Authors: Erik Tomblin
The Space Between (20 page)
Fighting for breath, Isaac reached up to pry away the hands crushing his windpipe. His sight began to cloud over and
Obediah
moved off of him, releasing his neck and pulling him to his feet. Isaac swung out with one fist, connecting with
Obediah's
right cheek. The man grunted, more in annoyance than pain. Isaac swung with his other fist and connected again, but it only seemed to infuriate
Obediah
even further, and he felt the man's hands latch onto the front of his shirt.
"You shall not mock His work! Not in my house!"
The wall to his left rushed over to meet Isaac. The sensation and sound of bones cracking were disconcerting, but he was still too busy fighting to get his lungs working again. When he did, he sucked in a loud breath and exhaled, a spray of blood from his split lips mingling with
Obediah's
. The older man didn't seem to notice. He grabbed Isaac's shirt and swung him around, slamming him against the other wall. Isaac's head whipped back and met the plaster. The crunch of bone against the wall echoed down the hall, and his vision finally went dark.
He could still hear
Obediah
raving about his duty to God as the man threw Isaac about, occasionally using a meaty fist to accentuate his words. He could feel his blood flowing freely from his mouth and nose, even the sensation of the warm, thick life running from his left ear. Isaac fought to catch his breath, but it was knocked from him with each impact against the walls. When he was sure the collision would end his life, he felt
Obediah's
hands go slack and he crumpled to the floor outside of Elizabeth's bedroom door.
He thought he could hear voices from downstairs, possibly the older woman urging Mr. Willoughby to stop. There were also the scared, frantic cries of Elizabeth coming from behind the door. Though Isaac knew they weren't meant for him, he found a small bit of satisfaction in the fact that the last thing he heard as he lay there dying on the floor was her voice.
Her father had checked on her not long after silence had settled on the other side of her bedroom door. She hadn't opened the door wide enough to let him in, but he didn't seem bothered. Elizabeth couldn't help but notice the pattern of blood across his face. When she asked if he were okay, he said yes. She knew that could only mean the stranger had not fared as well. After closing the door, she kneeled before her bed and said a short prayer of gratitude for her father, her protector.
He had told her to stay in her room for a while and rest, to which she readily agreed at first. Though she didn't come right out and admit it to herself, she knew the man must be dead. Before her father returned she peeked out into the hall and there the stranger was, lying in a small pool of blood. She listened for the sounds of her father or Miss Rose downstairs but could hear nothing.
Stepping out into the hall, Elizabeth knelt next to the dead man. She surprised herself by reaching out to touch the side of his face. It was slightly warm, but noticeably different from that of a live person. She shook off the chill that ran up her spine and stared at him. How had he known her name? Who was he? These were questions she hoped her father might have answers to, and would hopefully tell her soon. But he'd been so anxious these past few weeks, so difficult to talk to and please. When she heard him at the front door, she hurried back into her room and set the lock, pressing her ear to the wood to listen.
Elizabeth could hear her father struggling with the body, occasionally giving an order to little Harold now and then in a voice meant to keep her from hearing them. Their steps sounded off on the stairs and she returned to her bed. She sat there, once again going over the questions she had. The man had scared her so badly, especially when she realized he had known who she was. She had no idea who he was, and he didn't look familiar.
One thing about him, however, did seem to stick in her thoughts. His voice seemed somewhat familiar. When she tried to imagine it again, it called upon a childhood memory that she'd shared with her mother (never her father). Not so many years ago, before her mother had left, Elizabeth would hear singing as she played in the woods. It was rare, but had happened enough for her to mention it. They were beautiful songs, unlike any she'd ever heard before, and the man's voice that sang them was just as beautiful. Every now and then she thought she could hear the soulful notes of a mouth organ between verses.
She never could remember the songs for very long after she'd heard them, only that they were wonderful and made her feel safe and loved. She did remember the voice, however, and she'd thought it was what angels might sound like. So it was very puzzling when she realized how similar it was to that of the man that had just moments ago been lying dead outside her door. It was so upsetting, in fact, that Elizabeth rushed to the open window, hoping the fresh air would keep her conscious.
