Darkness Before Dawn (5 page)

She glanced at the wedding portrait hanging on the wall and whispered, “Don’t worry,
Steve, he’ll pay for what he did to you. You have my word!”

For the first time in two days, Meg Hankins Richards felt alive!

A
S
M
EG AWOKE, SHE AUTOMATICALLY TURNED TO FACE HER HUSBAND
only to be confronted with the familiar spot where he always lay. The sudden shock
of seeing an empty pillow immediately drove home the realization of the solitary nature
of her new life, and the void Steve’s death had left filled the room like a choking
cloud of toxic gas. Turning over and staring at the opposite wall didn’t remove the
hollow feeling of loneliness; rather it magnified it. Choking back tears, she dragged
herself out of bed, grabbed her robe, and wandered toward the apartment’s kitchen.

Opening the cabinet, she automatically pulled down two glasses and set them on the
counter. Reaching into the freezer, she grabbed the ice tray and dropped six cubes
into each of the glasses. After replacing the tray, she opened the refrigerator, took
out a two-liter bottle of Coke, and began to fill the glasses. As she waited for the
foam to settle, reality hit her.

Suddenly a feeling of rage, the same rage that had kept her awake most of the night,
began to envelop her. Taking a still foaming glass in her hand, she spun around and
threw it as hard as she could against the far wall. Ice cubes and Coke
splattered all over her kitchen as pieces of glass slid in eighty different directions
all at the same time.

Turning, Meg stared at the wall, amazed by her own actions but seemingly calmer because
of them. Except for the noise made by her fizzing drink, the apartment was immersed
in complete silence and that was simply not natural. Steve should have been singing
a stupid song or telling a funny story. Sighing, she picked up the other glass and
walked to the window.

Trying to push the memory of past mornings from her head, Meg focused on the scene
beyond her window, which showed signs of being a typical midwestern March morning.
A light snow had fallen during the night and covered the unspoiled ground with a pure
and beautiful carpet of white. A strong northerly breeze, evident in the swaying evergreen
trees on the corner of the front lawn, coupled with a grayish sky, made it seem even
colder than the twenty-eight degrees indicated by Meg’s window thermometer. Birds,
mostly small sparrows, along with one beautiful male cardinal, played in the white
fluff, while a neighbor’s cat, partially hidden behind a tree, stalked them.

Meg’s brown eyes darted to the far side of the street. Old Mr. Fudge, bundled up as
if for a Russian winter, eased out of his front door, across the snow, and awkwardly
slid into his trusty 1985 Olds. Meg knew that soon, after the car’s motor had sufficiently
warmed, Mrs. Fudge would follow her husband’s path, and just like they had done for
sixty years, the two of them would head for church. Normally she would have been joining
them, but not now, not without Steve.

Another old-timer, Herb Lucas, waved at Mr. Fudge from his blue pick-up as he delivered
the Sunday morning edition of the
Springfield Herald
. Meg watched, just as she had a hundred times before, as the ever accurate Herb,
while never leaving the truck, hit porch after porch with carefully rolled papers.
On most Sunday mornings, she would have timed opening her door at just the moment
the paper landed at the base of her stairs. She would have then shouted a hearty greeting
to Herb and waved and smiled at Mr. Fudge. But today she didn’t want to talk to anyone
or have anyone else see the sadness in her eyes, so she simply let the paper land
on the concrete and watched Herb drive on.

Taking another sip of her Coke, she stared back at the idyllic scene in front of her.
The world still turned just as it always had. Steve’s death hadn’t stopped anything
or anyone. The snow still fell, the papers were still printed, and the birds still
sang. It seemed that only her life was different, only hers was empty.

Glancing at the stove clock, she noted that on any other Sunday she would be getting
ready for church by now. She knew that the fifth graders in her Sunday school class
must be confused and waiting for her. She’d seen some of them at the funeral. They
were sweet to come to such a grown-up event, but from now on somebody else would have
to explain the mysteries of God and the world to them. She didn’t have the answers
to their questions any more than she had the answers to her own. While she would miss
the kids, she’d already moved church and all that went with it to the past. It was
that simple. And why hadn’t she made that decision years ago? She could have enjoyed
those wasted Sunday mornings with Steve. Think of all the things they could have done.
Now she couldn’t get them back. That was the problem with life, once it slipped away
you couldn’t get anything back.

