What Survives of Us (Colorado Chapters Book 1) (3 page)

She was leaning on the bumper of her junker jeep, face lifted to the sun, eyes closed.  Tiny multi-colored beads sparkled in the long strands of her dark hair – he had noticed that she wore it long and loose when she wasn’t working, up and sleek when she was – and a tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth.  Jack wasn’t sure how old she was – a couple years his senior, if he had to guess – but she looked younger than usual like this, her face open, relaxed and filled with quiet joy.  She was parked right beside him.  Of course.

Jack resigned himself to the grinding headache as he popped open his trunk and started loading in his groceries.  “Good morning, Layla.  Car trouble?”

She blinked her eyes open and focused on him.  Her chest lifted in a peaceful sigh before she answered.  “Yep.  Battery’s dead.  I called a friend, but he’s tied up and it’s going to be a while.”  She closed her eyes and lifted her face once more.  “I don’t mind, though.  What a beautiful gift from the Universe this morning, especially after the snow last night – some quiet time to just enjoy the sun.”

Since her eyes were closed, Jack didn’t refrain from rolling his.  “Sure.”  He finished loading up, shut his trunk, and
took his cart to the corral while his conscience gave him all manner of Hell.

He drove right by her little vine-covered cottage – even her house was clichéd - on his way home.  Literally, right by.  Man, sometimes being a Christian sucked.

“Layla, I can give you a ride home – you could put away your groceries and come back with your friend later to get your jeep.”

Those eyes blinked open again.  She had the darkest eyes he had ever seen, black, shining and liquid, like a lake at night.  She smiled.  “That is so thoughtful of you, Jack.  I’ll take your offer, thanks.”

She loaded her groceries into his back seat, and within moments, he was trapped in the car with her.  She smelled like some weird perfume – probably incense, which would explain his intensifying headache – and she chimed every time she moved.  Bangle bracelets laddered up both arms, multiple ankle bracelets on one ankle, earrings that brushed her shoulders.  How did she think with all that jingling?

“I’ve been meaning to give you a call,” Layla said, as they pulled out of the parking lot.  “I’ve got a student who’s new to town, and he’s having a hard time with the adjustment.  Family moved here from Chicago, so he’s got that city edge on him and the kids really aren’t warming up.  Tenth grader, loves basketball, thinks we’re all a hopeless bunch of hicks.”  She smiled.  “Which we are.  Anyway, I wondered if you could ask one of your Friday night kids to reach out.  They’d have to be ready for the re-buff – he has his shields up but good.”

It was things like this that made his head pound.  If she would just be shallow and selfish, he wouldn’t feel so conflicted about loathing her.  “I’ll ask Trevor.  And maybe Jason.  They’ve both lived in bigger cities – they may connect better.”

“Thank you.  He’s been on my mind – wrote a pretty anguished paper about leaving his life behind that had nothing to do with the writing prompt.  I tried to talk to him – thought maybe he was reaching out, a lot of kids do through writing assignments – but he gave me the stiff arm.”  She sighed.  “The curse and privilege of teaching English, I guess.  We learn a lot about the kids through their writing, but they won’t always let us help them.”

“That must be difficult,” Jack said stiffly.  Just a few more blocks.  He resisted the urge to fudge, even a little bit, on the speed limit.  In contrast to his jaw-clenching tension, she seemed completely relaxed, long-fingered hands lying gracefully in her lap.

“It is, at times,” Layla agreed.  She turned to look at him just as he was home-free, pulling into her driveway.  “Jack, why do you dislike me so much?”

Unbelievable.  Jack gazed straight ahead, feeling her eyes on him.  Penance, that’s what this was, for his unkind thoughts, as deserving as she was of them.  He turned his head to look at her, keeping his face still, neutral.  “What makes you think I dislike you?”

Layla snorted and rolled her eyes.  “Please.  I teach teenagers.  So do you, so you know what I mean.  It rolls off you in waves.”

“I’m a Christian pastor,” he answered stiffly.  “I should think the reason for my disapproval would be obvious.”  Lord, he sounded stuffy.  This was one of the things that ticked him off about her the most – the way she made him feel square and unnatural, like a stick-in-the-mud fuddy duddy.

