Grace Summer

A book, perhaps the collected works of Shakespeare, propped open the window. It was after midnight, the moon rising high into the perpetually cloudless night sky, its luminance overpowering most of the stars. A nearly imperceptible breeze ebbed and flowed through the open panes, caressing my skin as I lay on top of the sheets. There had been no air movement for days, only everpresent heat and humidity; even a miniscule movement of air entertained my gratitude.

Unable to sleep, I pushed myself from the sheets and stood at the window. Fields stretched outwards from the house, like an ocean without end, the moonlight bathing the wilted crops as if reflected from gentle swells. Somewhere deep in the house, I could hear the regular breathing of my parents, blissfully unaware of the turbulence racing through my mind.

Out beyond the fields, a chorus of canine howls echoed across the emptiness.

While the night appeared calm and peaceful, something was moving out beyond my ability to see. The night couldn’t remain calm.

Silently, I gathered rough clothing to me and slipped out of the bedroom. Soft snoring continued from upstairs as my feet automatically avoided the squeaky floorboards more out of habit than a conscious desire.

Stepping out into the night and carefully locking the door, I breathed in the humid air. The breeze bathed me.

Unease filled my soul.

<—===***===—>

The steeple stood in silhouette, a shadow of deeper darkness rising upwards, blocking the faint starlight. I stood on the empty road gazing at the church. To the right of the church, the residence house lay in darkness, its occupants asleep with the rest of the town. Standing in front of the church, it felt like I was the only soul awake in the entire world, time halted by some divine intervention. My earlier unease seemed nearly foolish, and I wondered briefly why I had wandered here while the town slept.

Despite my attendance every Sunday, I did not believe any more than I had back in June when the lazy fans inside had demonstrated their ineffectiveness.

Ascending the stairs, I tried the main doors, expecting the building to be closed for the night. To my surprise, the doors swung outward silently, beckoning me into the dimmed interior. While few in the town locked their doors, I’d assumed that the churches and other public buildings would barricade their doors as night fell.

Yet the doors had opened to my touch. The house of the lord, perhaps, need not fear evil.

I glanced around before stepping into the building. Despite the silence and peace here, it was difficult to shake off my earlier premonition of dread.

<—===***===—>

Moonlight dimly illuminated the stained glass representation of Jesus upon the cross as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. Red candles glowed softly, a remembrance of times and parishioners past.

My footsteps echoed as I entered the cloister and then slipped into my usual hardwood pew at the back of the church. There was not enough light to open either of the testaments or the hymnal, although dimly, far above me, the shadows of the fan blades were visible standing sentinel silently. It was cooler in the church than outside, despite the absence of any air movement.

Had I believed in a higher power, it would have been an excellent time to pray. Instead, I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift.

<—===***===—>

Low voices awoke me from a shallow doze. With a groan, I sat. Pews are uncomfortable to sit upon for hours of sermon; they are far worse to sleep upon. Massaging my muscles, my ears strained for the source of the sound that had awakened me.

As I was preparing to push myself to my feet and walk home, the voices sounded again, low, insistent, angry and jovial all at the same time. A few moments passed until I realised that the voices sounded familiar, they were very close, perhaps outside the front doors of the church, and that there was a mixture of voices.

Shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, I considered hiding, concerned that I might be breaking some law by sleeping in the church. Perhaps the Reverend had realised in the early hours before dawn that he’d neglected to lock the front doors and that hooligans might vandalise the altar or the rock hard pews. Hooligan or not, I did not wish to be locked inside the church until Sunday.

Wearily, I rose and walked quietly to the front entrance where the oaken doors mocked me. Beyond them, the voices continued, muted. By straining, I could tell that the voices were male, perhaps three or four, none immediately recognisable as the Reverend.

A clatter, as if something had been dropped, some hushed laughter, and then a soft cry of triumph.

I reached for the door handle, hesitating. A sinking sensation lodged itself into my stomach. The voices were recognisable, even through the heavy doors, especially the cruel laughter.

It wasn’t the identity of the hooligans in front of the church that made me hesitate, but rather the single word that drifted through the still air.

“Bitch.”

I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath.

Then I swung open the doors.

<—===***===—>

Zeke, Bobby and Vincent stood hunched over the church sign board, Zeke with a canister in his right hand. As the door opened with a sigh and a squeak, they collectively turned, a strange combination of guilt, fright and anger passing across each boy’s features. They reminded me of children caught with their hands in the cookie jar, or of deer frozen in the headlight of an onrushing transport.

