Shadows of Yesterday
Page 48
During the second day of confinement, Amelia and Leigh were in the kitchen making fudge. Stewart had come in near-frozen after he and his hands had distributed bales of hay to the herd. He was watching television in the living room, eagerly awaiting the fudge.
“Leigh, Chad will love you forever if you learn how to do this. That boy can eat a pound of this himself,” Amelia said as she dropped a dollop of the cooking fudge into a measuring cup of cold water. “Now watch, this is the tricky part. You have to make sure it’s hard”
“Leigh, Amelia, come here quick,” Stewart called from the living room. His urgency was transmitted to them and the fudge was forgotten as they dashed down the hallway. Leigh’s first thought was that something had happened to Sarah, but one sweeping glance of the room told her the infant was still sleeping on a pallet.
“Stew” Amelia began only to be interrupted.
“Shhhh. Listen,” Stewart said, pointing to the television screen.
The news reporter with a map of Venezuela behind his left shoulder was telling of a new development on the fire that had raged out of control for more than a week.
“Efforts to put out the fire have proved futile for the experts of Flameco. Today the situation became even more grim when another storage tank holding thousands of barrels of crude exploded. The storage tank is positioned in a group of others, making the situation critical. Safety doesn’t permit our reporters to get any closer than two miles from the site, so details are sketchy at this point.
“Rumors that several men were injured as a result of the explosion have come in, but identities of the injured or the extent of their injuries have not been confirmed. We’ll keep you abreast of the situation as details are made known to us. Now back to our regular programming.”
Stewart used the remote-control switch to snap off the sound. Leigh watched transfixed as a woman won a new refrigerator and jumped up and down exuberantly, kissing the host of the inane game show and all but choking him with his microphone cord. To Leigh, there was something obscene in jubilation over winning a new refrigerator when men could be burned, injured… dying.
The Dillons were sensitive enough not to insult her with banalities. Leigh knew that they, too, were worried. They weren’t about to tell her not to be.
The afternoon dragged on. No one was hungry, but they kept up the pretense of normality and ate the stew Amelia had had simmering all day.
When the telephone rang soon after six o’clock, they stared at each other, searching for reassuring expressions, finding none. Stewart pulled himself up on his crutch and went to answer.
He spoke quietly, calmly, but Amelia and Leigh knew the call was about Chad. When at last Stewart came to stand beneath the archway, their worst fears were confirmed.
“He was hurt with several others. They’re being flown to Houston. As a matter of fact, they should be getting there soon.”
Leigh’s eyes squeezed shut. Her hands held on tight to each other in front of her breasts. “How… how…”
“I don’t know what happened to him or how bad it is. That was an official from the Venezuelan government. His English was as bad as my Spanish. I don’t know. We can call Flameco, I guess, but I don’t think the headquarters will know any more than we do at this point. All we can do is—”
“I’m going down there,” Leigh said firmly, and took decisive steps toward the stairs with the intention of running up them to change her clothes.
“Leigh.” Amelia reached out for her. “You can’t. Not without knowing what you’ll find. I won’t let you go to Houston alone. Besides, the weather…” She let the frozen landscape outside speak for itself. The bare branches of the pecan trees were encased in a tubing of ice. “The roads and airports are closed.”
“I’m going,” Leigh said forcefully. “Chad owns an airplane. He has a pilot. He’ll fly me to Houston if I have to hold a gun to his head. You have a four-wheel-drive truck,” she said to Stewart. “You hauled hay around in it today. It can take me to the airport. I’m going.” She stared at them both with iron determination. Then her expression crumbled pitiably. “Please help me.”
* * *
She saw the lights of the runway looming closer as the pilot started their descent to the private landing field in Houston. The flight had been harrowing. Until they had flown out of the winter storm, the small aircraft had been buffeted by icy winds. Leigh found no comfort from the pilot, who persistently muttered to himself about stubborn broads with no more sense than God gave rubber ducks.
The storm that had played havoc with north Texas had left only a cold rain behind it in coastal Houston. The reflections of the runway lights were blurred on its wet surface. The aircraft cruised past hangars housing private airplanes as it taxied toward the small terminal.
Leigh gripped the edge of her seat and prayed that she would be met by a car and driver and rushed to the hospital as Stewart had promised. Even then, there was the outside chance that she would be too late, or that… No! He would be all right. He had to be.
The plane whined to a stop and the disgruntled pilot cut the engines. He shoved his soggy cigar, which Leigh had requested he extinguish, back into his mouth and said, “We’re here.”
“Thank you.” She unsnapped her seat belt and bent to step onto the stairs that the pilot was unfolding out the door. She was traveling light, carrying only one bag she had hastily packed with essentials. She thanked the pilot again as he handed it down to her before he grouchily stalked off toward one of the hangars.
The heels of her boots tapped loudly on the concrete as she rushed toward the lighted building. Pushing through the glass door, she ran up to the only attendant she saw in the deserted terminal. “I’m Mrs. Dillon. Is there someone here to meet me?”
Myopically the janitor eyed her up and down, taking in the lynx coat and the long hair swirling around its collar. “Someone here to meet ya, ya say? I don’t rightly know,” he said. “Was somebody s’pposed to be?”
Putting down an urge to knock the broom he was leaning on out from under him and scream, she said, “Thank you anyway,” and dashed toward the front of the building and out another set of heavy glass doors. The sidewalk running its length was deserted. The street, too, was empty, save for an El Dorado parked at the curb. She leaned down, but found it empty.