“No,” she said thoughtfully, after a moment.  “That’s the thing.  It’s not obvious.”  She shifted onto her hip, twisting her body to face him more fully, her face open and earnest.  “The kids
talk about you, you know.  They talk about how accepting you are, how you teach tolerance and compassion.  Frankly, I liked you for a year before I even met you.  I think what you’re doing, what you teach the kids, is a good thing.”  Another pause.  “Did I offend you in some way?”

“Of course you did!  Everything about you offends me!”

His voice was loud, abrasive, edgy, even to his own ears.  He shut his eyes for a moment, struggling to moderate his response to her.  He wasn’t used to losing control of an interaction like this; normally, he could sense just how to talk to someone, just when to pause, when to sit back, when to touch someone’s forearm.  But with Layla, there was no rhythm to the interaction – just a lot of disconnected near-misses and frustration.

He opened his eyes and found her watching him patiently, a frown drawing a vertical line between her eyebrows.  He took a deep breath, reached for calm reason, and hit her with both barrels.  “Exodus 22:18.  “Thou shall not suffer a witch to live.”

It was satisfying, so very satisfying, to see her mouth drop open.  She goggled at him for a moment, then her spine snapped ram-rod straight, and battle lit her eyes.

“I am so disappointed, hearing that from you.  I thought you were broader-minded than that.”

Whatever satisfaction he had briefly enjoyed sizzled away under the stinging heat of her words.  He used all the subterfuge he possessed to hide that fact from her.  “Your disappointment is irrelevant to me.  The fact of the matter is, your ‘religious practices’ are an offense to God and to Christians.”

“Really.  That’s strange – I’ve got it on good authority you don’t feel that way about Jews, or Muslims, or Buddhists.  What makes my spirituality any different?”  She didn’t give him a
chance to answer.  Her face was fierce in its animation – he felt a moment of pity for any students that had to face down Ms. Karela when her temper awoke.  “And you’re pretty selective with your Bible verses there, aren’t you?  What about, ‘Thou shall not kill?’  Or, ‘Judge not lest ye be judged?’”

Jack’s eyes narrowed.  “Even the Devil uses scripture for his own purposes.”

“The Devil!”  He would swear, later, that her hair lifted around her head, writhing and crackling.  “For your information, pal, the word ‘witch’ was not used in the original Hebrew or Greek versions of that verse – King James added it to his translation to support his persecution of wise women and female herbalists, and scholars aren’t even sure what the term meant when it was originally used in Exodus.  So applying an Old Testament law – which was meant for an ancient Jewish tribe, by the way – to a modern spiritual practice is dangerous and backward thinking!”

Now she was on his turf.  Here, at least, his footing felt sure.  “The Bible is the inspired word of God, and as such, is as relevant to us today as it was to the ancients.  And your information is skewed; the original Hebrew uses the word ‘m’khashepah’ to describe the person who should be killed, which is defined as ‘a woman who uses spoken spells to harm others.’  The original Greek word, ‘venefica,’ can be translated as ‘female poisoner,’ which is, in my opinion, an even more appropriate description of what you people do.”

“Oh, really.  Really.”  Flushed face, accelerated breathing, repetition of meaningless phrases.  Yeah, he had her now.  “Why don’t you illuminate me?  What exactly is it you think ‘my people’ do?”

“You seduce young, vulnerable minds.  You steal them away from Truth with sparkles and glitter and empty promises of
something other-worldly, something mysterious.  You make your service to Satan look glamorous, which is unforgiveable.”  He pointed a finger at her nose, filled with righteous, protective wrath.  “Unforgiveable.”

“Satan again!  Jack!”  She shook her head, her expression a mixture of anger and bemusement.  “I don’t even believe in the Satan you Christians are so afraid of!  Look, I can’t speak for all neo-Pagans, Wiccans, Witches or otherwise, but there’s no Devil in the Craft I practice.”

“Your lack of belief doesn’t make Satan less real.  It just makes you more susceptible to his influence, an easier tool to wield.”  He overrode her gasp of outrage and forged on.  He had her on the run, and he was not about to give up the advantage.  “You were right about one thing.  I don’t disparage other religions.  I’ve studied them, and I believe they are seeking the Divine, even if I don’t always agree with their practices.  But I won’t recognize or validate what you do – what you seek is profane.”

