sarah applied the brakes and cut the engine; Melissa watched her friend’s hands tightly grip the Taurus steering wheel.

“Omigawd, Sarah. Never expected all this devastation.”

Partial stonewalls streaked black by flames coated in soot. Two tower bells crashed to earth and padlocked in chains. The building’s ballroom roof caved in. Father’s Patriot Hostas, roses, daylilies, and ornamental bushes trampled or crushed, even the mulch charred. Melissa couldn’t stem the tears. Salty streaks streamed from eyes to jaw. She wiped a cheek with the back of a hand. “Father’s hard work all gone. How do we start over?”

Sarah stared unblinking at the debris. No facial movement until tight, compressed lips parted. “You’ll find the silver lining. You always have.”

“If we tap the spirit of the kids, rebuilding will materialize. Never realized so many people could recount a connection to The Abbey.”

“Many were friends of your dad.” Sarah released steering wheel grip.

“Countless numbers asked me to convey their best wishes.” Melissa watched Sarah lower a hand to unlatch the driver’s door. “Found it hard to express Father’s condition. You know Mrs. Longstreet don’t you?”

Sarah rested hand at the door handle. “If you mean the retired spinster teacher, sure. I’m thinking I might end up alone like her.”

“She asked about Father, and while we spoke early this morning in her room I noticed she didn’t have a single plant or bouquet. Later located two plants where the giver hadn’t written on the store tag and took both to second floor nurse’s station. Lied they’d been wrongly delivered.” Sarah removed hand from the door handle. “Hope Mrs. Longstreet doesn’t remember my sixth grade handwriting.” Melissa tried to flash a mischievous smile.

“You’ve made me cry.”

Neither opened car doors, stared at the ruins. Sparrows, finches, and wrens flew past seemingly unwilling to land where life no longer flourished. Melissa repressed thoughts of Rob and any man. She permitted an aborted memory attempt to conjure up an image of the male who carried her off the stage. He should be nominated for an award.

She continued to stare at the massive ruin. Finally, deep within her subconscious, clouds, dark, black, and ominous were all she could visualize. The clouds surrounded and pressed against the optic nerve creating a blindfold masking all reality, feet kicking, suspended alone in unknown sphere.

* * *

Lounging in sweats on the sofa, Melissa turned down Sarah’s telephone invitation for a Saturday night at the movies. Dark crescents supporting both eyes deepened in bluish-black color each time she walked past the closet mirror until she slammed the door. The prior night’s dinner tossed under the kitchen sink after a mock race of meat, mashed potatoes, and carrots powered by a fork lapped the plate four times. Thereafter, restful sleep never came in the first night home since the fire. Spirits conjured up terrifying images of a fiery hell and exploding brimstone. Flames engulfed a church steeple. Men screamed. A bleeding woman lay trampled and pummeled by the hoofs of a rearing stallion. A little girl crying with black-streaked cheeks crouched behind a Sacred Heart statute holding tight to an American Girl doll. She woke up startled and alone clutching a pillow. In reality the statute of Jesus with its visible heart in The Abbey Chapel toppled and damaged beyond repair. The nightmare individuals roamed without distinguishable faces.

This morning she telephoned Dr. Raverty. Carol agreed to pick up a sleeping pill prescription on her way over. The front door bell clanged. Handed the prescription, Melissa stored it in the master bathroom and invited Carol into the kitchen where both eventually wandered to seated table positions.

“You want to stay with me for a few days?” Carol asked. She accepted a bottle of iced tea offered by Melissa.

“Need to battle and conquer my fears.”

“You’ve always had an independent streak. The community I’m sure labels it as drive.” Carol took a sip. “Don’t let yourself drift into plain old Malone stubbornness.”

“Won’t. Don’t you get Abbey nightmares?”

“Sure. Then try to force myself to think positive. Visited Dad yesterday. He’s taken a turn for the worst.” Melissa rubbed closed eyelids. “His eyes sparkled when I mentioned we’d begun clearing debris for rebuilding. Dad mumbled our brothers visited once for a few minutes and haven’t been back. We need to regroup, act as a family.”

“Wish I had your ability to climb out of life’s valleys so quickly.” Melissa poured glass of iced tea for herself.

