Naomi followed the scent of coffee into the kitchen the next morning, and found Scott leaning on the counter, frowning. He was watching the tiny TV he had mounted under the counter for her a few years back, and she felt again that awful sense of knowing what was coming before he spoke. Instead of getting herself a cup of coffee, she sat down at the kitchen table, suddenly cold.
“Look at this, hon.” He gestured with his coffee mug. “It’s all over the news, local and national. That Safeway you shop at all the time has been quarantined.” He shook his head, took a sip. “That’s too close to home. You could have been there, just as easy as those other people.”
He moved to the sink, rinsing his cup and putting it neatly in the dish drainer. Before she realized she was going to speak, Naomi was blurting. “I was there. Yesterday. I saw her.”
Scott turned around, his frown deepening, not yet registering the full impact of her words. “What? You were – what did you just say?”
“I said I was there. At the store. I saw the woman who died.” Naomi took a huge breath, trying to steady her shaking voice. Crying was not going to help, but tears sprang to her eyes anyway. “I was in line, at the self-check. I saw her fall. Well no, I didn’t, but I saw people gathered around her. Then one of them moved away, and I saw her, and I put my things down and walked out of the store. The police and fire trucks were just getting there as I left.”
Scott moved until he was crouched right in front of her. He stilled her wringing hands with his big, warm calloused palms. His eyes, normally so warm and gentle, were sharp and intense. “How close did you get to her?”
“I don’t know - you know I can’t judge distance. She was up by the cashier’s station. I was still in line and there were a few people ahead of me.” She bent her head and pressed her forehead to their clasped hands, giving voice to the fear that had woken her repeatedly throughout the night. “What if what they’re saying is true? What if she had some sort of disease, and I brought it home to you and Macy? Oh my God, Scott!”
“Honey, you’ve got to get a hold of yourself. Macy’ll be up any time, and you don’t want her to see you like this.” He waited until she sat up, then cupped her face in his warm hands and wiped her cheeks with his thumbs matter-of-factly. Naomi’s tears had always come easily, and Scott had stopped being fazed by them years ago. “There. You probably didn’t come any closer than 30 or 40 feet. Do you remember hearing her, or anybody, coughing?”
Naomi closed her eyes, putting herself back in the store. She remembered hearing a newborn’s cry – so distinctive – and noting, as she often did, how the catchy music probably made people linger as they shopped, so they could sing along. And yes. Someone coughing violently. She opened her eyes and gazed at Scott, unable to voice the confirmation.
“Okay.” Scott took a deep breath, and smoothed his hand along the side of her face. She felt a spike of worry from him, as if it had stabbed her in the chest. “It’s okay, honey. It is what it is. I really don’t think you got close enough to her for it to matter.”
He straightened, then gazed out the window over the kitchen sink for a few moments, tapping his fingers on the table. Then he nodded. “I’ve got an errand to run.” He leaned to give her a quick kiss, and a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. Her rock. “Be back in a couple of hours.”
~~~
As it turned out, Grace never had a chance to follow up on her mystery story. She slept late Saturday morning, after a too-long-but-worth-it conversation with William on the phone, and then had to hustle out the door to make it to school to catch the track bus. Normally, she would have caught a ride with William and his younger brother Quinn – the three of them were right in a row in school, with William a senior, Grace a junior, and Quinn a lowly sophomore – but she had promised her mother she’d drop Benji at the library. The tiny local branch had brought in a program on robotics, and Benji was beside himself with geeky glee. He talked non-stop all the way there about servos and touch sensors, oblivious to the fact that Grace didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about.
“Nerd.” She scrubbed his head with her knuckles as she pulled up in front of the library. “Just don’t forget me when your robot minions rule the world.”