They stared at me and me at them for what seemed like an hour.

Then Zeke laughed, a little nervously.

“Fuck, Flan. You nearly scared the shit outta us.”

Carefully, I stepped towards the group, letting the door swing shut behind me. The doors closed with a finality, like the gates of St. Peter upon the damned.

I saw puzzlement, then a shade of open deviousness cross Zeke’s features.

“What are you even doing here, man? It’s like three in the morning …”

I cleared my throat.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Zeke pulled himself up to his full height. He was significantly taller than me. Then he shrugged.

“We were looking for you, man.”

“I was here.”

“You become a pansy altar-boy?”

Zeke and the boys laughed uproarishly at his witticism.

I shrugged. “I wanted to be alone. You assholes killed that plan.”

Zeke’s eyes narrowed. I gestured towards the sign that they remained gathered around.

“What you morons doing at a church at three in the morning then?”

My sense of dread intensified.

Zeke laughed.

“We were prayin’, man …”

His comment was followed by a chorus of “Yeah, we prayin'”

“… prayin’ for justice.”

Zeke was slurring his words a little and Bobby and Vincent didn’t look entirely steady on their feet either.

“Justice?” I’d reached the base of the short flight of steps. Between their bodies, I could see that the church sign didn’t look quite right.

Zeke laughed again.

“I told you we’d get her.”

“Who?” Though I had a sinking feeling that I knew.

“The bitch, man. The bitch.”

Bobby and Vincent giggled. “Yeah, the bitch. Fucking bitch.”

Carefully I walked up to them and they parted, exposing their handiwork. It was difficult to see properly with the shadows cast by the partial moon, but there was something written across the sign.

In better times, the sign proclaimed inspirational Christian quotes, usually from Leviticus or Psalms or Genesis.

It would be easier to read in the daylight, but I was reasonably sure that Zeke had written something less inspirational across its shiny surface in dark and permanent spray paint, the canister of which remained loosely dangling in his right hand.

I squinted at the new writing as Zeke, Bobby and Vincent cackled at their nighttime vandalism.

The only word that was immediately visible: “Bitch”.

I was reasonably sure that the word “burn” also featured in Zeke’s diatribe.

I shook my head, unamused at the petty actions of the group. A few months earlier, I might have happily participated, but tonight, as the moon shone down through the heavy air, it occurred to me that vandalising a church sign would be a reasonably decent method to avoid St. Peter’s good graces if one believed in such judgement. A sure one way ticket to Hell.

Zeke clapped me on the back hard enough to make me gasp.

“And the night is still young,” he laughed.

Still laughing, he dropped the empty can of paint at the foot of the sign with a clatter. The group of us began to walk across the lawn towards the church residence, me more out of a sense of morbid curiosity than a desire to participate. As we walked, my sense of dread reawakened like a lion hungry for the kill.

<—===***===—>

Rebecca and her father, the Reverend, both lived at the residence. The residence sat a short walk from the church; a simple commute for a sedate profession. It was an ornate wooden home, built around the same time as the church. The Reverend, with help from some church members, kept the old Victorian structure and the gardens surrounding it in pristine condition.

Tonight, the moonlight reflected eerily from the steep roof and white paint of the porch that led to the front door. I had never been inside it before, but as far as I knew, only the Reverend and his daughter lived there. I had no idea what had happened to Rebecca’s mother, and Rebecca had never mentioned her in all our lengthy talks that summer.

Zeke carefully approached the steps and extracted a container hidden beside it. Then he sauntered back to the group. A strong scent of gasoline drifted from the can as Zeke approached.

I eyed the jerry can and then raised my eyes to Zeke’s face.

“You aren’t serious,” I said quietly.

He nodded. It was then that I noticed that Zeke was more drunk than I’d realised back at the sign vandalism. His eyes shone with the insane light of a fanatic.

“That’s some serious shit,” I remarked as coolly as I could.

Again he nodded.

“She laughed at me, man. Fucking bitch.”

I glanced around at the others, but they all wore the same grim grin that Zeke did.

I reached for the canister of gasoline, but Zeke merely laughed and pulled it away from my grip.

“She needs to pay for it.”

“She didn’t laugh at you, Zeke,” I said quietly. It was a dangerous gambit, but this whole crazy night was a crazy gambit.

Zeke cocked his head to one side.

“She laughed at me. When I asked the prissy bitch out.” His tone of voice implied much more, a deep lack of understanding of why any girl wouldn’t want to date old Zeke.

“So you’re going to kill her?”

He laughed.

