Cars

     A short story by Mary M. Isaacs

 

 

     It was the 31st. He had some miles left for the month, so he went for a longish drive. No reason to waste those miles—if he didn’t use them, he’d lose them.

     It was nice to just ride around in the car. It was a day off from work, he’d picked up his grocery allotment boxes for the next month, and he wasn’t due for any medical or dental check-ups. He could drive anywhere he wanted and enjoy the free feeling for a while.

     He’d carefully calculated how far he could safely go in order to be home before the gauge read zero. So he just relaxed and drove for a while, admiring the scenery he seldom had the time to really look at. Going anywhere for no particular reason happened very rarely now. He found it delightful. All too soon, though, it would be time to go back—he checked the gauge and realized that that time was now. As he was looking for a place to turn around, something caught his eye at the side of the road. It was an awkwardly shaped lump, but it looked like it was moving. He slowed up as he got closer, and then saw that it was a person lying next to the curb, surrounded by a few scattered belongings. He knew he was supposed to ignore such things and pass on by, but he just couldn’t; he pulled over and got out of his car.

     It was an older woman, conscious but looking dazed. He asked her what had happened.

     “A car--travelling really fast and making a lot of noise. I turned quickly to see what was happening and then I stumbled off the sidewalk. I guess I hit the curb,” she added vaguely, as she tried to straighten up.

     “Are you sure you should move?” he asked her.

     “I think I’m okay… Where are my things? My cane—my purse?” she looked all around as he helped her sit up slowly. She started to reach out for her purse, which was lying close by, and then cried out in pain. “My arm, oh my arm!” she moaned. He saw that it didn’t look quite right.

     “You’re NOT okay,” he said decidedly. “You need to see a doctor—or better still, go to the hospital.”

     She shook her head. “No, it’s too far away, it’s the end of the month--you can’t possibly have enough miles. I made that mistake a couple of months ago.” She looked up at him. “It isn’t easy when you don’t have a car. But you get used to walking…”

     “Well, you can’t walk there with a broken arm and who knows what else. I’m driving you to the nearest hospital.” He helped her up and steadied her as she wavered on her feet. She took a step or two and then drew in her breath sharply. “Your ankle? Leg? Hip? Do you need me to carry you?”

     “I can make it,” she said faintly, as they moved slowly to his car. “Please…I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

     “Never mind about that—we just need to get you to a doctor,” he replied, while opening the front passenger door of his car. After assisting her to sit down, and buckling her in very carefully, he picked up her purse and cane and put them by her on the front seat. He checked the ground to make sure he’d gotten everything and then closed her door. He walked around to the driver’s side and got in.

     He checked the GPS, hoping there would be a hospital back the way he came, but it showed nothing. There was one but it was ahead of him, adding rather significantly to his miles. He felt uneasy about that and glanced at the woman to reassure himself that he was doing the right thing. Her eyes were shut and her face was twisted in pain. That cemented his decision. They should excuse this, he thought. I’m helping someone who’s really hurt; I’m not just driving around recklessly…

     They drove in silence for some time until they reached the hospital. He helped her out of the car and into the emergency room, standing by while she spoke to the intake nurse. Then he handed her over to an orderly who appeared with a wheelchair. As she was ready to be wheeled away he touched her gently on her uninjured arm. “Good luck,” he said and then turned to leave the hospital.

     The old woman watched him go with a look of uneasiness on her face. “And to you…” she said quietly.

     He got back in his car and started for home. After one quick glance at the gauge, he avoided looking at it again. It was crazy, but a part of him felt that if he didn’t watch it, it wouldn’t change. That maybe he could make it home. That if he drove quickly enough, all would be well. Crazy thinking, but what else was there? He tried to ignore the feeling of foreboding inside.

     A sudden thought occurred to him. While keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he leaned over slightly and opened the glove box. Reaching inside, he grabbed what he could, in handfuls, and pulled it all out onto the passenger’s seat. Then he felt in the seat pocket beside him. Not much there, but he took out what there was. The console was next. Things began to pile up on the seat. He pushed them around, some falling on the floor on the passenger’s side, and made some decisions—those particular items went into his jacket pockets. He knew there was nothing on the back seat but tried to remember what was in the trunk. Would there be enough time when he got home?

     Suddenly there was a harsh buzzing sound. His eyes went immediately to the gauge—it was the five-mile warning. He looked up at the road and the cross streets and his heart sank. He’d never make it home in time. And realized that he’d known that all along, since he pulled over to help the hurt woman. Should he park the car and stay where he was until the next morning, the 1st? No—that would only cause other problems. There was no way he was going to escape this.