He grinned, thanked her for the ride in his meticulously polite way, and was off like a shot. Grace drove the rest of the way to the high school, parked, and jogged towards the waiting bus. Hopefully William had saved her a seat across the aisle from him – in bigger schools, boys and girls often rode on separate buses, but Limon had only fielded 23 kids on the team this year, not enough to justify the gas and expense of an extra bus. Instead, coach had the boys and girls sit on opposite sides, which always struck Grace as silly and frankly naïve, considering what some of these kids had been doing the night before. She and William weren’t the only dating couple on the team, though they might be the only ones not having sex.
She’d been upfront with him from their first date on; Grace didn’t intend to raise a baby until she was good and ready, and no way was she taking the chance. William had been a good sport about it, probably because she didn’t object to some wandering hands. Secretly, though, she wondered what everyone got so lathered up about. It felt good when William kissed her, and wonderful when he nuzzled and nipped at her neck, but she was nowhere near losing control. Her girlfriends talked about getting carried away - “We just couldn’t stop!” - and Grace just didn’t get that. To her ordered and logical mind, the risks just didn’t outweigh the thrill.
She bounded onto the bus, and spotted William immediately, sitting behind his little brother. Well, okay, maybe not “little” – Quinn wasn’t quite as tall as his older brother, but where William was lean, Quinn was bulky, in a way that turned all the girls’ heads when he took his warm-ups off. He was also as shy as his older brother was confident; Grace knew he struggled with some sort of learning disability, though William insisted Quinn was brilliant, in his own way. His protectiveness and pride in his brother were some of the things she liked best about him. And then there was that smile.
“Hey, gorgeous.” His eyes were so, so blue. Grace felt just a little swoony when he smiled at her, and those blue eyes lit up. “I was afraid you’d miss the bus.”
Grace smiled back and plopped down in the seat he had, indeed, saved for her. “Not a chance. Mornin’, Quinn.”
Quinn mumbled an inaudible reply and ducked his head, his ears flushing a rosy pink. William always made a point of speaking to Benji when he saw him, and Grace did the same with Quinn and their four younger brothers, who were all in elementary school. Grace had known the Harris family her whole life – their ranch bordered Grace’s mom’s property to the north – and she’d heard her mother speculating that Mrs. Harris had started trying for that girl she wanted so badly when she had raised William and Quinn up old enough to help with the livestock. Now that she’d spent time with the family, she didn’t agree – Mrs. Harris adored all six of her boys, though she did speak with great anticipation of a little granddaughter one day.
“Did you hear about that quarantine thing they’ve got going on in the Springs?” William asked.
The puzzle, with all its empty pieces, flared to life in Grace’s brain. She leaned forward, interest sharp. “I did, last night. Benji was writing about it for school, and I meant to follow up and check the news this morning. What are they saying?”
“Nothing, that’s the thing. They aren’t letting anybody out, and the only people going in now are wearing hazmat suits. They even kept the first responders – the firemen and police. And nobody on the inside has a phone or has been allowed contact with their families.”
Click, click, click. Grace didn’t like the picture her puzzle was forming. “Benji said they thought the dead woman was a soldier from Fort Carson – have they said anything about that?”
“Not that I know of,” William paused, then grimaced. “My mom says she doesn’t want us to go into the Springs tonight. You know, after we get back from the meet.”
Grace blinked. “Wow. She really thinks it’s that big a deal?”
“She’s trying to be all cool about it, but I can tell she’s scared. So…” He paused again, and gave her that heart-stuttering smile. “If you want to come over for dinner, we could go for a ride after. Bet we could even talk mom into popping popcorn and making cocoa when we get back.”
Grace grinned. After the divorce, her mother had sold both hers and Grace’s quarter horses, saying they couldn’t keep up with the feed any longer. Grace had understood, but oh, the misery was still sharp in her heart. She loved to ride, and William knew her well. “That sounds perfect. Way better than a movie. It’s a date.”
~~~
Pastor Jack prided himself on being open-minded. As a rule, he wasn’t interested in criticizing other religions or labeling their beliefs as wrong; Evangelism, he believed, was best accomplished by living a Godly life, and doing so in such a joyful way that people not of your faith would seek you out, asking for the Secret of your Joy.
