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(Jehovah’s Valley, 10 a.m. Thursday, October 2, 2013)
It was midmorning when Janet woke up. She looked around the bedroom, not able to recognize it, or anything in it. The events of the last 24 hours came rushing back. She was in Jehovah’s Valley. She got out of bed. Someone had given her a sponge bath and put her in a long cotton nightgown—Paula she guessed. Some clothes were neatly folded on a chair at the foot of the bed. She dressed in them—a simple print skirt, and a long-sleeved white cotton blouse. She took a deep breath. She was free of the Valley, she reminded herself. No one could make her stay.
Truth was, with John Welch dead, no one would want her to stay. She grimaced.
She opened the door, and following the sound of voices, found her way to the kitchen. It was a welcoming space, with black and white tiled floors, and cheerful yellow walls.
Best of all, it wasn’t her father’s house. Stephen’s and Paula’s? Probably.
A tired bunch of men sat around the kitchen table drinking coffee. Even Mac had a cup in front of him. Stephen. Stan Warren? What was he doing here? She remembered him holding and comforting her last night. It changed things, she thought, that he’d come for her. She shelved that that thought to deal with later, and resolved that she really would deal with it, not bury it as she had so many things. Time to return to therapy, she thought ruefully.
“Hi,” she said.
Paula turned from the stove where she was making pancakes. “You’re awake! How are you feeling?”
Janet smiled at her. “Good, considering.”
Mac snorted. “Considering you were kidnapped, beaten, imprisoned, escaped, terrorized the community, and then passed out?”
She nodded. “Yup. Considering.” She grinned at him as she poured herself a cup of coffee, added a hefty dose of cream, real cream, she realized with the first sip. She almost purred. She pulled out a chair next to Stan and sat down. “How did you get pulled into this?”
For the next hour, she just listened as the bits of story came out. The Army of God fire bombings of Planned Parenthood clinics, their trip across two states.
“And the Army of God commander?” she asked.
Stan swallowed a sip of coffee and rotated his neck and shoulders. He looked tired.
“He’s locked up in the Penitent’s Cabin,” he said. “Should have an FBI team from Boise out here soon. Shorty—you know him? —he’s stationed in Baker City to guide them in.”
He rotated his neck again working out the stiffness. Janet resisted the urge to massage his shoulders. It would scandalize Paula and Stephen, who weren’t used to public displays of affection.
“Adam—the commander— has his crew with him. A bit battered,” he frowned at Mac when he said it. “Talking with him is on my to-do list for this morning.”
Mac looked up. “I’d like a go at him first,” he said. Seeing Stan’s frown, he added hastily, “I mean interview him. Not, you know, beat him up or something. Sh—,” he looked at Paula, and closed his mouth on the last of that bit of commentary.
Stephen was silent throughout the story. He was tense and looked ill when Warren mentioned the FBI team. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he began.
Mac interrupted him. “Adam has already confessed to helping John Welch kill an FBI agent,” he said gently. Well, gently for Mac. “If you can show Agent Warren where the body was buried, I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”
Stephen looked at him, then at Stan Warren. “But,” he began.
Stan shook his head. “The death is a closed chapter. I won’t be re-opening it,” he said. “Army of God has held you all captive long enough.”
Paula rested her hand on Stephen’s shoulder. He put his hand over hers and squeezed it.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Things would have gone very badly out here last night if it weren’t for you,” Stan said. “We appreciate your assistance.”
“Did I see Timothy and Eli here together?” Janet asked, changing the subject before her brother said something the FBI couldn’t overlook. She wasn’t sure he was as innocent as Stan was casting him. She was certain Stephen didn’t think he was innocent. That carried its own penance.
“Yes, which brings up another question, or set of questions,” Mac said. “What do you want Timothy to know?”
Janet hesitated. “Is he going to be prosecuted for shooting John?”
Stan shook his head no. “He saved your life,” he said. “I couldn’t get the shot. Neither could Mac. No one else had a weapon.”
“He know you’re his mother?” Mac asked.
She shook her head. “Not yet. Let me think about it.” She saw no advantage to telling her son he’d killed his biological father.
Stephen looked at her. “Dad has never claimed a biological connection to Timothy. I always assumed it was to prevent John from claiming the boy.”
She nodded again. Restless, she stood up, put her plate in the sink. “I’m going for a walk,” she murmured and fled out the back door.
Once outside, she didn’t know quite where to go. Most certainly she didn’t want to go to her parent’s house. But that reminded her of something she needed to do, so she set off for the small graveyard on the hill behind the church. There she could finally say goodbye to her mother.
When she got to the small fenced area that comprised the graveyard, she wasn’t alone. Eli Andrews was already standing there, looking at a tombstone. She slipped in and stood beside him, linking arms with him. For the first time in a very long time, he didn’t flinch away at her touch.
She looked at the tombstone, expecting to see his parents’ names. Instead it was his.
Eli Andrews
‘He gave his life for his country,’ it read.
“Huh,” she said.
“It’s not wrong,” he said. “Just... premature.” He looked around, took a deep breath. “Although, it feels like I can think better here. Like the air feels right, somehow.”
Janet looked at him quizzically. Maybe she should have brought him home years ago, she thought. Back to the place where things were truly familiar. It had been easy to forget that Seattle had never been home for him before he went to Iraq. Really, nothing had been familiar when he came home to Seattle. She'd made a home for herself there, and it never occurred to her that he wouldn't see it that way. By the time he came home, Kuwait was more familiar to him than Seattle. The waste of years made her want to cry.
“Don’t cry,” he said gently. “Nothing about this is your fault.”
She tried for a smile. “No, but it isn’t yours either.”
He looked away from the tombstone to the land beyond. “I’m thinking I’ll stay,” he said. “See if it helps.”