“Maybe. But more likely just a little burn or two. She’ll survive, but what guy will want to date a burnt up witch?”

I clenched my fists.

“She didn’t laugh at you, Zeke. She laughs when she’s nervous.”

Zeke eyed me, a dangerous understanding penetrating into his mind.

“And how would you know that, Flan?”

“I know.”

“You fucking her? When she wouldn’t fuck me?”

I drew in a breath.

“I just know. Let’s get the fuck out of here. You guys can sober up and tomorrow …”

The fist came from out of nowhere, striking me in the jaw. I spun and hit the ground with a grunt of pain. Blood filled my mouth and trickled slowly down my chin to drip into the soft grass. Above me, laughter rained down on me. I was expecting another blow, perhaps a kick, but it never came. Slowly, I raised my head, the world spinning. Blackness, deeper than night, threatened, but I forced it from my vision.

Zeke, Bobby and Vincent were standing by the steps. Dancing and laughing, Zeke splashed liquid from the can across the boards of the porch.

Dizzy, I pushed myself up, swaying and blinking. I swallowed a mouthful of blood. I checked my teeth with the tip of my tongue. Everything seemed to be in place.

Stumbling, I approached the group. So intent on their plans and laughing hysterically, they were unaware of my approach.

Zeke raised his right fist. A silver lighter lay between his fingers, thumb poised. With a careless flick of his thumb, the flame ignited.

For a moment, he stood there like an Olympic torch bearer, his face illuminated in moonlight. I’ve never seen anyone look crazier, before or since.

“Burn in hell, bitch,” he muttered.

As his fingers began to loosen to drop the lighter, I grabbed his shoulder and spun him, my right fist crashing into his jaw. Blood sprayed as he screamed.

His fingers opened in surprise and pain.

The lighter dropped, as if in slow motion.

Bouncing.

And then the night was alight.

<—===***===—>

As Zeke and the others ran, I turned my face towards the open windows on the second floor, stepping back from the rapidly moving flames.

Cupping my hands: “Rebecca!”

Instead of Rebecca, a sleepy Reverend stuck his head from the nearest window. He squinted, not immediately seeing the danger.

“Flan McBride,” he bellowed. “I’ll have you arrested for this.”

Instinct told me to flee, as Zeke and the others had, but instead, I called out again.

“Rebecca!”

The Reverend began to splutter.

“Rebecca!”

At last, a window halfway down the house opened and Rebecca’s head emerged, her hair braided, and her eyes at half mast, sleepy.

“Flannery, it’s four in the morning. You shouldn’t …”

“Fire,” I said simply.

Rebecca glanced down, her eyes immediately widening.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. Even over the crackling of the flames, I could hear her. A similar sentiment echoed from the Reverend.

“I’ll see that you never get out of jail for this, Flan McBride,” the Reverend said vehemently as he disappeared from the window.

I hesitated, wanting to brave the flames. Help them. Somehow.

Instead, I walked away. It wasn’t cowardice. There was simply nothing that I could do beyond what I had already done. The flames had already risen in on the front porch to the point where unprotected approach was impossible. Rebecca and the Reverend could escape out of numerous windows or perhaps a rear entrance.

<—===***===—>

She stood shivering, barefoot, wrapped in a blanket, the Reverend’s arm draped protectively across her shoulders, watching her home burn. I watched them from the shadows for a while, until I began to hear sirens in the distance.

All because of wounded pride.

I sighed, turned, and began to walk.

<—===***===—>

Our place by the river seemed ethereal in the moonlight. The muted radiance illuminated the elm, the slow moving river water, and the dry grass. The distant sirens had silenced as I’d arrived.

I settled with my back against the elm’s bark. It was doubtful if Rebecca would ever join me here again, and that saddened me.

But for now, it was peaceful and quiet and I closed my eyes, exhausted and sore.

<—===***===—>

I winced and opened my eyes as soft fingers touched my jaw.

It was still night, the moon the only illumination. For a moment, I thought it was a dream.

Rebecca crouched in front of me, her soft features bathed in the moonlight.

“Why?” she asked. Tears welled in her lids.

I had no idea what she was asking me, then the enormity of what had happened flooded back into me. I reached for her face.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded slowly.

“I trusted you,” she murmured. “Why, Flannery, why?”

I shrugged, not quite sure what to say.

“It’s all gone,” she said, her voice breaking. “Everything burnt to ashes. Daddy says that we can rebuild, but he’s going to make sure that you go to jail this time for good. Why?”

I suddenly realised what her implication was.

