Chapter 12

I inhaled deeply, hoping the frigid air would shock my mind into submission. And, true to form, I was suddenly level headed. Now, to get the hell outta here, I thought as I flipped open my phone. I dialed 411, and tried to figure out how I was going to explain the location of the church to the rental car company. I happen to be 'directionally challenged,' as I like to call it. I'm nearly incapable of understanding the simplest of trajectories. I learn by repetition, and providing a competent route to somewhere new, proved to be a rare success. I gave the city, state, and listing to the operator, and waited to be connected. “Mountain State Auto Rental, this is Sean.” He sounded young. His voice squeaked when he said his name. I sighed, “Hi Sean, I'm going to need a car.” He took my name, and asked what kind of vehicle I'd be interested in. I thought about it for a moment; “an SUV, if you have it,” I said finally. I heard a few keystrokes, and then,”I have a Pathfinder; will that work?” “Perfect,” I replied. “Okay, great, will you need to be picked up,” he asked. “Yes,” I answered, full of dread. The line went silent briefly, then he cleared his throat. “May I have the address?” I took a look around, and my heart sank. I cleared my throat nervously, and despite the cold, started to sweat above my brow. “Well,” I said, “do you know where the Church of Lazarus is?” He was quiet again, then, “No sir, I'm afraid I don't. Do you have the address, and maybe I can look it up?” I squinted hard against the glare of the valley, trying to follow the trail of fresh tracks that led out of the parking lot to the road, hoping they would point me to some sort of signage. And, of course, they did not. There wasn't even a sign proclaiming this to be said church. The freshly painted green door that I'd shut behind me, bore not one single number. “Okay, so, I don't have the address. Can we shoot for landmarks,” I pleaded. “Sir, without an address, it makes it nearly impossible for the driver to find you,” he replied, very matter-of-fact. In a flash, my temper flared, again. “Look, I said I didn't have the fucking address. I'm standing outside of my best friend's funeral, freezing my fucking balls off, and you don't seem to want to help me. Now, we can either try and figure this out with landmarks, like I know you can do, I mean JESUS, this is bumfucked after all, or, you can pass the phone on to your manager, so I can speak to someone with slightly more intelligence,” I spat. “ Sir, are you sure you can't locate the address? Maybe you can go inside and ask someone,” he said, his tone thick with condescention. That's all I needed. “LISTEN HERE, YOU LITTLE PRICK. I NEED A FUCKING CAR, AND I NEED IT RIGHT FUCKING NOW! GET YOUR THUMB, OUT OF YOUR PIMPLY FUCKING ASS, AND GET YOUR GODDAMN MANAGER ON THE PHONE SO I CAN TELL HIM WHAT A FUCKWAD HE AS WORKING FOR HIM,” I yelled, my voice echoing throughout the blanketed bottom. My body tingled with rage, leaving me unsteady, and groping, for the snow covered hand rail. “Mr. Mason, please, we need an address,” he said flatly, apparently accustomed to being verbally berated. “MOTHER FUCKER,” I hollered, careless of the goings on inside the sanctuary. Someone chuckled behind me. Startled, I sucked in a breath of icy air, and lost my footing. I struggled to hold on to the railing with my left hand, turning myself away from the stairs. My feet slid from under me and I landed on my back, racking my crotch against the support post. I groaned, and instinctively grabbed the family jewels. My head swam; tiny flickers of light danced behind my eyelids.