     Long before he turned down his own street, the buzzing sounded again, but this time it was accompanied by flashing lights on the dashboard. The car’s horn also went off, repeatedly. He suppressed the urge to drive off wildly in any direction, knowing that it would do no good. He just continued heading for his home, trying to remain calm.

     By the time he pulled into his driveway, there were unmarked cars on both sides of the street—and a tow truck. He left the car running and popped the trunk. He got out of the car and walked toward the back, but before he got there he was hailed by a voice speaking through a loudspeaker: “Stop where you are.” He obeyed. What else could he do? “Turn off the engine, leave the keys in the ignition, and step away from the vehicle.” When he hesitated, the voice said,

     “NOW!” He did as he was told but then turned to face where he thought the voice originated.

     “I had to drive further than I thought. There was a woman on the road—she was badly hurt. I took her to the hospital, to the emergency room. That’s what took the extra miles—I had to help her!”

     “Step away from the vehicle.” He did so reluctantly. “This is your third infraction. According to Federal Penal Code #763, you have now forfeited use of a motor vehicle.” The tow truck’s motor started up and it moved into position on his driveway. Two men in brown jumpsuits got out; one reached into the car for the keys while the other began hooking a tow chain to his car.

     The man watched, stunned, then asked wildly, “Can’t I get my stuff from the trunk?”

     “This is your third infraction. According to Federal Penal Code #763, you have now forfeited use of a motor vehicle. All contents become the property of the state.”

     The men in jumpsuits finished preparing the car for towing. They got back in the tow truck and started to move away. The man made an involuntary movement, reaching out to his car as it rolled out of the driveway, but the voice stopped him. “Return to your home before you violate Federal Penal Code #545.”

     “But how will I get to work tomorrow? Or go shopping? Or go to the doctor?” he asked desperately. But the old woman had told him, hadn’t she…

     “Return to your home, NOW.”

     The man stood absolutely still for a moment. Then he turned and went into his house.

_______________________________________________________

 Mary M. Isaacs — copyright, 2022 

"Cars" is in the short story collection, The Visions, located on the right sidebar.

"...my salvation shall be forever...my righteousness shall not be abolished." [from Isaiah 51:6]

 

"God is our refuge and strength..." [from Psalm 46:1-2]

 

"I am the Light of the world."

 

Sanctuary

               A short story by Mary M. Isaacs

 

   The old wooden door opened noiselessly; a young woman hesitated on the threshold, looking in from the darkness outside. The brick walls of the room were in shadow, lit only by two oil lamps on either end of a plain wooden table and the glow of a hanging lamp: a candle in a red glass holder.

   “Sanctuary,” she breathed, closing her eyes in thankfulness.

   She entered the room and quietly shut the door behind her. In her arms she carried something wrapped in blankets; over her shoulder was slung a large knapsack, which looked more bulky than heavy. Her clothing was wrinkled and stained, as if she had been wearing it for many days–which she had been.

   There were a few benches along the walls. She crossed to one and sat down gratefully. While still carefully holding what was in her arms, she unslung the knapsack and set it on the floor beside her. She then leaned against the wall and sighed deeply. This was her penultimate destination; the difficult journey was almost over. Although she no longer had a watch—she had no metal objects of any kind on her, for that matter—she had a good sense of time. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait very long for the final service of the day. She rested quietly, eyes on the hanging lamp.

   After a short while, a bell started to ring.

————–

   In a nearby room, an old man put down a large handbell and carefully retied the cincture around his long robe. In the small kitchen down the hall, a middle-aged woman finished putting away a few dishes and hung a towel up to dry. Both of them headed for the brick-walled room at the same time.

————–

   The young woman heard the sound of approaching footsteps. She stood up and, dragging the knapsack with her free hand, moved closer to the wooden table. She stood there silently as the footsteps came closer.

   The old man, followed by the woman, entered the dimly-lit room, but they stopped abruptly at the sight of an unexpected visitor. The three of them looked at each other for a moment, and then the old man stepped forward with a smile.

   “Greetings and welcome,” he said, inclining his head slightly. The young woman shifted the wrapped object in her arms as he spoke; the older woman’s eyes instinctively took in how it was being carried.

   “Can we help you?” the old man said. “I am Brother Simon, and this is Sister Julianne.” He indicated the woman standing next to him. “We are…caretakers here.”