The ringing of her cell phone roused her from her thoughts. Stepping across the now
sticky kitchen floor, being careful to avoid the shards of glass, Meg stopped the
iPhone’s chirping on the third ring.

“Hello.” Her greeting revealed absolutely no enthusiasm.

“Meg, it’s Mom.” Barbara sounded far too caring and for that reason Meg didn’t respond
with anything more than a deep sigh. Perhaps sensing her daughter was not going to
speak, Barbara charged on, “Dear, I do wish you’d let me stay with you last night.”

“I was fine, Mom. Besides, there wasn’t enough room.” Meg hoped her flat tone made
it obvious that she didn’t want to deal with her mother nor the words of wisdom that
would soon spill out of the receiver.

“Well, you should have at least come home with me. It’s not good to be alone at a
time like this.” Barbara waited an appropriate time for a response, and when none
came, she continued, “Meg, why don’t I pick you up for church and then we can come
back over here for some roast.”

“No thanks, Mom. I’m just going to stay home today.” Her controlled response remained
polite, hiding the fact that the mention of attending church had sparked an explosive
fire in Meg’s heart. And though she likely didn’t know it, if she kept pushing, Barbara
was walking a line that could transform her daughter’s normally calm nature into a
violent storm. Meg hoped her mother would read between the lines and drop this spin
for togetherness.

“Meg, you just don’t need to be by yourself, not yet anyway. I know what you’re going
through.”

Meg was surprised it had taken as long as it had. Now came the time for the older
woman to deliver the kicker—the moment when Barbara would try the ultimate attempt
at bonding by trotting out the story that Meg knew had to have been on the tip of
her tongue for the past three days. Oh why couldn’t she just say good-bye and head
off to church?

“When your father died,” Barbara began, her tone sincere but a bit forced, “all I
wanted to do was sit in a chair and look out the window. But, you, your sister, and
my friends didn’t let
me do that. I mean . . .” There was no reason to listen to this old story. She’d heard
it many times before. So Meg bluntly cut her mother short.

“Mother, I don’t want to hurt your feelings. I know you are trying to make me feel
better. But you’re not. The fact is that you don’t know what I’m going through. Steve
was twenty-eight—just twenty-eight. Some drunk killed him! It happened suddenly—without
warning! One minute I was a wife, the next a widow. I didn’t have any time to think
about it or prepare for it. There were no goodbyes.”

She could have stopped there and probably should have, but the anger raging in her
soul had now taken control. So she spit out another series of thoughts as if they
were being delivered by a machine gun. Their impact was almost as cruel as it was
deadly.

“Dad had heart trouble for years. When he went into the hospital that last time, he
knew he wasn’t going to come out. We knew it, too. Dad was sixty-one years old and
I miss him. But you can’t begin to compare that to what happened to Steve. Dad was
within a decade of a normal life span. He had kids, went on fun vacations, and got
to spend all of his active years with you. He actually lived life! Steve only got
to start living. So don’t even try to tell me you know what I’m going through, because
you don’t.”

Barbara evidently had no response to calm her angry, hurt daughter and an awkward
silence, made even more awkward by the fact the conversation was taking place on a
phone and not in person, filled the next few moments. Finally, obviously struggling
to find words, Barbara continued.

“Honey, I know it didn’t happen the same way, but . . .”

In a challenging tone now filled with hostility, Meg fired back. “Mom, when Dad died,
Terri and I were already out of school. He left you secure. You didn’t have to go
back to work.
That made it easy for you, at least compared to what I’m going through. Show me one
place you had it tougher than me! I dare you, show me one place!”

Her voice now growing louder and more demanding, Meg challenged her mother again,
“Show me, Mom!”

Attempting to apply a mother’s empathy, Barbara answered with a calm steady voice.
“Meg, dear, your father’s death was not easy for me, no matter how long I’d had to
prepare. We had been together for thirty-six years.”

