Guardrails

On the morning of Sunday, January 4, the first Sunday of the month, and of the year, Geneva set out even earlier than usual. She'd gotten up at 4, turned on the radio and heard the announcer give the weather report. "Six inches of the white powdery stuff fell overnight. Salt crews have been out all night working. The main streets are no great shakes, but the secondary streets are even worse. If you don't have to go out, don't."

Geneva pulled back the sheet she had hung as a curtain. "Jesus," she said, looking at the snow that looked like a cumulous cloud had that had fallen to the ground. She stood in her flimsy pale green nylon nighty, the same one she had worn every night since Carl, her husband had died, and shook. It hadn't been a good night. From eight until midnight she'd sat on the floor of her closet going through photos and letters Carl had written to her when he had been in Vietnam.

"Dear Genie," the letter said. "I haven't slept in three days. Well, at least I haven't slept lying down. We all try to catch a few winks whenever we can, but it's hard to since we are continuously on the move.

I think about you all of the time, even when we're in the thick of things with rockets firing overhead and land mines exploding in the not to far distance. I have to think about you or I will go insane. I have to believe there is goodness somewhere and to me, you are that goodness.

You know how I used to get squeamish all the time? Remember when I almost passed out when you smashed you little finger in the car door? Well, I'm pretty much over that. The other day I had to put a tourniquet above the knee on my pal Andy Grayson. He'd been stepped on a land mine. The medic told me what to do over the walkie talkie. I talked to Andy the whole time too. Did I tell you he was from Wichita and had a baby daughter? She'd been born right after we got in country. Well, Andy's eyes got glassier and glassier. He told me he couldn't feel his leg. His right leg. I held his hand. He was sweating bullets. Odd how I'd say sweating bullets, isn't it? No pun intended. I kept telling him he'd be fine. 'What about my leg?' he asked. And I kept telling him, he'd be fine. That I heard the chopper coming right now. I couldn't tell him his leg was gone, that from the knee down there was nothing there. Then he moaned and jerked his body and I heard him mutter something about his back. Christ, I hadn't even checked his back. I thought after seeing his leg missing, that was all that could be wrong. Christ, that was enough of an injury. At least in a fair world that would have been. But I was naïve. I felt the wind from the helicopter as it flew to a clearing maybe 25 yards away. Shit, they were getting fired on too. You know how background music plays at the movies? That's what it sounded like. The helicopter and the machine guns were the background noise yet Andy is who I heard. He told me to take his dog tag and give it to Mindy when I got stateside. 'You're going to be fine,' I said to him. 'Your leg took a hit, that's all.' And Genie, I swore I thought he would be ok. But before the medics got there, he died. Staring right at me. He fucking died.

When the medics reached under his back to lift him onto the stretcher to carry him to the chopper, I heard one of them say, 'Mother of God, the guy's guts are falling out from his back.'

I don't mean to dump on you. I really don't'. But Genie, so much of this just doesn't make sense. Such waste. Such human waste. And I hate to say it, but I've learned to hate. (See there I go again, hating to hate). And I think I've killed people. I know I have.

Well, enough of the war stuff. Life's too short to dwell on war.

I just want to tell you how much I love you. You know I never thought much about love before I got over here. I mean, you know, the kind of love that makes you want to live. It's easy, back home, to take things for granted. But not over here. Emotions sort themselves out and holler at the top of their lungs to make themselves heard. And I'm not just talking about love, no, I'm talking about pain and anger and hatred and would you believe boredom? Everything I feel here is intensified. Like electric shocks going through my system. And when I think of you I swear I almost go into convulsions. Oh, yeah, some of it is probably lust, you know, the horndog stuff, but you can't blame a fellow for that. But the emotions are so much more that that. I feel you in the fiber of my bones, the pit of my stomach and the beats of my heart.

I'd love to chat longer but we're moving out again. Tell Dopy I said hey. Can't wait to see him too. Tell him I love him too, even if he is a dog.

Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I saw the biggest snake yesterday. An eight foot Monocled cobra, head spiked over the elephant grass. Sergeant Rhodes pissed his pants. Said that thing was more evil than the fucking VC's. Well, on that note.

Love forever xxx,
Carl

The letter was too much. Not to mention the photos of she and Carl on their honeymoon in Gatlinburg. At eleven-thirty, just as the snow was beginning to fall, her consciousness in a debate with her subconscious over whether one drink would hurt her, she got into Dodge Reliant and drove to Bubba Bob's carryout and bought not one, but two bottles of wine. One bottle of Cabernet Blanc and one Riesling. She'd decide whether she'd drink the red or white when she got home.