“You do. Think positive. For example, Mark.”

Melissa’s dry, ready-to-crack facial skin felt enflamed beneath the flaking. “Please, forget Mark. His nightmare competes with the fire’s terror.”

“Don’t hold the pain in. Agonizing isn’t worth it. Let me tell you it’s a lesson I’ve learned from divorce counseling.” Melissa stood and added cookies to the table. Carol bit into one. “Sugar free, ugh.”

Melissa sneezed into a tissue taken from a hoodie pocket. “Sorry. Think it’s allergies, not a cold. I’ll tell you one time. Then we forever forget.”

Carol glanced toward the refrigerator. “Have wine to kill the cookie taste?” Melissa shook head no. “Okay, what’s the skinny with Mark?”

Melissa’s mind loaded and replayed stored mental videotape. “Let me explain. A shaft of winter’s early light passed through the delicate lacey frost on the apartment windowpane. In Mark’s bedroom the light danced provocatively upon the lampshade while I cursed the dawn to wait. Head hurt. Little strength reserved to push up eyelids. Turned on my side, body scented sheets enveloped me. Remember fluffing the pillow; burying nose in the softness.”

“Where’s Mark?” Carol asked.

“Hold on, I’m getting there. The New Year’s Eve party at Mark’s apartment lasted past two. Hadn’t done that in years. You know I try to protect our family reputation and never be a distraction or gossip scandal topic. Contributors to Wally’s Club have to believe a singular dedication focuses on applying their donations to benefit struggling adults and suffering children. Not prop up a trashy party girl lifestyle. The cancer patient’s smiles matter most of all. All smiles geared to encourage drawing a visitor’s gaze down and away from the patient’s bald scalp badge of chemotherapy.”

“Okay, okay. Again, my question, where’s Mark fit into all this? Don’t disagree you work hard to protect our family and Wally’s Club. I’m concerned about you, not gossip.” Carol buried the bitten cookie with a napkin.

Melissa’s hand pushing front to back across scalp separated blond strands. Its silky feel recovered from the aftereffect of an ill-advised generic shampoo attempt the first night at the hospital and not the ravages of cancer. Triple conditioning applications, the latest one that morning, infused hair strands with new body. “Hold on. I’m getting there. We were in Mark’s bed. He’d run fingers through my hair and cupped chin in his soft hands. He professed and my entire body trembled when he complimented I possessed heavenly qualities God only bestowed on angels.”

“Wow. I’d tremble too,” Carol interrupted, returning bottle to the table.

“Quit it. I’m trying to be serious. I’ll censor the recollection if you want to make editorial comments.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“Initially hadn’t wanted to stay past ten o’clock, but by then the Chateau St. Michael bottle Mark poured from contained not one more drop. Not that I objected, mind you. Mark switched to whisky, splashed into a bourbon glass straight up. Thought that since I stopped at three glasses of wine and drank black coffee, I’d be able to drive home at eleven. Sarah and Alice paced anxious to leave so I said good night to them and three others. Alone, Mark turned off TV, turned on Barry White CD, and I curled next to him on the sofa.”

“Are we getting to the good part?” Melissa stared. “Sorry.”

“Sort of. Maybe the wine, maybe not. Lips labored to find passion. Kisses always the end. We’d been dating for five and one-half months. You know that was long enough for the staff at Wally’s to consider us a couple.” Carol clasped hands on the table. “To heighten your anticipation let me digress from the sofa to mention Alice’s comments. When out with the girls, Alice would often grab my left hand and ask: ‘Where’s the ring?’ I’d almost convinced myself it would be just a matter of time. Mark, on the sofa in the throes of professing his love for me, reminded me we were no longer teenagers.” Carol twirled bottle in palms. “Nestled together, Mark’s arm caressed shoulders while he spoke softly I’d made a big difference in his life. He said knowing I loved him let him sleep though the night.”

“Sweet.”

“Mark explained he no longer awoke two or three hours before his set alarm hour. He could sleep until a normal morning hour. Early on I hadn’t attributed his inability to sleep or early rising to any particular physical problem, but took comfort in being able to put him at ease and make life better. Finally his kisses and embrace on the sofa stirred a passion within me and obliterated concerns of being a one-night stand.”