Nor was he interested in dwelling on Satan. People, he believed, had enough excuses for their poor behavior; the Devil made me do it had been worn as thin and flimsy as tissue paper. From his personal, professional and spiritual perspectives, it was time for humanity to take full responsibility for its actions and decisions – enough with the blaming, either of mankind’s innately sinful nature, or of Satan and his demons.
“Get over it,” he would say to the youth he worked with. “Satan tempts everybody – that’s just a cop-out. You choose your path. You decide who to be.”
These perspectives, of course, had brought him more than his fair share of criticism in seminary. Too much of the World, many had said. Heretical, a few had accused. But Jack didn’t dwell on the disapproval of others. His work was in the World, after all. He was successful working with youth because they sensed what was in his heart: He truly wasn’t interested in judging them – that belonged to the Lord. As Mother Teresa had said, judging people left you no time to love them, and Jack lived every single day by this simple, powerful mantra.
With one exception.
Layla Karela. She was three people ahead of him in the checkout line at City Market this bright and beautiful Saturday morning, and Jack caught himself keeping his face averted, praying she wouldn’t spot him. She always wanted to chat about this or that kid, and the effort of maintaining a baseline politeness while conversing with her gave Jack a teeth-grinding headache every darn time.
Layla taught English and directed the drama program at the local high school, and there was a lot of overlap between his youth group kids and the kids she worked with every day. Jack had been hearing the kids talk about Ms. Karela for years, and he knew from them that she was a popular teacher, fun in class but committed to excellence and meticulously fair. Parents talked about her, too – she was involved, dedicated, professional – all the things a community could wish for in a teacher of their youth, with the exception of the fact that she was a practicing Witch.
And she didn’t even have the courtesy to be subtle about it. Jack shuffled ahead in the line, keeping his head down but straining to listen to her conversation with the checker just the same. Everyone was buzzing about the quarantine in Colorado Springs, but not Layla, oh no. She was talking about the upcoming metaphysical fair in Colorado Springs – she would be reading Tarot there as usual, he learned, and barely repressed a shiver of revulsion. She and her ilk came close to making him reconsider his doctrine of non-judgment.
They disgusted him, with their ridiculous costumes, their cards and crystals and fripperies and geegaws, their talk of past lives, Chakras and Spirits. All that hoo-ha, of course, appealed enormously to the kids he worked with – always and forever, teens would be drawn to the danger, the mystery, the edge. And that, Jack told himself, was what made their practices unforgivable: The corruption of the kids he loved and counseled, the peril to their very souls. He knew all too well just how real that peril was.
The checker wished Layla a good morning, promising to look her up at the fair for a reading – Jack made a mental note to add the poor girl to his prayer list – and the line crept forward. By the time Jack was leaving the store with his groceries, he had put the near-encounter with Layla out of his mind and moved on to a mental list of the tasks he hoped to accomplish that day. This, of course, made Layla’s unexpected presence in the parking lot all the more unpleasant.
She was leaning on the bumper of her junker jeep, face lifted to the sun, eyes closed. Tiny multi-colored beads sparkled in the long strands of her dark hair – he had noticed that she wore it long and loose when she wasn’t working, up and sleek when she was – and a tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Jack wasn’t sure how old she was – a couple years his senior, if he had to guess – but she looked younger than usual like this, her face open, relaxed and filled with quiet joy. She was parked right beside him. Of course.
Jack resigned himself to the grinding headache as he popped open his trunk and started loading in his groceries. “Good morning, Layla. Car trouble?”
She blinked her eyes open and focused on him. Her chest lifted in a peaceful sigh before she answered. “Yep. Battery’s dead. I called a friend, but he’s tied up and it’s going to be a while.” She closed her eyes and lifted her face once more. “I don’t mind, though. What a beautiful gift from the Universe this morning, especially after the snow last night – some quiet time to just enjoy the sun.”