She drank both.

After vomiting, she fell asleep on the couch. She hadn't set her alarm clock for four. The only reason she got up was to get some water, some aspirin and go to the bathroom. And when she couldn't fall back asleep, that's when she turned the radio on.

Carl made it back from Vietnam in one piece. And the deep love he declared for Geneva in his letters was true. For eight years they had the life they had both dreamed, except for the lack of children, although even after six miscarriages they never gave up hope. Geneva and Carl drank infrequently. Beer gave Carl gas and Geneva said wine made her skin crawl, although she did find that white wine was a good clarifier for her hair.

Carl had survived Vietnam, a bout with skin cancer. He'd outrun the demons of his youth, of the sorry childhood he had at the hands of a depressed father and hell on wheels mother. But he wasn't able to outrun was the drunk driver whose car he saw coming up over the sidewalk in front of the Connerville Post Office. He was pinned between the red 150 Ford pickup and the brick corner wall of the post office.

That's when Geneva began to drink in earnest. After a while she didn't feel her skin crawl. She didn't feel anything.
That was the point.

The congregation of the First Free Church of Connerville gave their hearts, souls and extra pot roast to Geneva. She and Carl had attended the church since they had moved to Connerville when Carl got the job managing the IGA. For the first six months or so Geneva was included in almost any social event anybody had. Sarah and Harry Turner insisted, yes insisted she come to Christmas at their house. They even had a gift for her, a book called, Learning to Live with Grief. The Poseys, an elderly couple whose house always smelled of cooked cabbage insisted she come over to watch bonanza reruns, Mr. Posey's favorite show. Everyone was very nice those first six months. But then the invitations dwindled. Pastor Greer noticed that Geneva was still laden with grief. He could tell when he looked at her from the pulpit, half-glasses notched on the edge of his nose, eyes peering across the congregation, making mental notes of who was in attendance and who wasn't. He'd see Geneva in the same pew every week, fourth row from the back, right center. He noticed she wore the same outfit every week; navy blue pinch pleated skirt, olive green cardigan sweater over a white oxford blouse. Gone from her face was the pleasant smile and twinkle in her eyes she had when she and Carl attended. It was replaced with the eyes that looked as though they'd been hollowed out by a lathe. Her lips constantly trembled. And her shoulders hung like weak, wire coat hangars carrying a winter coat.

"My, Geneva looks bad," Harriet Pomeroy told the ladies at the Wednesday night Crusade for Christ meetings. "We really should make it a point to invite her to dinner and all," she said. "That would be the Christian thing to do." But those good intentions were written on wind. By the time the women left the evening meeting, thoughts of Geneva and her grief had vanished, replaced by the hellfire and fury of God and the prospect of dealing with another week of working, cooking, cleaning and surviving.

Pastor Greer decided he couldn't stand by and watch one of his sheep parish. So after church one Sunday, as he was shaking Geneva's hand and telling her how delighted he was to see her, he told her he thought they should begin "grief counseling." Geneva nodded and said, "I'll wait for your call."

Pastor told Geneva the sessions would last about an hour and go on for about five weeks. So on Thursday nights he'd arrive at Geneva's house, Bible in hand, words of comfort in his pocket. Geneva tried to straighten the house up before he got there, but she barely had the energy to do it. She'd been working extra hours at the bakery just to make ends meet. And she was exhausted, a look many people, including the Pastor, had identified as grief.

Geneva tried to be a good hostess. She brewed coffee even though she didn't drink it and brought home a double butter rum cake from the bakery and set the coffee and pastries out on her kitchen table.

She noticed how different the Pastor looked when he wasn't standing in a pulpit or wearing his ecclesiastical robe, which did a good job hiding a multitude of sins including a paunchy stomach and alarming size butt, for a man. Up close she noticed how his top row of teeth was pretty straight but the bottom row crossed over themselves like a split rail fence. His hands, which at first, never left his Bible, appeared stunted for his size. His fingers were short and thick and plain except for the wedding band.

"Let's pray to the Lord," he'd say as they sat at the table. He'd close his eyes while praying, but often Geneva didn't. She'd watch his face, how his eyebrows lifted at certain spots of the prayer, how he licked his lips constantly and how often; he'd miss shaving a portion of his face. "Amen," he'd say and Geneva would click her eyes closed as if they had been closed throughout the whole solemn moment. At first Pastor did most of the talking. He'd tell Bible tales with names Geneva had heard but could never say. After he did his soft talking, he'd ask questions. At first the questions were not intrusive, just things such as, "How you getting along these days? You getting enough fresh air and exercise? But as the weeks went by, the questions became more personal and involved feelings. "How do you feel about Carl being gone? "What do you miss most about the relationship you had?

