The Winds of Marble Arch and Other Stories (97 page)

A semi roared past in a blinding blast of snow and exhaust. He leaned forward, trying to see the lines on the pavement, and another truck went by, full of orange-and-yellow bumper
cars. Bumper cars. How appropriate. They were all going to be riding bumper cars if this snow kept up, Mel thought, watching the truck pull into the lane ahead of him. It fishtailed wildly as it did, and Mel put his foot on the brake, felt it skid, and lifted his foot off.

Well, he had asked for a sign, he thought, carefully slowing down, and this one couldn’t be clearer if it was written in
fiery letters: Go home! This was a crazy idea! You’re going to be killed, and then what will the congregation think? Go home!

Which was easier said than done. He could scarcely see the road, let alone any exit signs, and the windshield was starting to ice up. He swiped at the window again.

He didn’t dare pull over and stop—those semis would never see him—but he was going to have to. The defroster
wasn’t having any effect on the ice on the windshield, and neither were the windshield wipers.

He rolled down the window and leaned out, trying to grab the wiper and slap it against the windshield to shake the ice off. Snow stabbed his face, stinging it.

“All right, all right,” he shouted into the wind. “I get the message!”

He rolled the window back up, shivering, and swiped at the inside of
the windshield again. The only kind of sign he wanted now was an exit sign, but he couldn’t see the side of the road.

If I’m
on
the road, he thought, trying to spot the shoulder, a telltale outline, but the whole world had disappeared into a featureless whiteness. And what would keep him from driving right off the road and into a ditch?

He leaned forward tensely, trying to spot something, anything,
and thought he saw, far ahead, a light.

A yellow light, too high up for a taillight—a reflector on a motorcycle, maybe. That was impossible, there was no way a motorcycle could be out in this. One of those lights on the top corners of a semi.

If that was what it was, he couldn’t see the other one, but the light was moving steadily in front of him, and he followed it, trying to keep pace.

The
windshield wipers were icing
up again. He rolled down the window, and in the process lost sight of the light. Or the road, he thought frightenedly. No, there was the light, still high up, but closer, and it wasn’t a light, it was a whole cluster of them, round yellow bulbs in the shape of an arrow.

The arrow on top of a police car, he thought, telling you to change lanes. There must be some kind
of accident up ahead. He strained forward, trying to make out flashing blue ambulance lights.

But the yellow arrow moved steadily ahead, and as he got closer, he saw that the arrow was pointed down at an angle. And that it was slowing. Mel slowed, too, focusing his whole attention on the road and on pumping his brakes to keep the car from skidding.

When he looked up again, the arrow had slowed
nearly to a stop, and he could see it clearly. It was part of a lighted sign on the back of a truck. “Shooting Star” it said in a flowing script, and next to the arrow in neon pink, “Tickets.”

The truck came to a complete stop, its turn light blinking, and then started up again, and in its headlights he caught a glimpse of snow-spattered red. A stop sign.

And this was an exit. He had followed
the truck off the highway onto an exit without even knowing it.

And now he was hopefully following it into a town, he thought, clicking on his right-turn signal and turning after the truck, but in the moment he had hesitated, he had lost it. And the blowing snow was worse here than on the highway.

There was the yellow arrow again. No, what he saw was a Burger King crown. He pulled in, scraping
the snow-covered curb, and saw that he was wrong again. It was a motel sign. “King’s Rest,” with a crown of sulfur-yellow bulbs.

He parked the car and got out, slipping in the snow, and started for the office, which had, thank goodness, a “Vacancy” sign in the same neon pink as the “Tickets” sign.

A little blue Honda pulled up beside him and a short, plump woman got out of it, winding a bright
purple muffler around her head. “Thank goodness you knew where you were going,” she said, pulling on a pair of turquoise mittens. “I couldn’t see a thing except your taillights.” She reached back into the Honda for a vivid green canvas bag. “Anybody who’d be on the roads in weather like this would have to be crazy, wouldn’t they?”

And if the blizzard hadn’t been sign enough, here was proof
positive.
“Yes,” he said, although she had already gone inside the motel office, “they would.”