Since her eyes were closed, Jack didn’t refrain from rolling his. “Sure.” He finished loading up, shut his trunk, and took his cart to the corral while his conscience gave him all manner of Hell.
He drove right by her little vine-covered cottage – even her house was clichéd - on his way home. Literally, right by. Man, sometimes being a Christian sucked.
“Layla, I can give you a ride home – you could put away your groceries and come back with your friend later to get your jeep.”
Those eyes blinked open again. She had the darkest eyes he had ever seen, black, shining and liquid, like a lake at night. She smiled. “That is so thoughtful of you, Jack. I’ll take your offer, thanks.”
She loaded her groceries into his back seat, and within moments, he was trapped in the car with her. She smelled like some weird perfume – probably incense, which would explain his intensifying headache – and she chimed every time she moved. Bangle bracelets laddered up both arms, multiple ankle bracelets on one ankle, earrings that brushed her shoulders. How did she think with all that jingling?
“I’ve been meaning to give you a call,” Layla said, as they pulled out of the parking lot. “I’ve got a student who’s new to town, and he’s having a hard time with the adjustment. Family moved here from Chicago, so he’s got that city edge on him and the kids really aren’t warming up. Tenth grader, loves basketball, thinks we’re all a hopeless bunch of hicks.” She smiled. “Which we are. Anyway, I wondered if you could ask one of your Friday night kids to reach out. They’d have to be ready for the re-buff – he has his shields up but good.”
It was things like this that made his head pound. If she would just be shallow and selfish, he wouldn’t feel so conflicted about loathing her. “I’ll ask Trevor. And maybe Jason. They’ve both lived in bigger cities – they may connect better.”
“Thank you. He’s been on my mind – wrote a pretty anguished paper about leaving his life behind that had nothing to do with the writing prompt. I tried to talk to him – thought maybe he was reaching out, a lot of kids do through writing assignments – but he gave me the stiff arm.” She sighed. “The curse and privilege of teaching English, I guess. We learn a lot about the kids through their writing, but they won’t always let us help them.”
“That must be difficult,” Jack said stiffly. Just a few more blocks. He resisted the urge to fudge, even a little bit, on the speed limit. In contrast to his jaw-clenching tension, she seemed completely relaxed, long-fingered hands lying gracefully in her lap.
“It is, at times,” Layla agreed. She turned to look at him just as he was home-free, pulling into her driveway. “Jack, why do you dislike me so much?”
Unbelievable. Jack gazed straight ahead, feeling her eyes on him. Penance, that’s what this was, for his unkind thoughts, as deserving as she was of them. He turned his head to look at her, keeping his face still, neutral. “What makes you think I dislike you?”
Layla snorted and rolled her eyes. “Please. I teach teenagers. So do you, so you know what I mean. It rolls off you in waves.”
“I’m a Christian pastor,” he answered stiffly. “I should think the reason for my disapproval would be obvious.” Lord, he sounded stuffy. This was one of the things that ticked him off about her the most – the way she made him feel square and unnatural, like a stick-in-the-mud fuddy duddy.
“No,” she said thoughtfully, after a moment. “That’s the thing. It’s not obvious.” She shifted onto her hip, twisting her body to face him more fully, her face open and earnest. “The kids talk about you, you know. They talk about how accepting you are, how you teach tolerance and compassion. Frankly, I liked you for a year before I even met you. I think what you’re doing, what you teach the kids, is a good thing.” Another pause. “Did I offend you in some way?”
“Of course you did! Everything about you offends me!”
His voice was loud, abrasive, edgy, even to his own ears. He shut his eyes for a moment, struggling to moderate his response to her. He wasn’t used to losing control of an interaction like this; normally, he could sense just how to talk to someone, just when to pause, when to sit back, when to touch someone’s forearm. But with Layla, there was no rhythm to the interaction – just a lot of disconnected near-misses and frustration.
