Eighty-Sixed: Chapter 34 - Stained Glass

The hours that followed days were like slow painful labor, a perpetual ache amplified by repeated phone calls met with nothing more than busy signals and occasional false hopes from ringtones suddenly interrupted and disconnected.  Once after dialing, the phone rang and continued to ring for several minutes before the line fell ominously silent.  It gave Olivia a sinking in her gut nearly the same as when Jeremy had called and told her David had drowned in his kayaking accident.  

Not one hour had passed since the incident wherein Olivia didn’t try to call David’s childhood home at least once.  The only thing holding her together was the hope that David was somehow alive, that oxygen coursed through his lungs again, that his heart was beating, that he was her David once more, even if he was now younger than when they first met.  Assuming he was like everyone else who had died and somehow returned, assuming he was breathing once again like so many once-dead people now alive and well, then surely David was somewhere in the world, remembering all they had shared.  Surely he was seeking her as fervently as she was seeking him.

A gentle knock came upon the door and Grace, Olivia’s mother, slowly opened the door without waiting for an answer.  

“We’re going to go to Mass,” Grace said.   

“Mass?”

“At St. Mary’s.” 

“Why on earth are you doing that?” Olivia asked.

“Olivia,” Grace said sadly, looking down.

“Seriously, Mother.  Why on earth are you bothering?”

“We don’t know what else to do,” Grace said.  

They fell into the uncomfortable silence of mothers and daughters who have stopped seeing each other as such.

“I’ll see you when you get back,” Olivia finally said.

“You can come with us.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Olivia said.  “I don’t think God wants to hear what I have to say to Him right now.”

“Well,” Grace said.  “I don’t even know how to reply to that.”

“If God exists…” Olivia started.

“He does.”

“If God exists, then for the life of me I can’t understand what He is trying to accomplish with all this.”

“You don’t think God exists?”

“I have no doubt God exists,” Olivia responded.  “And at the moment that just makes me angrier. Okay? I can’t explain why I believe it, but I do.  But right now?  I’ve lost my husband.  I’ve lost my kids.  I’m a teenager again back on a farm in Illinois.  My entire life has been obliterated, so excuse me if I’m a little pissed off at God.”

Mickey stepped into the room behind Grace. 

“Don’t say that,” he said gently.  

“Dad, don’t,” Olivia said.

“Your children, but we lost our grandchildren,” Mickey said.  “You don’t get the monopoly on being angry.  But don’t talk that way about God.  Trust me, nothing good will come from that.”

“I can’t be angry at God?” Olivia answered.  “The omniscient, all-powerful creator of the universe can’t handle someone being angry at him?”

“We won’t begrudge you if you don’t want to join us,” Mickey said and turned to leave the room.

“What makes you think there’s even a priest there?” Olivia asked.

“Even in a blizzard, Fr. McClintock used to celebrate Mass every day at eleven,” Grace said.  “If he’s alive again like all the others, well, you know how he was.  A creature of habit and all that.”

“He’ll be there,” Mickey said. 

Olivia felt the sinking again, of complete hopelessness and utter loss beyond the depth of despair where any remote semblance of repair was unimaginable.  Every moment it seemed a thousand additional memories she’d long buried flooded her mind.  The unanswered prayers of her youth, of the awkward not belonging in this small town that she worked so desperately to escape, her attempts to flee and establish a new life, a new home, a new time and place and existence that had nothing to do with this farming community and tractors and corn mazes and harvest season and Mickey and Grace and drunken teenage parties in far off fields.  

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Olivia said. She threw the blankets off of her legs.  “Get out of the room so I can get dressed.”

“You’re coming with us?” Grace asked doubtfully.

“I have no idea why I should,” Olivia said.  “But I have to do something or I’ll go insane.”

Minutes later they walked out the back door together.  Though none could describe it, all three felt the shadow of the inescapable sensation that no time had passed. It was as if Mark and Rosie had never existed, and perhaps all she’d experienced with David was nothing but the substance of a pleasant dream.  

“I always loved this old truck,” Mickey said as he started it up.  It was still a few years before it unexpectedly blew an engine rod and jolted to a sudden halt on the western edge of Highway Nine, out by the fields owned by Mr. and Mrs. Poole.  The truck revved up with a smooth purr.  