He would check in, wait a few hours till the storm let up, and then start back. With luck he would be back home before Mrs. Bilderbeck got to the office tomorrow morning.

He went inside the office, where a balding man was handing the plump woman a room key and talking to someone on the phone.

“Another one,”
he said when Mel opened the door. “Yeah.”

He hung up the phone and pushed a registration form and a pen at Mel.

“Which way’d
you
come from?” he asked.

“East,” Mel said.

The man shook his balding head. “You got here in the nick of time,” he said to both of them. “They just closed all the roads east of here.”

In the morning, Mel called Mrs. Bilderbeck. “I won’t be in today. I’ve been called out of town.”

“Out of town?” Mrs. Bilderbeck said, interested.

“Yes. On personal business. I’ll be gone most of the week.”

“Oh, dear,” she said, and Mel suddenly hoped that there was an emergency at the church, that Gus Uhank had had another stroke or Lottie Millar’s mother had died, so that he would
have to go back.

“I told Juan you’d be in,” Mrs. Bilderbeck said. “He’s putting the sanctuary Christmas decorations away, and he wanted to know if you want to save the star for next year. And the pilot light went out again. The church was
freezing
when I got here this morning.”

“Was Juan able to get it relit?”

“Yes, but I think someone should look at it. What if it goes out on a Saturday night?”

“Call Jake Adams at A-1 Heating,” he said. Jake was a deacon.

“A-1 Heating,” she said slowly, as if she were writing it down. “What about the star? Are we going to use it again next year?”

Is there going to
be
a next year? Mel thought. “Whatever you think,” he said.

“And what about the ecumenical
meeting?” she asked. “Will you be back in time for that?”

“Yes,” he said, afraid if he said “no,”
she would ask more questions.

“Is there a number where I can reach you?”

“No. I’ll check in tomorrow.” He hung up quickly, and then sat there on the bed, trying to decide whether to call B.T or not. He hadn’t done anything major in the fifteen years they’d been friends without telling him, but Mel knew what he’d say. They’d met on the ecumenical committee, when the Unitarian chairman had decided
that, to be truly ecumenical, they needed a resident atheist and Darwinian biologist. And, Mel suspected, an African-American.

It was the only good thing that had ever come out of the ecumenical committee. He and B.T had started by complaining about the idiocies of the ecumenical committee, which seemed bent on proving that denominations couldn’t get along, progressed to playing chess and then
to discussing religion and politics and disagreeing on both, and ended by becoming close friends.

I have to call him, Met thought, it’s a betrayal of our friendship not to.

And tell him what? That he’d had a holy vision? That the Book of Revelation was coming literally true? It sounded crazy to Mel, let alone to B.T, who was a scientist, who didn’t believe in the First Coming, let alone the
Second. But if it
was
true, how could he not call him?

He dialed B.T.’s area code and then put down the receiver and went to check out.

The roads east were still closed. “You shouldn’t have any trouble heading west, though,” the balding man said, handing Mel his credit-card receipt. “The snow’s supposed to let up by noon.”

Mel hoped so. The interstate was snow-packed and unbelievably slick,
and when Mel positioned himself behind a sand truck, a rock struck his windshield and made a ding.

At least there was hardly any traffic. There were only a few semis, and a navy-blue pickup with a bumper sticker that said “In case of the Rapture, this car will be unoccupied.” There was no sign of the blue Honda or of the carnival. They had seen the light and were still at the King’s Rest, sitting
in the restaurant, drinking coffee. Or headed south for the winter.

He passed a snow-obscured sign that read “For Weather Info, Tune to AM 1410.”

He did. “…and in the last days Christ
Himself will appear,” an evangelist, possibly the one from yesterday, or a different one—they all had the same accent, the same intonation—said. “The Book of Revelation tells us He will appear riding a white horse
and leading a mighty army of the righteous against the Antichrist in that last great battle of Armageddon. And the unbelievers—the fornicators and the baby-murderers—will be flung into the bottomless pit.”

The ultimate “Wait till your father gets home,” threat, Mel thought.