He opened his eyes and found her watching him patiently, a frown drawing a vertical line between her eyebrows. He took a deep breath, reached for calm reason, and hit her with both barrels. “Exodus 22:18. “Thou shall not suffer a witch to live.”
It was satisfying, so very satisfying, to see her mouth drop open. She goggled at him for a moment, then her spine snapped ram-rod straight, and battle lit her eyes.
“I am so disappointed, hearing that from you. I thought you were broader-minded than that.”
Whatever satisfaction he had briefly enjoyed sizzled away under the stinging heat of her words. He used all the subterfuge he possessed to hide that fact from her. “Your disappointment is irrelevant to me. The fact of the matter is, your ‘religious practices’ are an offense to God and to Christians.”
“Really. That’s strange – I’ve got it on good authority you don’t feel that way about Jews, or Muslims, or Buddhists. What makes my spirituality any different?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. Her face was fierce in its animation – he felt a moment of pity for any students that had to face down Ms. Karela when her temper awoke. “And you’re pretty selective with your Bible verses there, aren’t you? What about, ‘Thou shall not kill?’ Or, ‘Judge not lest ye be judged?’”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Even the Devil uses scripture for his own purposes.”
“The Devil!” He would swear, later, that her hair lifted around her head, writhing and crackling. “For your information, pal, the word ‘witch’ was not used in the original Hebrew or Greek versions of that verse – King James added it to his translation to support his persecution of wise women and female herbalists, and scholars aren’t even sure what the term meant when it was originally used in Exodus. So applying an Old Testament law – which was meant for an ancient Jewish tribe, by the way – to a modern spiritual practice is dangerous and backward thinking!”
Now she was on his turf. Here, at least, his footing felt sure. “The Bible is the inspired word of God, and as such, is as relevant to us today as it was to the ancients. And your information is skewed; the original Hebrew uses the word ‘m’khashepah’ to describe the person who should be killed, which is defined as ‘a woman who uses spoken spells to harm others.’ The original Greek word, ‘venefica,’ can be translated as ‘female poisoner,’ which is, in my opinion, an even more appropriate description of what you people do.”
“Oh, really. Really.” Flushed face, accelerated breathing, repetition of meaningless phrases. Yeah, he had her now. “Why don’t you illuminate me? What exactly is it you think ‘my people’ do?”
“You seduce young, vulnerable minds. You steal them away from Truth with sparkles and glitter and empty promises of something other-worldly, something mysterious. You make your service to Satan look glamorous, which is unforgiveable.” He pointed a finger at her nose, filled with righteous, protective wrath. “Unforgiveable.”
“Satan again! Jack!” She shook her head, her expression a mixture of anger and bemusement. “I don’t even believe in the Satan you Christians are so afraid of! Look, I can’t speak for all neo-Pagans, Wiccans, Witches or otherwise, but there’s no Devil in the Craft I practice.”
“Your lack of belief doesn’t make Satan less real. It just makes you more susceptible to his influence, an easier tool to wield.” He overrode her gasp of outrage and forged on. He had her on the run, and he was not about to give up the advantage. “You were right about one thing. I don’t disparage other religions. I’ve studied them, and I believe they are seeking the Divine, even if I don’t always agree with their practices. But I won’t recognize or validate what you do – what you seek is profane.”
For an eternity of seconds, she just stared at him. Her stunned silence was a triumph he savored, basking in the afterglow of righteousness well spent. Then, she laughed.
“So let me get this straight – you think I’m a mindless tool of Satan, that my spiritual practices are an abomination, and that my only purpose is to recruit more evil minions to serve the Great Pretender. Does that about cover it?”
There was a trap here, he could feel it. But he wasn’t about to start back-tracking now. In for a penny, in for a pound. “That’s a fair summation.”
“Huh. That’s interesting, considering you don’t know anything about me or my spiritual practices, which I consider to be very private, by the way.” He started to interject, but she held up her hand. “No, now you’ve spoken your piece and it’s obvious you’ve been wanting to for quite some time. It’s also obvious that you’ve done your homework – that was really good, that information about the original Hebrew and Greek – and you certainly caught me unprepared. That won’t happen again. Because you know what?”