“I’m not saying anything, but hold on a moment while I get a second tea.”

“If you’re ready.” Melissa sipped to quench a growing thirst. “Didn’t feel any misgivings in suggesting his bed would be more comfortable than the sofa.” She paused to internally chuckle remembering his fumbling with feminine buttons, hooks, and zipper. She also hadn’t mastered men’s pants with clasps and a button in addition to a zipper. Must have been the alcohol!

Carol stared. “You going to let me in on the funny?”

“No. Censored.” Melissa pursed lips. “You imagine we fumbled with our clothes in Mark’s bedroom. Thought the alcohol caused fingers to temporarily botch the job. Well anyway, Mark traced fingertips on nakedness as I lay on the bed. He began with shoulders, moved downward to breasts, and then to the split of my legs. You excited yet?”

“Yes, but with personal memories. Weird to listen to your little sister.”

“Well, put hands over your ears at any point. Remember my skin tingled but my heart didn’t pound with excitement. Tried to stoke own fires with my hand grasping his manliness. With manipulation I hoped the Play Dough initially felt would rise to become the Rock of Gibraltar. It didn’t.”

“You read that somewhere? You didn’t just make it up, did you?”

“My own. Didn’t see you cover your ears.”

“Why? Need to hear the whole story so I can help.”

“Mark tried to enter me, but no engine spark exploded the passion piston. Gyrated hips and tried to rub closer, all to no avail. Hugs remained, only hugs and soft kisses. Mark declared hugs and kisses satisfied him.”

“Weird.”

“Guess I should still consider myself a virgin?”

“Guess so.” A quizzical look rose in Carol’s eyes. “He do anything else?”

“Not that night. Quickly dressed the next morning glad no mirror hung on the wall to reflect how dreadful I must’ve looked. Wasn’t until tiptoeing toward the hallway door with shoes in hand I realized only I occupied the bedroom. Mark, unshaven, met me in the kitchen. His unwashed face sullen beneath unruly hair; he stated how beauty could be skin deep. I cut him off.”

“Why?”

“He hung his head and I stumbled with words unwilling to accept the culprit had been alcohol or the oblique suggestion his failure rested with me. The more he blamed me, the more upset I became until finally shouting any relationship between us wouldn’t work. ‘Consider it over’ yelled twice. Those were my exact words: consider it over.”

“Then why did he visit you in the hospital with flowers?” Carol drank until a bottle bottom appeared.

“Have no idea. He possesses enough intelligence to understand it ended long ago. Perhaps he’s not as perfect as I thought or the community believes.” Melissa’s forehead touched the kitchen table.

Carol’s hand stretched to touch a shoulder. “Take a sleeping pill; let your body rejuvenate. We’ll forget Mark. We can visit Dad after mass tomorrow.”

* * *

Badge wearing ushers squeezed late arrivers into the second and third pews of St. Pious XII Catholic Church. Melissa’s glance viewed each pew packed shoulder-to-shoulder this Saturday, two weeks and a day after the fire. A somber soloist high in the rear choir balcony sang Ave Maria. Lit candles flickered beneath floods highlighting the altar. Boulder Isle notables all there.

Advancing up the center aisle, Aleck Malone’s oak and brass coffin passed two pews a minute en route to its position of honor in front of the altar communion rail. Melissa’s black pique knit Garner dress, fashionably hemmed below the knee with its bodice top tightly laced and adorned by a single strand of white-cultured pearls. Blond hair curls cascaded to shoulders. Carol lent a black veil Melissa periodically struggled to keep aligned on her head’s crown as the hat twisted on its bobby pins.

Mercifully, the hearse led procession to the church offered a moment of peace. Melissa in the funeral home parlor couldn’t force herself to shake another hand nor dab moist eyes with scented tissue. The fresh-cut flower fragrance overwhelming. The community must have purchased every petal and stem available from the city’s Flowers Plus florist. The funeral director activated an extra viewing room to display the stately, massive bouquets with several arrangements trucked to the church to adorn the gilded altar.

Asked to do a scripture reading, Melissa declined.