“And how do I know these things are coming?” the radio said. “I’ll
tell
you how. The Lord came to me in a dream, and He
said, ‘These shall be the signs of my coming. There will be wars and rumors of wars.’ Iraq, my friends, that’s what he’s talking about. The sun’s face will be covered, and the godless will prosper. Look around you. Who do you see prospering? Abortion doctors and homosexuals and godless atheists. But when Christ comes, they will be punished. He’s told me so. The Lord spoke to me, just like he spoke
to Moses, just like he spoke to Isaiah. …”

He switched off the radio, but it didn’t do any good. Because this was what had been bothering him ever since he started out. How did he know his vision wasn’t just like some radio evangelist’s?

Because his is born out of hatred, bigotry, and revenge, Mel thought. God no more spoke to him than did the man in the moon.

And how do you know He spoke to
you? Because it
felt
real? The voices telling the bomber to destroy the abortion clinic felt real, too. Emotion isn’t proof. Signs aren’t evidence. “Do you have any outside confirmation?” he could hear B.T. saying skeptically.

The sun came out, and the glare off the white road, the white fields, was worse than the snow had been. He almost didn’t see the truck off to the side. Its emergency flashers
weren’t on, and at first he thought it had just slid off the road, but as he went past, he saw it was one of the carnival trucks with its hood up and steam coming out. A young man in a denim jacket was standing next to it, hooking his thumb for a ride.

I should stop, Mel thought, but he was already past, and picking up hitchhikers was dangerous. He had found that out when he’d preached a sermon
on the Good Samaritan last year. “Let us not be like the Levite or the Pharisee who passes by the stranded motorist, the injured victim,” he had told his congregation. “Let us be like the Samaritan, who stopped and helped.”

It had seemed like a perfectly harmless sermon topic, and he had been totally unprepared for the uproar that ensued. “I cannot believe you told people to pick up hitchhikers!”
Dan Crosby had raged. “If one of my daughters ends up raped, I’m holding you responsible.”

“What were you thinking
of?” Mrs. Bilderbeck had said, hanging up after fending off Mable Jenkins. “On CNN last week there was a story about somebody who stopped to help a couple who was out of gas, and they cut off his head.”

He had had to issue a retraction the next Sunday, saying that women had no business
helping anyone (which had made Mamie Rollet mad, for feminist reasons) and that the best thing for everyone else to do was to alert the state patrol on their cell phones and let them take care of it, unless they knew the person, although somehow he couldn’t imagine the Good Samaritan with a cell phone.

There was a median crossing up ahead, but it was marked with a sign that read “Authorized Vehicles
Only.” And if I get my head cut off, he thought, the congregation will have no sympathy at all.

But it was threatening to snow again, and the green interstate sign up ahead said “Wayside, 28 Mi.” And the carnival had been his Good Samaritan last night.

“‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, you have done it unto me,’” he murmured, and turned into the median crossing and
onto the eastbound side of the highway, and started back.

The truck was still there, though he couldn’t see the driver. Good, he thought, looking for a place to cross. Some other Samaritan’s picked him up. But when he pulled up behind the truck, the man got out of the truck’s cab and started over to the car, his hands jammed into his denim jacket. Mel began to feel sorry he’d stopped. The man
had a ragged scar across his forehead, and his hair was lank and greasy.

He slouched over to the side of the car, and Mel saw that he was much younger than he’d looked at first. He’s just a kid, Mel thought.

Yeah, well, so was Billy the Kid, he reminded himself. And Andrew Cunanan.

Mel leaned across and pulled down the passenger window. “What’s the trouble?”

The kid leaned down to talk to
him. “Died,” he said, and grinned.

“Do you need a lift into town?” he asked, and the kid immediately opened the car door, keeping his right hand in his jacket pocket. Where the gun is, Mel thought.

The kid slid in and shut
the door, still using only one hand. When they find me robbed and murdered, they’ll be convinced I was involved in some kind of drug deal, Mel thought. He started the car.

“Man, it was cold out there,” the kid said, taking his right hand out of his pocket and rubbing his hands together. “I been waiting forever.”

Mel kicked the heater over to high, and the kid leaned forward and held his hands in front of the vent. There was a peace sign tattooed on the back of one of them and a fierce-looking lion on the other. Both looked like they’d been done by hand.