   “I’ve come a long way to find this place,” the young woman replied. “There is something important I must do.” She turned down a fold of the blanket in her arms to reveal the sleeping face of a very young child. The older woman drew in her breath audibly.

   Brother Simon looked sober. “It’s a boy?” he asked. When the young woman nodded, he lifted his eyebrows and then said, “How old is he?”

   “Seven months old,” she replied, holding the child a little closer. “And the Ceremony happens soon.”

   “Next week!” Sister Julianne said, moving forward while putting one hand over her heart.

   The young woman looked at her, assessing—and then smiled. “I have come to the right place. God led me here.”

   “How long have you been travelling?” asked Brother Simon.

   “A week or so—I’ve lost track of the days,” the young woman replied. “I travelled by night, when the child was asleep, and then hid and rested by day. I sold or traded away all my jewelry and there is no metal on our clothing, so they couldn’t track us the usual way. But they’re looking. I did get a head start, though, and we have come a long way.”

   “You and the child are welcome to stay here,” said Brother Simon warmly.

   “No, they will search everywhere for me. Even here.”

   Still holding the child carefully, she pulled back her right sleeve and turned over her arm. They were silent as they saw the brand.

   “They will never stop looking for me until they find me—one way or another,” she said, as she shook down her sleeve.

   “What will happen to the child?” asked Sister Julianne in a whisper.

   “Nothing will happen to him–because they won’t find him. He will be here, safe with you. What’s one child more or less to them, anyway? There’s plenty more where he came from.” The young mother’s expression became bleak.

   “You brought him here to save him?” asked the older woman.

   “Yes, to save him.”

   “Of course he can stay here,” Brother Simon said. “And you can stay, too.”

   The young woman shook her head. “I can only save one of us. And there is no saving for me,” she said, her face set. “They will kill me on sight because I escaped. And if they find him, they will take him back and—dispose of him. I won’t let that happen.”

   “But surely they know you escaped with the child,” the older woman said. “Won’t they keep trying to find him?”

   “Open the knapsack and take out what’s on top.” Sister Julianne did as she was directed and pulled out a folded cloth. “Look at it,” said the young woman. When the cloth was shaken out, it was revealed to be a baby’s nightgown, torn and stained with blood. The young woman reached for it.

   “I will carry this with me. They will find it and think that the child was killed by animals. And because they must kill me, they will never know that he survived. The dead cannot speak. And he will be saved.”

   “Where did the blood come from?” Brother Simon asked the young woman.

   “It’s mine,” she said simply, as she tucked the small garment into her sleeve.

   There was a moment of silence, and then the old man spoke again. “Is there anything we can do for you—anything at all?”

   She turned to him quickly. “Yes—please baptize him before I go. I want to see him baptized.”

   “I am not a priest,” began Brother Simon, but she interrupted him.

   “I know that—the few that are left are hidden better than you or I could ever find in time. But this is a church…”

   The old man shook his head. “It was a church.”

   She looked him straight in the eye. “It will always be a church. You are the caretaker of this holy place and you are a believer. In the absence of a priest, you can baptize.” When he still looked uncertain, she added “If the child and I were to be retaken, we both would die; me quickly and him terribly. Such urgency allows you to baptize.”

   “How did you learn these things?” asked Brother Simon.

   “I was taught well, God rest her soul,” the young woman closed her eyes and crossed herself. “I want him to be baptized, as I was.”

   “Who baptized you?” Brother Simon said, amazed.

   “A priest. God rest his soul, too,” the words came out in a sob. Sister Julianne came closer and put her arm around the young woman’s shoulders.

   The old man stood in silence for a moment. Then he turned to Sister Julianne. “We’ll need the candles,” he said. She nodded and left the room. While she was gone, Brother Simon went to the side wall of the room, kneeled down, and carefully slid a few bricks out of the wall. He reached into the space behind them and withdrew a silver dish and a small corked bottle. He carried them all back to the table. When the young woman looked closely, she saw that the bottle was filled with a clear liquid and the dish was shaped like a scallop shell.

   Brother Simon began speaking as he placed the dish on the table and uncorked the bottle. “The last priest who was here had a vision—a warning of a difficult time to come. He was right.” The old man smiled grimly as he poured a little of the water into the silver shell. “He dug out the space in the wall behind the bricks, in which to hide the holy water and the baptismal shell. And there are other things in there. He prepared quite a lot before…” his voice trailed off.