“Leigh, Chad will love you forever if you learn how to do this. That boy can eat a pound of this himself,” Amelia said as she dropped a dollop of the cooking fudge into a measuring cup of cold water. “Now watch, this is the tricky part. You have to make sure it’s hard”
“Leigh, Amelia, come here quick,” Stewart called from the living room. His urgency was transmitted to them and the fudge was forgotten as they dashed down the hallway. Leigh’s first thought was that something had happened to Sarah, but one sweeping glance of the room told her the infant was still sleeping on a pallet.
“Stew” Amelia began only to be interrupted.
“Shhhh. Listen,” Stewart said, pointing to the television screen.
The news reporter with a map of Venezuela behind his left shoulder was telling of a new development on the fire that had raged out of control for more than a week.
“Efforts to put out the fire have proved futile for the experts of Flameco. Today the situation became even more grim when another storage tank holding thousands of barrels of crude exploded. The storage tank is positioned in a group of others, making the situation critical. Safety doesn’t permit our reporters to get any closer than two miles from the site, so details are sketchy at this point.
“Rumors that several men were injured as a result of the explosion have come in, but identities of the injured or the extent of their injuries have not been confirmed. We’ll keep you abreast of the situation as details are made known to us. Now back to our regular programming.”
Stewart used the remote-control switch to snap off the sound. Leigh watched transfixed as a woman won a new refrigerator and jumped up and down exuberantly, kissing the host of the inane game show and all but choking him with his microphone cord. To Leigh, there was something obscene in jubilation over winning a new refrigerator when men could be burned, injured… dying.
The Dillons were sensitive enough not to insult her with banalities. Leigh knew that they, too, were worried. They weren’t about to tell her not to be.
The afternoon dragged on. No one was hungry, but they kept up the pretense of normality and ate the stew Amelia had had simmering all day.
When the telephone rang soon after six o’clock, they stared at each other, searching for reassuring expressions, finding none. Stewart pulled himself up on his crutch and went to answer.
He spoke quietly, calmly, but Amelia and Leigh knew the call was about Chad. When at last Stewart came to stand beneath the archway, their worst fears were confirmed.
“He was hurt with several others. They’re being flown to Houston. As a matter of fact, they should be getting there soon.”
Leigh’s eyes squeezed shut. Her hands held on tight to each other in front of her breasts. “How… how…”
“I don’t know what happened to him or how bad it is. That was an official from the Venezuelan government. His English was as bad as my Spanish. I don’t know. We can call Flameco, I guess, but I don’t think the headquarters will know any more than we do at this point. All we can do is—”
“I’m going down there,” Leigh said firmly, and took decisive steps toward the stairs with the intention of running up them to change her clothes.
“Leigh.” Amelia reached out for her. “You can’t. Not without knowing what you’ll find. I won’t let you go to Houston alone. Besides, the weather…” She let the frozen landscape outside speak for itself. The bare branches of the pecan trees were encased in a tubing of ice. “The roads and airports are closed.”
“I’m going,” Leigh said forcefully. “Chad owns an airplane. He has a pilot. He’ll fly me to Houston if I have to hold a gun to his head. You have a four-wheel-drive truck,” she said to Stewart. “You hauled hay around in it today. It can take me to the airport. I’m going.” She stared at them both with iron determination. Then her expression crumbled pitiably. “Please help me.”
* * *
She saw the lights of the runway looming closer as the pilot started their descent to the private landing field in Houston. The flight had been harrowing. Until they had flown out of the winter storm, the small aircraft had been buffeted by icy winds. Leigh found no comfort from the pilot, who persistently muttered to himself about stubborn broads with no more sense than God gave rubber ducks.
The storm that had played havoc with north Texas had left only a cold rain behind it in coastal Houston. The reflections of the runway lights were blurred on its wet surface. The aircraft cruised past hangars housing private airplanes as it taxied toward the small terminal.
Leigh gripped the edge of her seat and prayed that she would be met by a car and driver and rushed to the hospital as Stewart had promised. Even then, there was the outside chance that she would be too late, or that… No! He would be all right. He had to be.
The plane whined to a stop and the disgruntled pilot cut the engines. He shoved his soggy cigar, which Leigh had requested he extinguish, back into his mouth and said, “We’re here.”
“Thank you.” She unsnapped her seat belt and bent to step onto the stairs that the pilot was unfolding out the door. She was traveling light, carrying only one bag she had hastily packed with essentials. She thanked the pilot again as he handed it down to her before he grouchily stalked off toward one of the hangars.
The heels of her boots tapped loudly on the concrete as she rushed toward the lighted building. Pushing through the glass door, she ran up to the only attendant she saw in the deserted terminal. “I’m Mrs. Dillon. Is there someone here to meet me?”
Myopically the janitor eyed her up and down, taking in the lynx coat and the long hair swirling around its collar. “Someone here to meet ya, ya say? I don’t rightly know,” he said. “Was somebody s’pposed to be?”
Putting down an urge to knock the broom he was leaning on out from under him and scream, she said, “Thank you anyway,” and dashed toward the front of the building and out another set of heavy glass doors. The sidewalk running its length was deserted. The street, too, was empty, save for an El Dorado parked at the curb. She leaned down, but found it empty.