She nodded. “I think that’s a smart idea. They need you.”
He snorted. “I doubt they need a broken soldier who hears the enemy behind every bush.” He paused. “But I'd like to become the man they need. I’d like a favor, though,” he added.
She cocked her head, quizzically. “Anything. I owe you. I never expected you to come rescue me—again.”
“Let Timothy think I’m his father. I am, legally, right?”
She nodded slowly. Yes, legally, she thought.
“He’s a good boy,” he went on. “You would have been proud of him. And he doesn’t need to know, you know....” He trailed off.
She wasn’t sure Timothy was a good boy, he’d seemed like a prick all things considered. But maybe he could become a good man.
“Yes,” she said.
Then the two of them found Mary Brandt’s grave: Beloved wife, mother, teacher. Janet was glad teacher was listed. Two generations of people here knew her as teacher. And Eli’s parents were buried here too. She hadn’t known they were gone.
And then they just stood there for a while, looking out over the Valley. People were going about their business. Chores were getting done. Everyone was getting a slow start after the night’s events. But normalcy was returning.
“Do you know where Timothy is?” she asked finally, when it felt like she could breathe again. Eli was right. Even the air felt different.
“He was in the barn, last I saw,” Eli said. Janet nodded, and left him standing there. He stood at rest, hands behind his back, looking over the Valley. Watching. On sentinel duty, she thought.
Janet found the skirt cumbersome. She grabbed a handful of material and hiked it up, baring her calves. It allowed her to stride more naturally. There’s a metaphor there, she thought, but she was still too tired to put words to it. She opened the side door to the big barn, then hesitated. There were bad memories here. She sighed. There were bad memories everywhere in Jehovah’s Valley.
“Timothy?” she said softly, then repeated it a bit louder when he didn’t respond. She found him by the potbellied stove with a couple of kittens in his lap. He didn’t look up when she sat down.
“Have you ever killed anyone?” he asked abruptly, still focusing on the kittens. They weren’t very old, Janet thought, just old enough to open their eyes. They were black and gray tabbies, like all the cats in the Valley.
“No,” she said. He didn't say anything further.
“When you get back to Seattle, you might need to talk to someone about that.”
He nodded. “I’m not sure I’m going back.”
Janet looked at him, then shook her head. “You need to come back to Seattle. Stay here for a few days. Maybe even a week. But your future requires an education. The Valley needs you to have that education.”
Timothy didn’t say anything for a minute. “Dad is dying. He’s got days at most left to live.”
She nodded and touched the letters in her pocket. “Maybe after that.”
“Will you stay?”
“No.”
“Will you tell me why you left?’
Janet hesitated. “I have a hard time talking about it,” she admitted. “That’s why it’s important you talk about last night to someone soon. Silence has a way of stretching out, and then you can’t talk about it. And that’s not good.”
Timothy considered that. “You’re not my step-sister, are you?”
“No. No, you’re...,” she swallowed. She wanted to look away, but she didn't. “You’re my son. I loved you so much. But I was younger than you are when I gave birth. Eli, he was in Iraq. And then he was missing. They thought he was dead. I couldn’t come back. For a number of reasons. But I believed this was the best place for you to grow up. And so I sent you to my parents.”
“But you didn’t come yourself,” he said.
She shook her head. “No, Preacher and I had a horrible fight. And that night, John Welch... attacked me. I tried to kill myself. Eli and my brothers rushed me to the hospital—Roberta Brooks helped them.”
He looked up at her name. Janet nodded. “Yes, she’s always kept me informed about you.” She sighed. “Dad was raging, and I wasn’t 18 yet, so Eli and I got married, and then there was you.”
“So, Eli is my father?”
She nodded again. “Yes,” she said, meeting his eyes, willing him to believe. “He’s had a hard time of it.”
“Why did the Preacher—Dad—say he was dead?”
“The military probably told his parents Eli was dead,” Janet speculated. “Then when he came home, he was in bad shape. Preacher probably thought it was easier to just let it go.”
“And he never told me any of this!” Timothy said angrily. “Why didn’t he tell me he was my grandfather? Why didn’t he say you were my mother? Why didn't Mom tell me she was my grandmother? Did everyone know but me?”
“I think he was protecting you from John Welch,” she said slowly. She felt like she was picking her way through a particularly rough piece of ground. Lots of thistles here, she thought. “I don't think anyone knew but Mom and Dad, and maybe Stephen. And you know I was shunned, right? It was as if I were dead.”
He grunted. “You get attacked by John, and you’re the one who is shunned?”
She smiled. “I think it was more for my defiance,” she said. “Dad wasn’t used to being defied.”
He grinned at that. “No, no one ever does that,” he admitted. He sighed.
“It's as if my whole life is a lie. This valley. Dad. God, even! I don't know what to believe," he said, brushing back tears from his eyes. "I thought. I don't know what I thought. But I thought this was an idyllic place that lived according to God’s commandments, and now I find out that it was hiding all these secrets.
“And I've killed a man. I looked up to Brother John, and I shot him."
Janet hesitated and then she hugged him close. He stiffened and then buried his head in her shoulder and cried. For the first time in nearly 20 years, she held her son. But not for long. Timothy pulled away, turning his face so she couldn't see the tears. She blinked back her own tears as she stood up.
“Come see me when you get back to Seattle,” she said gently, and squeezed his shoulder. “You may never see me as your mother. Mary was your mother, and you were blessed to have her. But maybe an older sister wouldn’t be so bad?”
He nodded. “That would be good.”
She started to walk away. Stopped. Turned back briefly. “And talk to Eli,” she said. “He’d like that.”
“Are you sure?” Timothy said doubtfully. “He didn’t seem to like me much.”
She laughed. “Talk to him.”