I fought the urge to vomit, and thankfully, I won. I hated throwing up. I would rather be sick for a week, than puke. It is the most out of control one can be of their body, in my opinion. I began to feel the sting of the ice that slid under my shirt when I hit the concrete lanai. It turned out to be a nice distraction from knot in my stomach, and throbbing groin. “Mr. Mason? Hello, Mr. Mason are you there? Hello? Mr. Mason, are you all right?” Sean's voice nagged against the buzzing in my ears. I clenched my right hand, and felt the phone. Somehow, I'd managed to hang on to it without flipping it shut. The light above my head suddenly dimmed, and I blinked against the fading bursts. Before I could focus my vision, two forearms, one under each armpit, seemingly effortlessly hoisted me upright. I grabbed the railing with both hands fearing another misstep, and sent Sean, still calling my name, into a pile of white powder four feet below. I cursed under my breath, wiggling the snow off of my back and out of my shirt. “Hey, no problem,” called a gruff voice from over my shoulder, “I'll get it.” The heat of humiliation began to rise on the back of my neck, creeping it's way to my cheeks. And, before I could say “no,” he'd made it to the bottom of the steps, and was on his way around the newel. He wore greasy, brown coveralls, and a bright orange hunter's cap that kept me from seeing his face. He came around in front me, and bent down to grab my handset. Before he stood, I noticed the expanse of his immense shoulders that lead to a thick, meaty, neck. I'd closed my eyes again, wishing away the last of the tugs at my gut.

He came up beside me surprisingly fast, holding out his utility-gloved hand with my cellphone in it. A cloud rolled across the morning sun, giving my eyes a needed break, and allowing me to finally get a good look at him. He loomed over me by at least five inches. He was a big, bulging, man, and filled every inch of his winter jumpsuit. The cuffs of which, were stuffed into black combat boots that were covered in snow from his rescue mission. His face was ruggedly handsome, with features that seemed oddly familiar. His cobalt eyes were deep and tempestuous, and set in perfect alignment with his brow line. “Thanks,” I said meekly, clearing my throat, then correcting my hunched disposition. I reached for it, and he pulled it away, throwing up his gloved index finger. He flipped open the phone, and hit the send key. I looked at him in disbelief, and he replied with a toothy grin that gave him a hint of dimples through a neatly trimmed beard. His pearly whites lit up his slightly pale, scarcely freckled, face. I gave a half smile in return, and tried to place his accent while he give Sean his much coveted address. His tone was low, and rich, with just a slight edge of roughness. His dialect begat short, concise vowels, which left me confident that he wasn't a southerner, or from West Virginia. I surmised that he had to be in his late thirties, because of how dark he kept his facial hair. I am a sucker for beards-a connoisseur, really-and I can spot a bottle job at twenty paces. “They'll be here in twenty minutes,” he said, flipping the handset closed. He reached out again to hand it to me, and I hesitated retrieving it. He chuckled; “you can have it back this time. I promise.” I blushed at my sudden apprehension, not sure of it's origin. “Thanks, again,” I said, nabbing my phone, and stuffing into my pants pocket. “You okay, man? That was a pretty nasty fall you had there.” I turned a brighter shade of red. “Yes, I'm fine, thanks,” I replied briskly, with sudden butterflies in my stomach. What the hell is wrong with me? “You'd think somebody would have scraped this sucker, considering there's a funeral going on, and, because, y'know, people actually have to WALK through here.” I was rambling sarcasm. He grinned fantastically, and nodded at something behind me. I turned and saw a snow shovel just barely visible from around the side of the building. “I'm late,” he said, still grinning. I fought the urge to tear off my clothes and roll around in the snow, to cool the fiery hot burn of embarrassment. “Name's Frank,” he said, grabbing my hand to shake it. “Frank Cavendish.”