It was on the fourth week when Pastor put his bible down on the table and took Geneva's hands in his, looked into her eyes like a hound on Viagra, and said, "How was your and Carl's sex life?"

Geneva was stunned. Her eyes flew open the size of the buckeyes that fell from the tree in her yard.

"Why Pastor, is that a grieving question? I don't know what to say."

"Don't you get lonely sometimes? Don't you want to feel a man's arms around you, feel his breathing on your neck and caressing your breasts? That's what God intended for man and woman."

"But Pastor," she said, her head spinning. "This isn't right."

"Why isn't it right?" he asked, rubbing his hands around her wrist and up her arm. "Haven't you ever heard the phrase, "God works in mysterious ways??"

"But, but, you're married."

"Yes I am. But the Will of the Lord calls sometimes and I follow his Word. And God sent me here to help you get on with your life. You wouldn't go against what the Lord wants, would you?" He stared into her eyes with the concentration she'd seen in the eyes of the snake people. His look was like a magnet. Focused.

Before she knew it his hand was unbuttoning her blouse and inside her bra. When it was over she had no idea how they'd gotten to the couch. The sound of Pastor pulling up his zipper stunned her back into the moment.

"I think we're going to need a lot more than five weeks of counseling," he said. "And the Lord also doesn't want you to tell anyone about us."

Counseling went on for nearly a year, sometimes three times a week. When Geneva said she didn't think she could afford to spend so much time in grief counseling, Pastor mentioned the job of driving the Christian Caravan was open and she could make a good amount of money doing that. Terms of payment would be between them. And she'd make enough that some of her daytime hours would be free for her to do as she pleased. "This is the work of the Lord," he said.

Only once did he question her about her alcoholism, which had come up in counseling. He'd smelled something on her breath, wine, perhaps? But she convinced him her days of drinking were over. Done. Finished. And with that, the subject was never broached again.

Nine months passed. Grief counseling began to fall off. Geneva heard that a couple other women, one a recent widow and another, a divorcee, were participating in grief counseling. On a Thursday evening at 7:00, Pastor was supposed to arrive. Seven fifteen, seven-thirty, eight o'clock came, but Pastor didn't. Geneva knew then it was over. She was glad, at least in a sense. The reality that she wasn't making love to Carl had set in months ago. That's how she got through it, thinking of Carl, fearing the Lord.

From the following Sunday on, Geneva drove the caravan to the church, but instead of going inside with the rest of the parishioners, she sat outside.

Pastor never said a word to her.

Geneva drove the caravan, learning the county's country roads like the back of her hand. Conner County was hilly. Many of the roads had sharp curves. But she loved driving the route, watching the maples turn crimson, watching the cows line up and follow each other into the barns. She loved watching the corn grow and change colors from green to gold. She'd mastered the turns in the small towns she went through picking up parishioners. And she enjoyed the greetings from the people as they stepped up into the bus and drove toward salvation.

She never drank on Saturday nights. And rarely at all. She had stayed within her own twelve-step program that seemed to work really well unless her hormones went off the charts. But then, she'd just have a glass of wine and that was it. That is, until that Saturday night.

She was proud she had never missed a Sunday driving. And she wasn't about to let a little snow stop her today. She layered sweats over her leggings, a tee-shirt, then and Oxford shirt and then a sweater. She tied her boots, grabbed her Eskimo hat, gloves and scarf and trudged to her car. The door had closed before she could hear the phone ring.

The bus had a hard time starting. She turned the ignition. It groaned. Over and over until finally the engine chugged, sputtered and started. "Thank you Jesus," she said. She wiped her eyes and shook her head to try to make the blurriness go away. But it didn't help.

Pastor Greer left a message on Geneva's recorder. "Due to the weather, I'm canceling services." Click. He went back to sleep.

Geneva placed her cup of coffee in the cup holder. The coffee and her breath steamed up the window. She wiped it with her glove. "Let's get this crusade on the road," she said as she pulled out of the church parking lot, snow crunching under the wheels.

"Whoa," she said as the caravan slid to the left. She drove down Chestnut to the Dunkin Donuts. She put the caravan in park, left the engine running and ran in and bought a cinnamon donut. She left her gloves on as she ate the donut carefully trying to avoid the wax paper it was wrapped in.