When she saw her father and Harold carrying the body wrapped in an old quilt toward the barn, she quickly shifted her gaze down, away from the morbid reminder of what had just happened. Something on the roof below the window caught her eye, the midday sun glinting off of polished steel. She squinted, not sure what she was seeing. Her father and Harold disappeared behind a row of trees, so she stepped out of the window and carefully crawled toward the object.
Walter Willoughby stood in the empty cabin off of Mt. Zion Trail. The furniture was still there and would remain so, but everything else had been taken to the house down the hill where he already had all the furniture he would need. His children would be visiting next weekend with his grandchildren, and he hadn't decided yet how much he would tell them about everything. He supposed they deserved to know their family history, just as he had.
He had come back to the cabin to retrieve a small, fireproof box that held all the proof he would need (should he decide to tell the truth and his children started discussing his possible need for "assisted living"). Walter groaned as he kneeled down next to the bed, groping along the floor. His hand found the box and he pulled it out by its handle. He stood and set it on the bed, fishing a ring of keys from his pocket before sitting down next to the box.
Walter unlocked and opened the lid. Considering the events of the past few days, Walter was hardly surprised to see that his Grandmother Mary's journal was once again there in the box. Nor was he surprised to see the small, laminated card with his father's picture on it poking out from the pages. He had not been able to find it many years ago. He'd ended up blaming his children for poking around in his things without asking.
His mother's journal was also in the box. He had read it more times than he could count, and every time he was amazed at what a strong woman his mother had been. He was even more amazed at how, after defending herself against her own father in a grisly struggle not long before Walter was born, she managed to become a seemingly carefree and loving mother. He read it anytime he needed inspiration, especially over the last few years before he had to let it go for a short while.
He opened it to read aloud one of his favorite entries, written almost a decade after his mother had taken a job in Macon, leaving the house unoccupied until her death decades later. Walter would assume for many years that his mother never sold the old house for purely sentimental reasons. It was from her journal that he learned the truth in its entirety.
Walter is doing so well with his career and family. Nicole is such a wonderful wife and mother, and little Sarah is so precious. I'm anxiously awaiting a visit from all of them as Walt has promised to do so before the month is over.
I've been thinking a lot about my son becoming a father. It has been weighing heavily on my conscience. He knows so little about his own father. What is there to know, really? I can't bear the thought of telling him everything. It's too much for anyone to believe and he'd probably think me crazy. It's a matter of time before I can ease my own worries. It was such a long time ago and the years have a way of feeding my doubts.
Walter deserves to know his father, one way or another. I'm not sure how or when, but I feel it is my duty to make sure that happens. I can only tell him what little I know. The good things, not anything that has to do with my father. Some memories are best left unspoken. I will find a way. Walter has always been the shining light in my life. He needs to know.
Tomorrow is his father's birthday. I pray every day that he is born healthy, but I know that God's plan has already deemed it so. Still, the nightmares of waking up in a world without Walter haunt me. I also pray that I will soon find Isaac, see him swaddled and happy in his mother's arms, and know that God has indeed provided for me once again.
Walter closed the journal, blinking back spontaneous tears. He placed the book back in the box and pulled out a copy of Isaac
Owen's
debut album on compact disc. He'd picked that up not long ago and listened to it about as many times as he'd read his mother's journal. He knew
that
part of the family history would most likely put him in a questionable light; especially once the authorities came calling. And they undoubtedly would, but he would stick to the truth as much as he could without putting himself in jeopardy of being committed.
There would be plenty of tough questions, but he knew the worst was over. Sometimes you have to know what you're willing to sacrifice to be the person you are meant to be. He felt confident he'd done as much, as had Isaac Owens. Walter was living proof of that.
The old man carefully placed everything back into the box and locked it. He left the cabin and began his trek to the house in the valley below, stepping as quickly as he could without being too careless. The day was coming to a close and he wanted to visit the little grave on the hill for a song or two before sunset.
The End
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