Father Roger Merth, officiating at the funeral mass, began with, for him, a characteristically straightforward commentary recognizing Father’s civic contributions, his infectious spirit of volunteerism, and generous church tithing. The Pious XII pastor made no eulogy mention of The Abbey lest those in attendance attach negative thoughts to the Malone family patriarch although Father never tarred with the priestly indiscretions under The Abbey roof. He’d only wanted to protect the former nunnery’s architectural history and grandeur, especially the chapel. Several smaller convent residence buildings razed until only the main building remained. And, for forty years he’d organized fund-raisers to pay for maintenance and upkeep the diocese, despite his pleas, wouldn’t provide. He couldn’t be faulted or chastised for what went on within its walls when he hadn’t been there. Father kept the walls tuck-pointed, the utilities paid, and the ballroom functioning to provide wholesome plays for children and a large adequate venue for community and family get-togethers.

Despite the persistent rumors of the fire’s cause, Father couldn’t be blamed for a city grandfathering interior propane storage behind the kitchen that should have been restricted to an outside stand-alone propane tank no less than thirty feet from an inhabited building. He’d raised questions and been told the double safety values and barriers around the interior tanks provided adequate precaution to prevent a calamity. She hadn’t seen reports, but the blast intensity she’d experienced could’ve solely emanated and rolled from those interior kitchen propane tanks.

The congregation stood, in unison reciting the Our Father. Soon the funeral mass would be history, Father interned into his final resting place and the world would await rebuilding The Abbey. Father told a gathering of all four kids years ago after his second marriage he’d purchased a cemetery lot separate from and didn’t need to be placed in the family crypt under The Abbey. He explained he wasn’t saving The Abbey exclusively for his family or to glorify any family tradition or legacy. The crypt itself within city limits because Boulder Isle expanded to plat housing subdivisions and retail strip malls adjacent to the plot of ground great-great-grandfather Cyrus Malone dedicated as a family burial mound on a bluff overlooking a mighty river. He hadn’t envisioned The Abbey would later be built over the family crypt as part of an agreement for the diocesan purchase of several adjoining land parcels.

Melissa rose to follow the coffin. The hearse led the funeral possession past The Abbey ruins. Soot-covered stone ghoulishly streaked from the prior week’s rain. What she witnessed could have been nature’s mimicking of the tear-streaked faces of her, Carol, and assembled mourners.

* * *

Monday morning a Boulder Isle city truck dropped off Rob on the sidewalk adjacent to The Abbey. He desired a second look for the object Carol Malone fixated eyes on when the two met at The Abbey. Du ja vue when a car parked across the street. This time the woman wore a pants suit.

“Good morning, Melissa.” His formal enunciation reflected respect.

Melissa’s soft tone asked, “Why are you here? Carol didn’t tell me she submitted rebuilding plans to the city.”

“No Abbey plans filed.” He clipped a tape measure to his belt and absorbed the tension radiating from Melissa’s glum facial expression and rigid shoulders. He didn’t remember anything he’d done recent to upset her, although he smarted from her zoning commission appearance two years previous where his recommendation had been ignored. “Mayor Johnson requested an updated report.”

“He can’t drive by?”

Rob didn’t want to speak snarky or answer any questions about the mayor’s abilities or intentions. His mind totally mesmerized at the moment by her zoning board appearance. “Do you remember two years ago when you appeared before the zoning commission to argue for a porch variance?”

“Yes, why? You changing the historical requirements.”

“It just came to mind.” His sole scraped concrete.

“Better not. My home in the historic district featured a Victorian façade similar to neighboring homes, except the rear porch, a key architectural element, torn off.” She pushed three or four hair strands off forehead.

“If I recall you bought that house from Emil Gunderson, Alice’s father.”

“That’s public record.”

What wasn’t public record had been the way Melissa played the committee member emotions as he expected she could try on him. But two years of dealing with persons seeking variances strengthened him in the undercurrents of zoning appeals. “Then and now the existing rules for building setback are unambiguous. Your application for a variance deserved to be denied as I recommended.”

“Why you still obsessing about something two years old?”

“Zoning has to be consistent as well as according to the agreed rules. What you got the commission to do was an aberration from sound principles.”

“As I recall you sat at that meeting with the city’s code regulations on the table in front of you.” He noticed she’d crossed arms across her chest. “I might not have read the entire book but I think it opens with a statement that strong communities are preserved by encouraging a connection to historic traditions and maintaining past structures.” Rob shook head one time and then kept it still. “My architect didn’t deviate from the original porch in either dimensions or materials. You know that. You had to have read my application.”

