Book Three
Sinners and Saints
November 13
Cry From The Grave
Chapter 37
Helen Ellis felt the touch of Gene's hand as his fingers wrapped around hers. The little Methodist church near her hometown of Birch Tree had been cleaned spotlessly. Yellow bunting hung around the perimeter of the sanctuary, making the oncoming twilight seem less oppressive and casting a shiny glow over the small congregation of one hundred ten souls. Even the organ had been repaired just for the occasion, so that the uppity Frieda Welch could play Mendelsshon's Wedding March with minimal difficulty and fuss. The autumn weather had warmed slightly within the last two hours, and everything had run on schedule. Helen's father had cleaned his only suit and attracted the most effusive compliments as he and Helen appeared at the rear of the church for their short traverse up the aisle. The congregational smiles were radiant and the pastor stood attentively at the altar. This day, lodged comfortably in November's bosom and in the midst of Eisenhower's presidency, was letter perfect.
As much as she tried to pay attention, both to Pastor Young and the unfolding elements of the service, Helen knew the hour would be a complete and utter blur. This was the culmination--no, the coronation--of a love that stretched back through proverbial peaks and valleys. It was a passion that survived the Korean War, where Gene had been stationed mere miles from the front lines. Helen remembered the joy she felt at receiving the first of Gene's letters, detailing both his daily routine and his compounding love for her. Then the mood changed. More about his friends Wilson Davis and Mark Stoll than his questions about how she was faring without him. She sensed more anxiety and less tepid romance as MacArthur made his daring counterattack and push to the Yalu River, and by the time President Truman relieved the pompous general of his command, the chances of Helen and Gene's continued affection seemed about as likely to succeed as Democrat hopes in the 1952 election. Gene's continued military service took him around the globe after the war, and Helen had settled down to help in her father's grocery. And then came the day when Gene walked into Ellis Grocers, his hair longer than before and his body practically poured into his dapper clothes. Ten dates over two months followed, and they never looked back. Gene had secured a position as a hydraulic engineer in St. Louis, the contract was signed on a house just off Chippewa Street, and they were headed to Hot Springs, Arkansas, for a week-long honeymoon as soon as they could break free from the reception in the church basement. She could hardly believe the truth. In a few moments, she would be Helen Smith.
Her splendid white gown, simple yet elegant, flowed around her petite form. It was as Pastor Young finished his brief homily that Helen wished she had worn a lighter fabric. The warming trend of the last couple of hours combined with the lack of air conditioning in her home church meant the sweat was beginning to trickle down her back and sides. How desperately she wanted the pastor to skip to the end, to summarize the vows and beg a simple affirmative. She blinked her eyes, feeling faint, when she saw Gene reach across the space between them and stroke his fingers gently on her face.
"What...what are you doing?" she whispered, stunned by his lack of propriety during the marital liturgy.
"You need to wait a little more, dear," said Gene. "A little more, and then we'll be together."
"We will be," replied Helen, but now the confusion was due to the incongruity in his voice. Why indeed was this strapping twenty-seven-year-old emitting a scratchy timbre more fitting of an octogenarian? It was like gazing at a picture of Cary Grant and hearing the intonation of the biblical Methusaleh on his deathbed.
"Just let preacher finish," she beseeched him, "and we'll be married."
"But we are married, Helen dear," Gene said, his crackly voice louder this time.
Helen opened her mouth to protest, but as she did so, the church, the congregation, Pastor Young, and even her mother and father vaporized like a snuffed flame. They were walking in a forest, hand-in-hand, before they ended up in a clearing. She recognized it immediately--the cemetery in Franklin County where they had picked out their plots, where she and David and Will and Sandra had buried Gene after his heart attack, in the days before her cancer began its silent trespass through her own frail shell.
"Where are we going?" she asked him, but he went on, pulling her over divots and tufts of grass. Had no one mowed the grass here in months, she wondered? Gene plodded on, oblivious to her protests and questions, not stopping until reaching a headstone, three feet across.
She knew better than to ask again, for they were here at their final joint resting place. Gazing down at the smooth slab, she carefully read the words on the left:
EUGENE DAVID SMITH
BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER
DECEMBER 12, 1931-OCTOBER 23, 2005
She squeezed Gene's hand and turned to speak when she noticed his lips moving. At first believing he was praying, she gave him time to reach the closing amen, but after several minutes she could make out from the repeated syllables that he was invoking a mantra over and over again. She followed his eyes, which were rooted on the slab, to the matching headstone that adjoined his own, and she read the inscription:
HELEN ELLIS SMITH
LOVING WIFE, DEAR MOTHER,
AND BRAVE SOUL
MAY 25, 1932-NOVEMBER 13, 2012
Her heart wanted to cry aloud. For years, Gene had been the breadwinner for the household, the strong soul on whom the family leaned in every crisis, the loyal soldier who carried Helen on his back through all of life's storms. And yet here, carved in stone, was his own estimation of his wife. Although he had never been overly demonstrative in his affection, there was no doubting his devotion to his dear Helen. Here, the warrior drove a staked banner into earth's soil, and he had called his wife "brave".
But her face drifted from the inscribed esteem to the bookends of life that fit snugly below, and when the full import of the second date penetrated her heart, she gave a start. Reaching over to Gene, she drove her fingernails deeply into the sleeve of his suit. Looking at her husband, she expected the same devastation she felt. Instead, she found herself face to face with the most angelic visage of calm. Now she saw the young man, the clever math whiz she had depended on to pass her algebra classes, with not a single blond hair out of place and on whose ruddy complexion the sun shone like liquid glass. Not even looking at her , he pulled her to his side, wrapping his arms around his bride and whispering in her ear so softly she nearly giggled as it tickled so much.
"Just a little while, Helen dear, and we'll be together."
"I thought we were together, Gene," she replied, trying to put the headstone from her mind.
"Almost, my love. There is one more bridge to cross. Just be brave."
"But you said..."
"Be brave. Be brave, my love."
She looked him full in his face, into the countenance of the one with whom she was always at peace. And now she saw clearly.
"You can stop dreaming now," Gene said, smiling. "And when you fall asleep, I'll be waiting."
"Will I be the last one of them to die?" she said, shuddering.
"I believe so. Regardless, there will be justice. Wake for now, then return to me."
Helen awoke, the footsteps approaching the room becoming louder. Turning to her side, she made out the digits on the radio alarm clock at the bedside table. Five-forty. Although she knew she had minutes to live, her trance had bolstered rather than drained her courage. It was with steel in her veins and courage in her soul that she sat up in her bed when her killer entered the bedroom and closed the door. So many days gone by, Helen thought. So many movements, transitions, and exercises. So much dedication to managing my fading health. And now here to take my life.
"You're early," Helen said, calmly, determined to get in the first salvo.
"No one really knows when I show up," the voice sounded, like a cheese grater scraped over gravel. "It's my modus operandi, as you so ably told the detectives."
Helen remained unmoved. "I guess there will be no one to watch you scamper across the lawn to your parking spot at Eden anymore."
The words had shot from her mouth with a strength she scarcely imagined was there. So, this is what Gene meant by a brave soul. Her bold avowal flooded her murderer's ears, poison to a spirit so willfully damnable. Helen simply grinned and closed her eyes as the evil form forced her delicate frame back onto the mattress, a left gloved hand soundly gripping her around the throat and the right covering her nostrils. Helen offered no resistance, even when she felt the radiating pain from her neck and her fluttering heart gave its final thumps. She needs no ministrations, for she felt no pain, only resolve. And then she found herself back in the clearing again, her arms around Gene and the headstone removed, and she knew she was finally with him forever.
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