“Look at that,” Mickey marveled.  “It’s only got a hundred and twenty K on it.”

“You got nearly double that out of her,” Grace remembered.

“It’s like we got a free spin on Wheel of Fortune,” Mickey said, smiling at his wife sitting next to him.

“I must have landed on Bankrupt,” Olivia said from the window seat.  

They drove silently down their long bumpy gravel drive between their two main fields before turning left and heading into Cornerstone.  Edging slowly through town they marveled at the sight of the True Value with its crisp red awning not yet weathered and torn and hanging as a desperate reminder of the inevitable closing of this and several other stores in Cornerstone.  

Mickey then turned right onto Court Street and waved at what looked like Sheriff Dunlop with his Ronald Reagan-like part of reddish brown hair.  A half mile further down the road they turned left onto Fourteenth and came to a stop several driveways down from Mary Queen of Peace.  The church’s tiny ten-car parking lot was already packed and full. 

“Looks like other people had the same idea,” Grace said.

“There must be a hundred cars here,” Mickey said.  

They peered out the windshield at the long stretch of cars pulled off the edges of the narrow road on both sides, all the way down the road and past the Church.  

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many people here at once,” Grace said.

“Except for that Wheeler funeral,” Olivia said.

“Oh my,” Grace said.  “You don’t suppose she’s here, do you?”

“That was in the spring of ’86,” Mickey said.  “Janie Wheeler was already dead by now.”

“By just a few weeks,” Olivia said.

“Oh, those poor boys,” Grace said.  “To go through all this again.”

As they walked towards the Church Mickey and Grace leaned heavily upon each other, hands clasped, shoulders touching, as if each was using the other as a crutch to walk through this newly refurbished reality.  Olivia wordlessly walked several feet behind her parents.  It was hot and humid, the sun blazing in a cloudless sky on a typical Illinois day in July.

The doors opened and yet another rush of buried memories washed over Olivia.  The dusty smell of that old dark burgundy carpet, the rumbling murmur of whispering voices, the orange and off-blue beams of light crisscrossing from the menagerie of stained glass images depicting feast days and stories related to the Blessed Virgin.  

The Annunciation. 

The Assumption.  

The Nativity.  

The Coronation.  

From some deeply covered recess of her mind Olivia involuntarily recalled them all.  She could still recite them all like a litany, a catechism lesson as second nature as vocabulary, as the alphabet, as long-neglected prayers.

As expected, in the third row sat the Wheeler family: the father with his four sons.  The oldest — was his name Tommy? — sat with his forehead pressed against that of a gangly-looking teenage girl.  His future wife, perhaps? But there was no sign of the mother.  Mickey’s recall of her death had been spot on.  She didn’t make it back.  Had this happened just a few weeks before, those boys could have been reunited with their mother, and Mr. Wheeler with his wife.

As Mickey and Grace edged into a pew halfway down on the right, Olivia held back, tucking herself against the row of votive candles, all lit, in the far rear corner of the sanctuary near the door to the confessional. She closed her eyes and begrudgingly uttered a half-hearted prayer, empty and void, resembling desperation more than hope.  

Upon opening her eyes, she was startled to see a gaunt mustachioed man standing shyly at her side. He wore large gold-rimmed glasses and had a deeply receding hairline.  

This was Mr. Fairchild, her former American government teacher, the creepy man who hadn’t so much as occupied a moment’s thought in thirty years, yet had entered her mind multiple times just in the past few days.  The one who had once patted her on the rear and nothing was ever said or done about it.  And now he was here, next to her, looking her way with downturned eyes. 

“Olivia,” he said in a whisper so close she could feel the heat of his breath.  “I’m not sure if you remember me or not.”

“Mr. Fairchild.”

“Yes,” he said.  He smiled broadly, grateful to be remembered. Olivia immediately noticed the blackened edges around his teeth. “I was hoping I’d see you here this morning.”

“I don’t ever remember seeing you at Church.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” he said. He cleared his throat and then continued.  “I came here just to see you.”

Olivia felt her face tighten and her lips pursed.  A shiver set through her like a shock of ice water.  