He shook firmly, with a nice staunch grip. One can tell a lot about man, by his handshake-where he's going, where he's been, and how often he masturbates. “Levi Mason,” I managed, through the taste of imaginary shoe leather. “Listen, I didn't mean to--”

“Oh, no, don't even. I should have cleared this mess hours ago,” he said, cutting me off, and still gripping my hand. “It's completely my fault. I'm the one that should apologize.” We stood there looking at each other, our hands still clasped. “So, yeah, I'm sorry,” he said, with his eyes locked on mine. There was tension in his grip, that I could swear was sexual. The wind blew up one of the flaps on his hunting cap. He hesitated, and seemingly begrudgingly, released his hold and retied the string that held it closed. I took a step back and tried to recompose myself. I noted the drastic change in temperature only a footstep away. “Nice hat,” I cracked. He cocked his eyebrow, and smiled. “Jealous?” I shrugged, “maybe.” He chortled, and glanced at my bare, shaved, head. “You realize it's cold out here, right?” “Yeah, but I tend to be a bit hot natured...,” I trailed off, feeling the first twinge of shame for my outburst with Sean. “Right,” he said flatly. Abashed, I looked down at my feet. The choir inside began singing again. All be it faint, I could make some out the words, “Rise up Lazarus. Rise up from the dust.” The wind whipped again, and I hugged myself against the cold. “Here,” he said. I raised my eyes to see him untying the cords to his hat. “What? No,” I asserted, surprised. “Bah, it's the least I can do,” he replied, lifting it off his head, revealing a matching summit of thick, all-to-black hair. “No, really, I'm--” “Please,” he begged, giving me the most painfully adorable 'puppy dog' face I'd ever seen. My heart swelled, and I rolled my eyes, defeated. He smiled triumphantly, and closed the short distance between us. My pulse quickened as he took it upon himself to pull the cap down over my ears, tying it just under my chin. “There, that's better,” he affirmed, proud of himself. “How do I look,” I asked, sheepishly. He leaned back, shifting his weight to one side, and pulled at the hair on his chin. “Very debonair,” he said, rather unconvincingly. “Liar,” I blushed, and he burst into laughter. In spite of myself, I followed suit. We laughed hard, and long, like teenagers stolen away in our parent's basement, high on marijuana.

I honestly couldn't remember the last time I'd really laughed. I assumed it was long before Kelley passed, back when my life seemed to make sense. I'd found an easy peace with Kelley, like I'd never experienced with anyone before. I managed to purge myself from the mouth of madness and into the security of his embrace, only to arrive teetering on the edge, anew. Laughing now, with this stranger, provided me a glimmer of hope. Once we'd regained our poise, we chatted at length.

He told me that he hailed from Maine, where, as a boy, he worked with his father catching and selling lobster to local restaurants. He'd come to West Virginia fairly recently in search of himself, after his father's death. “Well, what did you find,” I inquired. He thought about it for a moment, pulling at his chin hair again. Finally, “a job scraping sidewalks.” And, we laughed again. I'd completely lost track of time, when we were interrupted by a honk. We turned our heads simultaneously, to find a black Pathfinder slowly pulling it's way into the parking lot. “Ah, your chariot,” he noted, his tone disappointed. I smiled, and extended my hand. “Thank you, again, Mr. Cavendish,” I said, as he took my hand and shook. “For what? The hat was a buy off, so I don't get fired for you busting your ass,” he chided. “And, please, call me Frank.” “Well, Frank, nice to see how you do business,” I chuckled. He beamed, ever so handsomely. We stood there, again, eyes locked, hands clasped. His perfect pools were serene, and inviting. Another honk escaped from the Pathfinder. “I really should get going. And, besides, you need to get that shovel into motion. I'd hate for there to be another funeral,” I smirked. He nodded, released my hand, and stepped aside for me to walk past. “Easy now, I don't have anything else I can take off to keep you quiet if you fall again,” he called. I instantly imagined him naked underneath his coveralls, and I was thankful he couldn't see my face. I heard the first scrape of the shovel, then the noise was masked by the sudden ringing of church bells, signaling the end of the service. I felt a pang of guilt, as I walked through the parking lot to my awaiting escape vessel. I was halfway to the SUV, when I saw the sullen, pimply, face of the driver. Oh, this is truly, the icing on the cake, I thought, opening the passenger's side door. “You must be Sean,” I said smugly, sliding into my seat. “How'd you know,” he squeaked. “I'm psychic.”