“Rebecca, you think I did this?”

She closed her eyes, as if in pain. Slowly, she nodded. That hurt me more than anything else.

“Why did you come here then?”

“I needed to face you. Understand why.” Her tears fell easily and unhindered down her cheeks, shimmering in the moonlight. “I want to hit you,” she said slowly.

I sighed and closed my eyes.

“Okay. It won’t be the first time tonight.”

I lowered my hands to the ground and extended my already bruised jaw, inviting.

After a time, I opened my eyes. Her hand wavered, somewhere between striking me and falling to her own side.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

I remained silent.

Her hand finally dropped to her side. I watched her eyes. Confusion, betrayal, and simple sadness flit behind her gaze. Slowly, she sighed.

“It wasn’t you,” she whispered. “You were there, but it wasn’t you.”

I swallowed, allowing her time.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “You saved our lives.”

And she fell into my arms and wept.

<—===***===—>

Later, she stood, her bare feet planted in the grass either side of my legs. The moonlight shimmered in her raven hair. Slowly, she released the braid, her hair fluttering loose about her shoulders. The blanket, still reeking of wood smoke, she bent and smoothed across the grass.

She wore a simple white nightgown. It occurred to me that this nightgown might be the only clothing that she now owned. The cloth swirled about her body, clinging and releasing as she moved. In the moonlight, it seemed translucent and angelic.

Rebecca tilted her face upwards. In the muted light, smudges of charcoal and soot marred the porcelain of her cheeks.

In one quick motion, she lifted the nightgown from her body, over her head, and dropped it in a heap beside the blanket.

I gasped, but I don’t think she heard me.

Carefully, she stepped onto the blanket, knelt, naked, and beckoned me.

I watched this beautiful creature kneeling patiently, tears continuing to pour silently down her cheeks.

Then I went to her.

<—===***===—>

She kissed me and I could taste soot mixed with the salt of her tears. Her fingers fumbled insistently with my clothes, nearly tearing the cloth from my body. Her breathing intensified with each garment cast into the darkness until I was as naked as she.

Her fingers found my penis, stroking. After a moment’s hesitation, my fingers sought her breasts. She moaned, pressing her chest into my hands.

Without losing the connection of our lips, she threw me down, sprawled on the blanket. Swinging her left leg over me, she straddled me and without warning, I was buried in her moisture.

Slowly, she began to rock herself upon me, throwing her head back, gasping at the moon. My hands rose to her breasts, lightly stroking her nipples.

In the distance, the wolves cried. Rebecca’s voice joined them as she climaxed. As she clenched, I exploded into her as she collapsed, still weeping on top of me.

<—===***===—>

I woke from a light doze as she moved from me. The moon still lit the clearing and the river, but the beginnings of dawn lit the sky to the east. The scent of soot and smoke was strong where I still lay upon her blanket.

I watched her without moving as she settled, still nude, near the river bank. She drew up her knees, facing upstream.

At first, I thought she was crying there, softly. The urge to gather her back into my arms and protect her nearly overwhelmed me, but she wanted and needed her space, and probably wasn’t aware that I was awake.

And then I heard it softly passing her lips.

Amazing Grace.

She sang gently, but a choir of angels could not compare to the haunting melody passing from her soul. I closed my eyes.

It was the most beautiful experience I have ever witnessed.

<—===***===—>

She returned to me as the sun peeked above the horizon. Her fingers traced my bruised jaw, wincing as I winced. The tears had dried, though she remained quiet and sad.

This time, we made love slowly. The sound of the river, the stirring of morning birds in the trees, the scent of dew and soot and Rebecca’s arousal combined to enhance each touch, each caress, each kiss.

Afterward, we lay quietly, my arms wrapped around her, watching the sun rise.

Her song haunted me.

<—===***===—>

“Rebecca …” I began.

She stirred, her body stiffening.

“… I …”

She flipped over, propping herself on her elbows, her eyes capturing mine and halting me. Her sadness deepened.

“Flannery,” she whispered. “Don’t say it.”

“But …”

“If you say it,” she continued, “I can’t come back here. Not ever. And that will happen soon enough.”

“I need …”

She nodded. “I owe you my life, Flannery. My father’s too, even if he doesn’t know it.”

“Your song …”

She smiled a little, which gave me hope. “Our song,” she whispered. She watched my face for a while, her smile losing some of its radiance.

The sun had climbed higher into the sky, clearing the horizon. It was early yet, but the day had crowned.

“I have to go,” she said sadly. “My father will be worried sick.”