Escalating warmth grew at the nape of his neck and he breathed a sign of relief he’d left tie in the office. “I did and your application factually admitted that the porch would fail to meet the code’s ten-foot setback requirement. If you recall, I also pointed out to the commission that they’d voted down a neighbor’s application for the same type variance.”

“That house had a significant difference. They were erecting a new porch. I was restoring an old porch to recreate the home’s historical past.”

“No difference. The setback consistency is what’s key. Your neighbors were two elderly spinsters. They didn’t wear high heels that clicked on the hearing room wood floor nor did they wear a fashionable, purple-and-white, frilly dress—the exact school colors of Boulder Isle High School. Nor a waist-length white cotton jacket to add a touch of business conservatism.”

“You know, I’m impressed in a way. Seldom does a man remember what a woman wore two days ago unless it’s a sluttish leather mini.”

Her jabs struck like dagger pricks. He tapped a foot. Objectively he had to admire her for belittling him after condemnation of her employing blatant sex appeal and community pride to win a personal victory. Rob recalled how, at her commission appearance, his pulse quickened; when all attention in the room, especially his, devoured her wholesome, well-proportioned beauty. His fingers tapped the table in time to swaying hips. She affected his emotions more than he’d ever let on, especially never to her. She gazed straight into the eyes of each commissioner with a sincerity that would’ve melted Ebenezer Scrooge’s reluctance to add a coal briquette to Bob Cratchit’s office stove. He envied her power to this day. The Melissa standing before him hadn’t changed in either beauty or persuasive ability.

“You wouldn’t know it, but I have a copy of what the newspaper reporter wrote of your commission appearance in my office desk. He characterized it as your assuming the biblical battlefield role of David facing Goliath.”

Deflated by a lack of a response, he believed she toyed with him again. She gazed toward a huge power crane lifting a section of twisted metal. What else could he do, but wait.

“Think I have a copy of that article too. I’d spent a great deal of time composing that speech. It set forth principles still important to me. I believe I said the Malone family has for decades supported the goals and desires of this community to restore and maintain our sense of history, including turn-of-the-century houses. That, and its location six blocks from downtown, motivated me to buy my home in the historic district. I have great neighbors.”

“And, in your favor the commission voted to destroy regulations they were duty bound to uphold.” Rob’s feet planted squarely.

“That’s sour grapes. The city had the power to appeal the commission’s decision and didn’t.”

Rob stared at her. What arrogance. She knew the city wouldn’t spend scare tax dollars to fight a porch worth less than ten thousand dollars. If she’s counting on that with regards to The Abbey she’ll be in for a surprise. He sheathed the argumentative daggers for festering anger would only consume him, not undo a commission decision two years old. If there existed a way for him to gracefully withdraw from this conversation, he should opt for it now. “Can’t debate what the city attorney decided to pursue or not pursue two years ago nor debate what he decided to ignore. But I can give you my opinion.”

Melissa angled three steps sideways before the sound of a loud crash. Rob turned to see where a front-end loader apparently missed its dump into a truck. Thankfully no worker injured.

“Again, why rehash a two year old event? You planning to visit with a sledgehammer and bash my porch.”

“Heavens no. That’s absurd!” Rob gazed into Melissa’s eyes and mentally conjured up the grace, determination, and suffocating commission appeal she’d demonstrated. Today she radiated an identical beauty, but no boyfriend Rob talked to could explain why each romantic relationship eventually ended in the dumpster. Beneath the glamour, he concluded Melissa’s heart must pump ice cubes into veins. More important, if destiny demanded he battle the Malone family, he needed a stronger grip on his emotions. “I’ve seen enough here. Have a great day.”

“Thanks. I could give you a ride to City Hall.”

After a deliberate headshake no, he walked away. He passed hardhat construction workers carting large chunks of charred Abbey debris to a waiting flatbed truck with staked wooden sides. He stopped abruptly when he heard one worker call out, “What’s this door? It’s got a new padlock.” A worker in a different colored hardhat unrolled a set of building plans. The supervisor’s loud shout confirmed Carol’s earlier tearful statement. “That’s the entrance to a family burial crypt. Leave it alone.”