For an eternity of seconds, she just stared at him.  Her stunned silence was a triumph he savored, basking in the afterglow of righteousness well spent.  Then, she laughed.

“So let me get this straight – you think I’m a mindless tool of Satan, that my spiritual practices are an abomination, and that my only purpose is to recruit more evil minions to serve the Great Pretender.  Does that about cover it?”

There was a trap here, he could feel it.  But he wasn’t about to start back-tracking now.  In for a penny, in for a pound.  “That’s a fair summation.”

“Huh.  That’s interesting, considering you don’t know anything about me or my spiritual practices, which I consider to be very private, by the way.”  He started to interject, but she held up her hand.  “No, now you’ve spoken your piece and it’s obvious you’ve been wanting to for quite some time.  It’s also obvious that you’ve done your homework – that was really good, that information about the original Hebrew and Greek – and you certainly caught me unprepared.  That won’t happen again.  Because you know what?”

She paused, gathered her groceries, popped open the car door and slid out.  Then she bent down to grin at him.  “Game on, Jack. Thanks for the ride.”

~~~

While Scott was gone, Naomi distracted herself with the feeding of “Naomi’s Ark” as Scott called her collection of animals – little Persephone and Zeus, the aging lab that was Scott’s constant shadow; Ares and his two subordinate kitties, Athena and Artemis; and finally Poseidon, the blue Macaw she’d rescued just a few months before Macy was born.  Macy would take care of her little family of mice and the fish when she got up; unlike Piper, she had inherited her mother’s love of animals.

If Naomi had her way, the menagerie would include some backyard chickens and maybe even a miniature goat or two, but Scott had put his foot down.  For a while, she had fostered animals in the process of being re-homed, which was how they’d ended up with Zeus and Artemis.  Once they were in her home, she couldn’t bear to give them up.  Now, she volunteered her time at public awareness events for Dream Power Animal Rescue, and Scott had begged her to please, please refrain from holding the featured animals, which was how she’d fallen in love with Persephone.  The little mixed-breed dog was ridiculously cute, with her sturdy, terrier-like body, her silky, golden fur, and her cascading, Papillon-like ears.  Persephone had curled up in her arms, trusting, warm and sweet, almost like a newborn baby, and that had been that.

Caring for the animals calmed her, as always.  By the time Macy shuffled into the kitchen, her rosy golden hair a snarled halo around her sleepy head, Naomi had started a batch of homemade cinnamon rolls and had a pot of ham and bean soup simmering on the stove.  She got Macy some breakfast, then smiled when Persephone snapped to attention and raced to the back door.  A few seconds later, she heard the faint rumble of the garage door opening; Scott was home.

She left Macy eating breakfast and joined him in the garage.  He’d backed his truck partway in, and was unloading case after case of bottled water.  She peered past his shoulder, noting that the back of his truck was packed almost to the roof of the cap with not only water but canned and dry goods as well.  Scott straightened, and their eyes met for a moment.  Met and held.  Then he shrugged, and started unloading again.

“It was time to re-supply and rotate anyway,” he said, and to Naomi’s ear, his casual tone sounded just a little forced.  “I had this on the list to do over spring break, but now’s as good a time as any.”

Scott was what he called a “prepper” – not a hard-core survivalist, per-se, but he believed in having emergency supplies on hand, in the event of a catastrophe.  He had lost family in the wake of hurricane Katrina – an elderly aunt and uncle who had died in their own home of dehydration and heat stroke – and to this day, the ease with which their deaths could have been prevented haunted him.  Ever since, Scott had stocked and maintained a storage space with several month’s worth of bottled water and non-perishable food, as well as other emergency supplies.  He rotated the supplies regularly and donated what they hadn’t used to a local food bank.  The dual-purpose plan was quintessential Scott:  It was a way to both protect his family and give back to the community.

And while Naomi had never shared his “prepare for the worst, hope for the best” mentality, his preparedness was a comfort to her now.  “Maybe I’ll run over to Natural Grocers this afternoon,” she said, her tone as carefully casual as his had been.  “I could stock up on some necessities.  Some oil of oregano, some garlic caps, a bottle of colloidal silver.”