She paused, gathered her groceries, popped open the car door and slid out. Then she bent down to grin at him. “Game on, Jack. Thanks for the ride.”
~~~
While Scott was gone, Naomi distracted herself with the feeding of “Naomi’s Ark” as Scott called her collection of animals – little Persephone and Zeus, the aging lab that was Scott’s constant shadow; Ares and his two subordinate kitties, Athena and Artemis; and finally Poseidon, the blue Macaw she’d rescued just a few months before Macy was born. Macy would take care of her little family of mice and the fish when she got up; unlike Piper, she had inherited her mother’s love of animals.
If Naomi had her way, the menagerie would include some backyard chickens and maybe even a miniature goat or two, but Scott had put his foot down. For a while, she had fostered animals in the process of being re-homed, which was how they’d ended up with Zeus and Artemis. Once they were in her home, she couldn’t bear to give them up. Now, she volunteered her time at public awareness events for Dream Power Animal Rescue, and Scott had begged her to please, please refrain from holding the featured animals, which was how she’d fallen in love with Persephone. The little mixed-breed dog was ridiculously cute, with her sturdy, terrier-like body, her silky, golden fur, and her cascading, Papillon-like ears. Persephone had curled up in her arms, trusting, warm and sweet, almost like a newborn baby, and that had been that.
Caring for the animals calmed her, as always. By the time Macy shuffled into the kitchen, her rosy golden hair a snarled halo around her sleepy head, Naomi had started a batch of homemade cinnamon rolls and had a pot of ham and bean soup simmering on the stove. She got Macy some breakfast, then smiled when Persephone snapped to attention and raced to the back door. A few seconds later, she heard the faint rumble of the garage door opening; Scott was home.
She left Macy eating breakfast and joined him in the garage. He’d backed his truck partway in, and was unloading case after case of bottled water. She peered past his shoulder, noting that the back of his truck was packed almost to the roof of the cap with not only water but canned and dry goods as well. Scott straightened, and their eyes met for a moment. Met and held. Then he shrugged, and started unloading again.
“It was time to re-supply and rotate anyway,” he said, and to Naomi’s ear, his casual tone sounded just a little forced. “I had this on the list to do over spring break, but now’s as good a time as any.”
Scott was what he called a “prepper” – not a hard-core survivalist, per-se, but he believed in having emergency supplies on hand, in the event of a catastrophe. He had lost family in the wake of hurricane Katrina – an elderly aunt and uncle who had died in their own home of dehydration and heat stroke – and to this day, the ease with which their deaths could have been prevented haunted him. Ever since, Scott had stocked and maintained a storage space with several month’s worth of bottled water and non-perishable food, as well as other emergency supplies. He rotated the supplies regularly and donated what they hadn’t used to a local food bank. The dual-purpose plan was quintessential Scott: It was a way to both protect his family and give back to the community.
And while Naomi had never shared his “prepare for the worst, hope for the best” mentality, his preparedness was a comfort to her now. “Maybe I’ll run over to Natural Grocers this afternoon,” she said, her tone as carefully casual as his had been. “I could stock up on some necessities. Some oil of oregano, some garlic caps, a bottle of colloidal silver.”
“Re-supply your ‘arsenal.’ Good idea.” Scott had always supported her natural remedies for their family’s illnesses. “And fill your car up while you’re out, okay?”
“Okay.” She paused, then spoke in a rush. “Oh, this is silly, right? I mean, we’re just over-reacting. We are. We’ll laugh about this in a few days, won’t we?”
Scott straightened, and again, their eyes met and held. “Maybe. A lot of people would say so, that’s for sure.” He held his hand out to her, and she took it, lacing her fingers through his. “But I’d rather live feeling silly than die saying ‘dang it.’” He smiled when Naomi giggled. “See? We’re laughing already.”