* * *

Melissa the next day returned to The Abbey grounds to insert a key Father had into the padlock near the Sacred Heart Chapel ruins. When the plated-steel crypt door swung out, an exposed flight of descending concrete stairs disappeared into darkness behind hanging cobwebs dotted with decayed insects. Prepared with a flashlight in hand, she bent low, swatted cobwebs with a gloved hand, and slowly entered into the eerie, rarely entered mausoleum crypt. Carol followed. Father’s journal records stated twelve Malone family members were buried beneath The Abbey chapel.

At the bottom of the stairs, she entered the main crypt chamber and found no organization whatsoever. A flashlight beam landed on caskets pointing every which way, one casket even stacked upon another.

“Who’d ever decide to be buried down here?” Carol’s words echoed Melissa’s thoughts. “Unless, of course, they desired their remains never to be visited or absolutely detested plastic Wal-Mart flowers being spiked every now and then next to any above ground headstone.”

“Beats me.” Melissa’s flashlight beam retraced original crisscross.

“Look here. Here’s a handwritten cardboard sign that says this space reserved for Dad.” Carol picked it up for inspection. “Sign appears relatively new. Do you think he was down here? What about what he told us about the other cemetery burial plot?”

Melissa shook head. The mustiness began to trigger allergies and she desired to bolt. “We can’t leave his body in the funeral home forever.”

“Right. That hole dug in the church cemetery for the graveside service has to be filled in with or without his casket. It’s been twenty years or so since I’ve been down here. You know who wrote this sign about Dad?” Carol leaned it against the casket where she found it.

“Don’t know, never saw it before, and don’t like it down here. It’s spooky.” She rotated a flashlight beam around the crypt’s interior. To Melissa’s eyes it contained plenty of space, could even be considered spacious. The concrete exterior walls appeared intact, the floor dry. She should have worn a surgical mask. Beginning at the entrance she walked counterclockwise and began to count aloud the visible wooden and metal caskets: “One, two, three ... eleven, twelve, thirteen.” By her count Father would be the fourteenth person or casket to be entombed and his triskaidekaphobia fear totally unfounded.

“Carol, didn’t Dad’s written funeral instructions have a personal footnote saying, if he became the next Malone to die, he’d have the dubious distinction of being the unlucky thirteenth person buried in this crypt?”

“Yes, and he often joked because of his age he earned a head start to be the family’s unlucky thirteen curse.” Carol tiptoed around Melissa for what Melissa believed to be Carol’s own count and noticed Carol squeezed her nose nostrils closed as she passed. Melissa held her breath and pointed flashlight at the casket her sister tried to lift to presumably assure all contained remains. Carol’s hand slid under coffin lids to test for seal breaches. Melissa stepped back as Carol clapped hands to knock the dirt and grime from brown, cloth gloves. “Your count’s accurate. Dad makes fourteen, not thirteen. The superstitious fear troubled him for no good reason. I say we call the funeral home and bring Dad here for burial with his ancestors and sell or save the other cemetery lot he purchased for a cousin or someone.”

Carol edged past a coffin to reach the ascending stairs. Melissa hurried to follow. At the bottom step, Melissa abruptly stopped. Could the extra casket contain her mother? A reason had to exist for the new padlock. Father told her Mother ran off in a manic rage triggered by depression a month after Melissa graduated high school. Yet, Melissa heard the ambulance sirens. Twice before, Mother, strapped onto a gurney and hoisted into an awaiting ambulance, would return several days later. The first time Melissa had been but seven years old and totally mortified. The third time occurred almost fourteen years ago and Mother never returned. A maid scrubbed the hallway leading from her parent’s bedroom for days. Father refused to talk about it and waited a year to divorce Mother in absentia.

Carol pivoted halfway up the stairs. “You okay?”

“Just thinking. Father’s missed the unlucky-thirteen curse if all are Malone family members. This metal casket, near the stairs, bears no name or identity inscription. What if down here rests a freeloader whose heirs didn’t want to shell out for a public cemetery plot?”

Carol didn’t offer a response. The sisters in silence ascended to breathe in above ground fresh air. Melissa’s question left unanswered.