“Ever since all this happened, all I could think of is wanting to apologize,” Mr. Fairchild said.

“What?” 

“I was not a good man,” he said.  “And I’m sorry if I, well, I mean we never did anything, but I know I shouldn’t have tried to touch you that one time.  It was inexcusable and it’s haunted me for years.”

Olivia stood silently.  She could hardly look at her former teacher and instead turned to the stained glass window on the far wall behind him.  

The Finding of the Child Jesus.

“And, well, listen,” he continued, “I did a lot of wrong, and I’m sorry for anything I ever said, or did, or even, you know, even thought.”

“Okay,” she said. She felt her hip pushing harder against the rack holding the votive candles.

“I don’t know if you ever heard,” Mr. Fairchild continued to whisper.  “But I’m pretty certain I killed myself.”

“What?”

“Probably a couple years after you graduated.”

Olivia stared at him in stunned silence.  Music started to hum from the organ loft above their heads.  A bell signaled a single ring and the congregation stood in unison.  

“I jumped out of a hotel window in Chicago,” Mr. Fairchild said.

“Why are you telling me this?”

He fumbled with his hands and coughed nervously into his shoulder.

“I just,” he started, then looked up at her with wet eyes, tears brimming.  “I just want to make things right.”

“Fine,” Olivia said.  She wanted to run.

“I don’t want to live like that all over again,” Mr. Fairchild continued.  “If we’re being given this, I don’t know, this second chance, then I don’t want to screw it up.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t you want a clean slate, too?”

“I lost my children,” Olivia hissed at him.  “My kids no longer exist.  I can’t find my husband who died just last week, so I don’t even know if he’s somewhere in this world.  But here you are.  You.  Mr. Fairchild.  Grabber of teenage girl’s butts.  Wanting a clean slate and a second chance.”

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” he sputtered. 

“No, Mr. Fairchild,” Olivia said.  “I don’t want a clean slate.  The slate I had was perfectly fine.  I want what I already had.  I want my family back.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Fairchild said again as Olivia pushed past him, nearly tripping into Fr. McClintock as he began processing toward the altar. She brushed against the line of all the other seekers and sinners standing against the back wall and bolted out the doors.

Bonus Content:

Two Bits to Share:

One - Good news!

I now have several new chapters rewritten, edited, and ready to go, so look for unseen content for the next several weeks. Thanks for your patience!

Second -

This chapter is emotional for me for several personal reasons. Plus, it’s rife with Easter Eggs that are meaningful only to a very limited few (myself especially).

Nutshell version: I finished writing another novel in 2000 that I was very proud of called This Time for Good. Its original name was Cornerstone (which may sound familiar after reading this current chapter). The entire book takes place in the town where Olivia grew up and focuses on the Wheeler family seen briefly in this chapter.

Sadly, I never managed to get an agent or publisher for that manuscript, so it remains mostly unseen on my computer.

It was never my intention when I started Eighty-Sixed to have Cornerstone play any sort of role in the story, let alone for it to crossover with Olivia and the rest of the story. But as Olivia’s story unfolded over many drafts I realized that Cornerstone — where a terrible tragedy had impacted the entire community — would be a perfect setting to help explain why Olivia was so determined to start a new life elsewhere.

When writing that original manuscript nearly 25 years ago, I did a considerable amount of staring at maps of Illinois trying to find a small town that would be within driving distance to a bigger city and a college. Keep in mind this was before Google Maps, and actually still in the early days of Google itself. So my research was limited.

Nevertheless, I discovered a town on the northwestern edge of Illinois called Orion that, from what I was able to see online, looked nearly identical to what I had imagined.

Over the years, just as I have with Eighty-Sixed, I’d brush the dust off of This Time For Good and play with rewrites. Every time, I was rushed back to Cornerstone.

In 2016, sixteen years after I’d finished the first draft of This Time For Good, I was on a road trip and realized my route would take me less than 30 minutes from Orion. I had to see it.

The images in this post were taken that day as I drove through the area. It was gorgeous and emotional and dreamlike for me to drive through those streets.

I had the same feelings as I worked on this chapter for you. I hope you enjoyed it.