   “Before what?” asked the young woman sharply.

   Brother Simon looked up. “Before he was taken,” he said simply.

   “You never saw him again?”

   “No,” the old man shook his head sadly. “The night before they came, he hid everything in the wall and made me vow to guard it with my life. That it all would be needed some day…” The old man finished his preparations and turned to the young woman. “May I?” he said, holding out his arms. Without a word, the young woman carefully handed the sleeping baby to him. Brother Simon settled the child in his arms and gazed in silence at him. His eyes took in every detail.

   During this time, Sister Julianne had returned with several votive candles; she lit them and placed them in order on the table. She then came around to the front and stood beside the young woman. The two of them looked at each other, then the young woman took the other’s hand in both of hers.

   “Will you be his godmother, please? The only mother he will have after tonight.” The older woman nodded her assent, and then they both turned to face the old man and the child, still holding hands.

   Brother Simon looked up from his study of the child’s face. “We will begin. What is his name?”

   “Christopher Joel,” the young woman replied.

   The old man looked surprised. “They wouldn’t have liked that…”

   “They don’t know anything,” she said scornfully. “They’ve all forgotten, or they refuse to remember.”

   Brother Simon held the sleeping child in one arm and made the sign of the cross over him. Then he picked up the small silver dish. Being careful not to let any liquid fall into the baby’s face, he poured some water on the top of the small head three times. “Christopher Joel, I baptize thee in the name of the Father…and of the Son…and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” The two women echoed the final word. The child did not wake but continued sleeping peacefully.

   When he was finished, he gently handed the child to Sister Julianne, who gathered him into her arms with a smile of joy. He then turned back to the young woman. “I would like to anoint you. What is your name?”

   “I can’t tell you that. It’s not safe for you to know who I am.”

   Brother Simon looked at her and then said, “I understand, and you are right. But God certainly knows who you are, because you are his, and that is all that matters.” He took up the bottle of holy water and marked her forehead with the sign of the cross. “Into His hands I commend your spirit.”

   The young woman reached up to her forehead and traced the cross-shape. Then she looked at Brother Simon and asked, “Is there enough holy water for one more thing?” He nodded; she pulled up her right sleeve once again. “Please put it on this, to take away the shame.”

   Brother Simon covered the brand with holy water and murmured a cleansing prayer. All at once, a look of release flooded her face. “Thank you,” she said simply as she lowered her sleeve.

   Turning to the other woman, she indicated the knapsack beside them on the floor. “There are blankets and extra clothing for him in there, and a bottle. I weaned him early, to make things easier for whoever would be taking care of him.” She looked at the older woman, who was cradling the baby protectively. “He’s a good baby—and you will be a good mother to him, I know. He will be safe here with you both.” She looked trustingly from the woman to the old man, and back again. Then she looked down at the child for a long moment. Curving her hands around his face, although not touching him, she whispered some words inaudibly, as if in blessing. When she finished, she bent over and kissed the sleeping child lightly on both cheeks and on his forehead. Then she straightened up and, with tears beginning to fall, kissed the older woman’s cheek. “Christopher is your son now. Guard him well.”

   “I will–with my life,” answered Sister Julianne.

   The young woman turned her face up to the hanging lamp with a sharp look of longing–then tore her eyes away. “I need to leave. I don’t know how close they are, and I must lead them as far away from here as I can.” She turned quickly and raised the older man’s hand to her forehead. “Ring the bell for me after your prayers. Twenty-three times.” She looked to make sure that the old man understood, and then left the chapel silently, without a backward glance.

————–

   The baby stirred; Sister Julianne began to rock him gently in her arms. Brother Simon replaced the holy water and the baptismal shell in the hiding place in the wall, sliding the bricks back into their spots exactly. He picked up the knapsack and tucked it under his arm. Then he blew out the candles on the table and took up the two oil lamps. “Come,” he said to Sister Julianne, “You need to prepare a place for this child—for our Christopher Joel—to sleep. I will come back and say Compline for all of us. God brought this child here; he will understand your absence.”

   “Remember to pray for her soul,” said the woman, holding the infant closer.

   “Yes, we must pray for her; and keep her child safe always.”

   The three of them quietly left the chapel, leaving the sanctuary lamp burning behind them.

_________________________________________________

Mary M. Isaacs 

copyright, 2020

"Sanctuary" is found in the collection  The White Bird, on the right sidebar

Psalm 56: 13