She drove along her route, surprised that people weren't ready to get on the bus. Some of the houses she stopped in front of looked as if everyone was still sleeping. Finally, she stopped at the Howard's place. Ben and Grace and their twins trudged through the snow and climbed the steps.

"Lovely weather, isn't it?" Ben said as he aimed the twins toward seats behind Geneva. "But the Lord didn't make us wimps."

"Right on brother," Geneva said.

Geneva went up several more streets before she found some more brave parishioners. By the time she headed out toward Centerville, there were eight passengers. Route 350 was full of hills and curves. It looked like it had been plowed but was still covered with a layer of snow. She looked into her review mirror and saw concerned looks on people's faces.

"Don't worry," she said. "I've driven these roads hundreds of times."

Which was true. But she'd never driven them with alcohol in her system.

"Just imagine it to be a roller coaster," she said.

The kids laughed. The parents didn't.

As the caravan went up and down hills little Diane Howard got car sick. The retching sound that came from her caused Geneva to turn around to see what was going on. She turned her head back just in time to see she was headed into a curve. She swerved the wheel, overcorrecting it. She slammed on the breaks when the caravan didn't stop.

"My God!" she said.

Screams roiled from the back. Kid's high pitched voices, the adults crying, "Lord Jesus, help us."

"Fuck" came a deep voice from the back of the bus.

Geneva tried turned the wheel one way and then another trying to figure out how to get it to go straight. Nothing worked. The caravan skidded about fifty feet banging on the guardrail. Geneva pumped the breaks. Then slammed them. But the caravan was going downhill and into a curve.

"Oh my God," she cried "I can't stop it."

The guardrail was the only thing stopping the caravan from going down into the valley.

"Hold on," she cried.

Screams were louder now. "Hold on. No God, no!"

The caravan broke through the guardrail and began tumbling down the hill.

"Ahh! Mommy! Oh no!"

The snow absorbed some of the sound of the caravan banging and bouncing down the hill.

When the caravan finally stopped, so did the noises from inside.

After a few moments sounds came from inside. Mostly groans. A few cries. But not enough noise for the number of people who were inside.

Neal Blanchard heard the horrible sound outside his farmhouse. It wasn't the first time he'd heard it and this wasn't the first time he'd have to tell Ina, his wife, to call the life squad while he ran the door in his robe to see what had happened. He hopped on his snow mobile that he kept parked aside the porch in the winter. He used it to get the mail which was a quarter mile down the driveway from his house.

When he got close, he noticed could see the cross on the side of the van. He also saw an arm hanging out the window, blood dripping into the snow.

"Christian Caravan," he said. "Jesus Christ."

It took the ambulances nearly twenty minutes to get to the scene. Neal and his wife did the best they could, but the caravan had stopped upside down.

"I've told the county a hundred times they had better get a stronger guardrail on that curve," Neal said, angry and trembling. Of all of the wrecks here that he had seen, this was by far the worst. Dead people all over.

The fire department had to flip the caravan over in order to get two of the people out. When they got to her, Geneva was no longer in the driver's seat. Without a seatbelt, she'd been thrown all over.

"Did someone call Pastor Greer," asked a fireman, who had once been a parishioner at the church.

"He's on his way."

By the time he got there, all of the parishioners had been placed on gurneys and loaded into the ambulance, some to be rushed to the hospital and others transported to the morgue. The last one to be removed was Geneva as she had become trapped between the cold earth and the hot engine. As they lifted her onto the gurney, her blouse, which had been ripped open, gave way, exposing two dangling pieces of metal hung from a chain around her neck. Carl's dogtags. They clinked when they lifted her body.

Pastor Greer's face was whiter than the surrounding snow. Four of his parishioners were dead, five more injured, some critically.

He hoisted his pants, a nervous habit, when he talked to the police. One of the paramedics said he thought he smelled alcohol on the driver. Did the Pastor know if the driver had a problem with alcohol, he was asked.

"No, not that I'm aware," he said. "If she had I'd never of let her drive the bus."

"I'm sure not," the officer said.

As the officer walked Pastor to his car, the tow truck in the background easing the buss onto its hoist, the officer told Pastor how sorry he was about what had happened and that if he had any questions, he'd wait awhile. "After all," the officer said, "I imagine you'll be busy with grief counseling."

"I will. I will," Pastor said. "Someone's got to do the Lord's work."

Biography

I am a writer from the Midwest region of the USA where men are saints and the women are angels. My work has been published in Family Circle magazine, the Chicago Tribune, Poets and Writers, the Christian Science Monitor, the Cleveland Plain Dealer Sunday Magazine, among others. I am currently working on my first novel called Cleaning Closets.