“Mom, be grateful for them, that’s an eternity compared to what Steve and I had.”

“I know, Meg, but still I had a very difficult time adjusting. Your father and I were
a team. We were together all the time.”

“Dad didn’t leave you pregnant.”

The silence that followed had the effect of an immense black hole—all energy immediately
drained from both ends of the call and neither woman spoke for almost a minute. Finally,
Barbara whispered, “What?”

“You heard me.”

“When did you, I mean, how long have you known?”

“I found out right after he died, Mom. How’s that for a kick in the pants?”

Meg now sensed her mother had fallen into a complete state of shock. The pregnancy
had come from out of left field. Meg knew the older woman hadn’t even suspected. Before
her mother could sort through her confused thoughts and emotions, Meg bluntly ended
their conversation.

“Listen, Mom, if you don’t get on the move, you’re going to be late for church. Your
friends will all be there and they’ll want to talk about how horrible this all is.
I wouldn’t want you to miss that. I want to be alone today anyway. Please respect
that. Don’t come over and don’t call me. Now, good-bye.”

Meg didn’t even wait for her mother’s response. Satisfied she had extracted a full
measure of pain, she hit the end call button and tossed the phone onto the couch.
Wandering back to the kitchen window, she once again picked up her Coke and looked
outside. Mr. Fudge’s car was now gone and the only signs of life on the street were
the playing birds and the stalking cat. For reasons she didn’t comprehend, she found
herself drawn to the scene under the elm tree just a few yards from her door. It was
escapism at its best, like an Animal Planet documentary created only for her eyes.
Best of all, the unfolding drama took her mind off the pain that had so unexpectedly
entered her life.

For ten minutes, the cat watched unmoving and unseen, hidden by the tree’s large trunk.
Little by little, the birds came closer and closer to where he lay. Meg stood perfectly
still, amazed by the cat’s patience and equally impressed with the hungry stare in
his large, green eyes. He had become a living statue, a beautiful work of art. But
he didn’t stay stone cold for long. With absolutely no warming, in a very carefully
planned moment of his choosing, he sprang to life. Landing in the middle of the dozen
or more sparrows, his paws reached out, and in a split-second of brutal savagery,
broke the neck of the lone, unsuspecting cardinal.

As the red bird dropped lifelessly to the ground, the other birds scattered in a panic,
some quickly landing on low limbs then turning back to observe their fallen comrade.
Others, pushed by continually exploding fear, flew out of sight. They didn’t want
to know what would happen next. They didn’t have the stomach for it. Yet, Meg couldn’t
pull her eyes from the victorious feline. The cat quickly surveyed the area before
picking up the lifeless bird in his mouth. He violently shook his prize once more
and then trotted off, disappearing beneath her window.

These events would have shocked her not so long ago. The brutality of the act might
have even brought tears of rage, but now the nature play only served to give her a
few minutes of escape from the reality of her own loss. So while it registered in
her mind, it came nowhere near touching her heart. Casually turning from the window,
she opened the refrigerator and announced to no one, “Well, now that we know what
the cat’s having, I wonder what I can whip up for breakfast?” After a moment of staring
at her choices, she closed the door without making a decision.

Wandering back through the living room, she pulled her oversized, terry cloth robe
a bit more tightly around her, stepped out on her second-floor landing, walked down
the steps to the apartment complex’s first floor porch, and bent over to pick up her
paper. A bloody sight stopped her short. Once again standing upright, she studied
the form of the newly dead cardinal, lying on the walk less than a foot from the rolled-up
paper.

“I guess the cat wasn’t hungry,” she coldly murmured.

Shrugging her shoulders, Meg once again bent over, grabbed the paper by one end, while
using the other end to flick the bird off into the snow-covered grass. Turning, she
marched back to her apartment, opened her door, tossed the paper on the floor, walked
to her bath, eased out of the robe and nightgown, and turned on the shower. As the
water heated up, she attempted to lose herself in soap and steam. But no matter how
hard she scrubbed, she couldn’t get rid of her anger or pain.