The Digger's Rest (51 page)

“
We can’t afford this.”

“
It’s
already
paid
for,
Rever
e
nd,”
Mike
said,
walk
ing
over
to
the
old
m
a
n
and
stand
i
ng
next
to
him
to
enjoy
the
b
e
auty
of
the
artwork.
He
put
his
hand
on
the
Reveren
d
’s
shoulder,
grinning
from
ear
t
o
ea
r
with
pride
over
his
accomplishment.

“
I
didn’t
cut
corners
either,”
he
said
confidently.
“I
got
the
contractor’s
ten
perce
n
t
off
materials
from
The
Home
Dep
o
t
over
in
Fennell
and
twisted
the
a
r
ms
of
a
few
of
those
starving
artists
over
in
New
Hope
to
do
the
glass.”
Reverend
Willis
just
stood
there,
speechless
before
the
su
n
-illuminated
window;
John
the
Baptist,
robed
in
hues
of
purple,
sitting
on the
edge
of
the
river,
radian
t
in
hues
of
green
and
blue
and
staring
into
the
sky,
hi
s
face
b
a
the
d
in
the
h
oly
light
with
yellows
and
oranges.

When
he
recovered
himself,
the
Reverend
looked
at
Mike
with
such
an
expression
of
peace
and
happine
s
s
that
Mike
wanted
to
take
the
old
man
in
his
big
arms
and
hug
him.

“
He’s your man, ain’t he?” Mike
ask
e
d, smiling.

“
Michael,
you
were
surely
brought
to
us
by
God,”
the
old
man said
taki
ng Mike’s big, meaty hand and shaking it
warmly.

“
I’ve
learned
so
much,
gained
so
much.
I
understand
so
much
more
for
having
met
you
an
d
your
people,
Reverend.
You’ve
fed
me,
cared
for
me
and
my
family.
Things
I
could
never
have
gotten
anywhere
else.
G
ood
things
that’ve
made
me
a
better
person,”
Mike
said
solemnly
and
pulled
the
copy
of
Uncle
Tom’s
Cabin
out
of
his
pock
e
t,
holding
it
in
front
of
him.
The
old
man
smiled,
nodding
as
they
turned
and
walked
in
silence
b
a
ck
out
into
the
sunlight.

The next
ti
m
e
they
woul
d
see
eac
h
other
was
so
o
ner
than
either
of
them
would
have
expected;
only
six
hours
and,
by then,
the
world
would
have
come
to
an
end
for
Big
Mike
Golden.

*****

It
was
alre
a
dy
dark
when
Mike
pulled
back
int
o
the
church
parking
lot,
his
temples
throbbing
a
nd
his
eyes
swollen
to
a
squint,
his
mind
swimming
with
drugs
and
flashbacks;
the
police
car
w
a
iting
for
him
in
his
driveway
w
h
en
he
got
back
to
the
17
^t
h
century
farmhouse
he
an
d
Jane
had
bou
g
ht
to
“flip”
the
next
ye
a
r.
People
were
gathered
on
his
porch,
one
in
a police
uniform,
the
ot
h
e
rs,
his
neighbors,
John
and
Patty
Gundersen.

Hysteria
ripped
through
him
as
he
got
out
of
his
car
and ran
towards
the
porch.
H
e
coul
d
see
out
of
the
corner
of
his
eye
th
a
t
Patty
Gunderse
n
was
crying.

The
policeman
step
p
e
d
up.
“Mr.
Golden?”
the
young
officer
said,
a
grim,
pale
expression
on
his
face.

“
Yes!”
Mike
shouted
looking
to
pass
h
i
m
and
get
i
nto
the
house.
The
young
officer
stopped
him.

“
Mr.
Golden,
I’m
sorry.
There’s
bee
n
an
a
ccident
.
”
In
his
panic,
Mike
hadn’t
noticed
tha
t
t
h
eir
second
car,
the
old
VW
bug
the
kids
loved,
wasn’t
in
the
drive.
He
stopped.

“
What?”

“
You’re
wife
has
been
in
a
car
accide
n
t
,
sir.
I’m
sorry,”
the
young
officer
said,
looking
to
the
ground
and
shaking
his head.
The
b
l
ood
drained
from
Mike’s
face.
He
knew
what
that
meant.
Mike’s
mind
reeled
out
of
control,
shooting
in
every direction. “My kids!” he cried
out.

Patty
Gun
d
ersen
wa
s
s
t
anding
next
to
him
b
y
then,
holding
him
up.
“The
kids
are
f
i
ne,
Mike.
They’re
over
at
our
house
with
ours,”
she
said,
tears
running
down
her
cheeks.

“
I’m so sorry, Mike,”
sh
e
said and hugged him.

Time
seemed
to
stop
for
Michael
Golden
then.
T
h
e
world
had
just
end
e
d.
For
the
next
six
hours
he
felt
nothing
and
understood less.
He
was
just
a
body
going
through
the
motions
as
he
was
directed
by
the
young
police
officer
and
John
Gundersen;
identifying
the
body,
signing
papers
he didn’t
read
and
couldn’t
understand.
Everything
seemed
to
b
e
moving
in
slow
motion
.
Arrangem
e
n
t
s
?
He
couldn’t
fucking
think
now
about
arrangements.
“What
the
hell
are
you
talking
about?”
he
s
houted
through
his
tear
s
as
he
fell
apart
at
the
hospital;
a
v
o
ice
in
his
mind
screaming
at
him
in
his
skull,
She’s
dead,
Michael.
Jane
is
dead!
She
ran
off
the
road
and
into
a
tree
,
he
kept
hearing
the
young
officer’s
voice
repeating
in
his
head
as
he
got
out
of
the
car
in
the
church
parking
lot
and
stumbled
sluggishly
to
the
do
or,
fumbling
in
his
pocket
for
the
key.
Where
else
could
he
go?
There
was
nowhere
else
to
go.
He
went
in
and
sat
in
the
front
pew;
his
head
in
his
hands,
drifting.
This
can’t
be
real,
Lord.
Can
I
please
w
ake
u
p
now?