With a sigh, I nodded. It was time for me to return to the scene of the crime. It was easy to forget the outside world, here, with Rebecca.

She reached over me, her skin soft against mine, gathering up her nightgown. In the light I could see dark marks of charcoal upon its fabric. Carefully, she brushed some of the grass and leaves from its surface before rising to her feet.

She stood naked beside me, allowing me to drink in the sight of her. Then she slipped the gown over her head where it settled about her. I rolled from the blanket and gathered my scattered clothes as she lifted the blanket where we’d lain.

I dressed quickly and then carefully wrapped the blanket about her bare shoulders.

“Walk me home?” she asked quietly.

I nodded.

She slipped her hand into mine, kissing me once on the lips. Her lips warmed me.

It was the only time I ever walked her home that summer.

<—===***===—>

I believe that Rebecca knew better than I what would happen as we approached the town. A column of smoke rose from the direction of the church, but not a soul did we meet as we trudged down the dusty lanes. Her bare feet silent, my shoes kicking up dust with every step. Idly I wondered what time it was.

She halted carefully out of sight of her house.

“Flannery?”

I cocked my head to the side inquiringly.

“I’m leaving before September,” she said.

“Stay. Please.”

She shook her pretty head. I’ve seen the expression before on many women. There was no hope of convincing her. And in retrospect, I glad I didn’t try.

“We still have some time,” she said quietly.

She lowered her head, examining her bare, dusty toes. Then she raised her eyes again.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.”

I nodded, unsure how to respond.

After a time, she sighed softly. Standing up on her toes, she reached for my lips again.

“I do, too,” she whispered. Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t permit them to fall. I knew what she meant, but we couldn’t speak it. Never in that dry and dusty summer.

With that, she grasped my hand and led me into a madhouse.

<—===***===—>

For a moment, I stood with Rebecca at the edge of the firefighters and police. The firefighters coiled up their hoses and gathered their axes. Near the stairs, a small group of police, including the fire chief, stood examining what looked like a burnt jerry can that I’d last seen in Zeke’s hands.

Interspersed throughout the small crowd were many silent members of the congregation, including Miss Fitzroy, looking stunned and shocked. Some held hands, some bowed heads silently praying.

The Victorian structure that was, now lay wasted: a molten blob of charcoal and soot. Tendrils of smoke rose lazily from the ruins into the heated morning air. The central staircase still partially stood, though it reminded me of a flight to heaven as the second floor of the home had completely collapsed. The white paint, the spires, all destroyed. Beside me, Rebecca shivered, but didn’t cry at the sight of the devastation that used to be her home.

“Rebecca!”

I turned at the sound of the Reverend’s voice, his tone carrying relief, concern and anger.

Rebecca’s hand slipped from mine and emptiness invaded into my soul.

The Reverend and two big cops hurried towards us. Then people were shouting, and though it was difficult to hear what they were saying, my name seemed to pass enough lips that it was clear that the Reverend’s version of events had convinced most of the parishioners of my immediate guilt.

And to my credit, I felt guilty as the enormity of what had happened and what I’d been unwittingly a part of, crashed over me.

In a daze, I felt Rebecca pulled from me, the old blanket swirling away. The screams and ire of the church folk surrounded me as I dimly heard one of the burly cops read me Miranda. Handcuffs encircled my wrists and surprisingly gently, the other cop led me away from the madhouse towards a waiting squad car.

In the distance, I could hear a voice that sounded suspiciously like Rebecca’s calling:

“No.”

<—===***===—>

The Jumping Jack was a country dive that nearly straddled the town line. It appeared that I wasn’t the only hooligan in town that fateful night. A full-fledged bar fight had erupted, resulting in four drunken and disorderly clients rounded up and placed in the town’s holding facility. When I arrived, the four were sleeping it off, and I was more than happy to permit them their dreams. My temporary roommates stunk of beer and cigarettes and vomit, and two of them had visible cuts and scrapes.

I wandered to the far edge of the pen, sat down, and waited.

After three hours, two burly gentlemen escorted me back to the front of the station to book me and interview me.

I gave them what they wanted.

It was me. Alone. A prank gone bad. No mention of the church sign. No mention of Zeke or the boys. No mention of wounded pride or prejudice. Only me. Alone.

It was what they wanted to hear. It was the only story they were ready to believe.

I was charged, temporarily, with arson and attempted murder.

<—===***===—>

As I was rising to my feet to be walked back to the pen, the Reverend and Rebecca burst through the station doors, their voices raised. Rebecca was practically pulling her father into the station. Behind them, a shamefaced cop mumbled something about trying to stop them.

Rebecca halted at the front desk, her eyes flashing, almost daring anyone to tell her to leave. When her eyes passed over me, she hesitated for a moment, then spoke softly, her voice nevertheless cutting through the station. She addressed me as if the remainder of the audience didn’t exist.

“Are you all right?”

I nodded.

“Why haven’t they let you go?”

At this, the cop who had interviewed me stepped between Rebecca and me.

“Miss,” he said, “I just booked him for arson and attempted murder.”

Her eyes widened. The Reverend smiled triumphantly. I couldn’t blame him.

Rebecca looked at me, her eyes betraying confusion for a moment. Then her intellect regained her attention and she worked out what had happened.

“Tell them,” she whispered. “They won’t stand up for you.”

I shook my head. She was right, but it wouldn’t matter. The interview cop returned to my side and we started to walk away. Before we passed into the long corridor to the cells, I turned. My cop allowed it.

Rebecca had tears streaming down her face as she spoke hurriedly to her father. Her hand raised to his shoulder and even I could read her lips. “Please.”

Then the Reverend spoke.

“Can I speak to the boy?”

His voice had lost its fiery edge, though his face remained unreadable.

After a moment of hesitation, I was brought to the front desk to face the Reverend. The cops left me there, but I could feel their watchful eyes resting upon my back.

“My daughter thinks highly of you, Flan McBride.”

“And I her,” I responded quietly.

“She tells me that all is not what it seems.”

I shrugged, trying to ignore the pleading look plastered on Rebecca’s face. She remained quiet.

The Reverend’s eyes passed over me, peering into my soul.

“God teaches us to seek understanding. Or so Rebecca tells me. God also teaches us to find mercy, even when we least wish to extend it.”

I didn’t answer him. His face betrayed shock and a very human desire for justice. Under the circumstances, it was difficult to blame him.

He squared his shoulders and again peered at me. I didn’t lower my eyes. After drawing a deep breath he spoke quietly. I doubted if anyone else could hear his question, even though all were straining to eavesdrop.

“Was it you?” he asked simply.

It would have been so easy to admit my wrongdoing, to stick to the story and the image that so many of the folks in this small town expected. It would have been a relief.

I glanced at Rebecca, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. In the back of my mind, I wondered who else might wake to a merrily burning porch, or graffiti upon their signs, or perhaps apples nicked from a carefully arranged display. But it was mostly Rebecca’s tears and the knowledge that if I lied, she would leave and I likely wouldn’t be able to even say goodbye.

“No sir,” I whispered.

The tension drained from his face, but he now looked lost, like a boat adrift upon an unending ocean. As if sensing what had been exchanged, Rebecca returned to the Reverend’s side and carefully grasped his hand. Tears continued to slip down her cheeks, but she didn’t seem as animated or desperate. At least for her, everything was as it should be.

The cop lightly grasped my arm. As I turned to follow him, the Reverend raised his voice.

“Wait!”

<—===***===—>

The mid-afternoon air wafted across my face, humid and hot as it was. It had taken the local constabulary a few hours to determine exactly what to do with me. Eventually, they settled on release, especially with the word of the Reverend. It would take weeks before the remainder of the town felt as generous.

She was sitting in the dry grass at the edge of the stairs, watching the sparse traffic as it travelled past the police station. She wore a borrowed pair of jeans and a coarse white blouse, her runners replaced with a pair of ill-fitting sandals. Smudges of soot darkened her cheeks.

When she turned, somehow aware of my gaze upon her, she pushed herself up and ascended the stairs, throwing her arms around me. People gawked, but I didn’t care. Her lips reminded me of cherries and honey.

It was a long time before she released me.

<—===***===—>

The leaves had begun their journey to a colourful heaven. In the last few weeks of summer, the temperatures had cooled, and even a little rain had fallen, mostly in the evenings.

She had dressed again, except for her shoes. Standing up on her toes, her hands on my shoulders, she kissed me for the last time. Her breath smelled like Jack Daniels and honeysuckle.

“I have to go, Flannery,” she whispered. “My train.”

“I know,” I replied carefully. And I did know. She wouldn’t be swayed and even a summer such as we’d had together couldn’t change her destiny.

Lightly, she picked up the bottle of Jack and pressed it into my hand with a smile.

“Finish it for me,” she whispered.

Then she turned away and carrying her shoes, walked up the lane.

As she was about to disappear from sight, she turned and waved and blew me a kiss.

And then she was gone.