The Butterfly Forest

FIFTY-TWO

The next morning, after leaving Max with Dave, I ordered a cup of coffee-to-go from Kim Davis at the Tiki Bar. She sealed the Styrofoam cup with a plastic lid and said, “One cream, one sugar for a guy who’s too sweet to need sugar.”

“Thanks, Kim. I don’t know if sweet’s the word. I’ve got to do some things that I know will get beyond bitter. I’m going to be the bad taste in a few mouths — including a sheriff who’s ready to have the DA prosecute a man before all the evidence is gathered.”

“Why the rush to judgment?”

“Because we live in a society of instant everything. The sheriff’s department has its own Facebook page. National media are here. The election’s in November. I don’t think jobs in law enforcement or the judiciary should be a popularity contest.” I smiled and picked up the coffee cup. “But who cares what I think?”

“I care. And so do the people you help, those who seem to fall through the cracks. Maybe this man in jail is one of them. You think about other people, Sean. It’s something that can’t be faked. Be careful.”

“Thanks for the coffee.”

On the way to Ocala, I drove through the small community of Astor. I kept under the posted thirty miles-per-hour speed limit. Past the hardware store, the feed and seed store, and beyond the single traffic light, the road became curvy. I left Astor in less than the forty-five seconds it took to drive through it. I drove under a canopy of live oaks with arched limbs interlocked like fingers over the road. The branches and leaves blocked most of the morning sunlight. It was as if I was driving through a dark tunnel, a glow of daylight somewhere beyond the old trees with their outstretched limbs.

I drove out of the long womb into the brightness of mid-morning, the sky cloudless and indigo blue. There was a small, white church off the road. The church was almost hidden by a lone oak tree draped in crusty beards of gray Spanish moss.

Although the speed limit was back to fifty-five, I didn’t accelerate. I slowed down. I don’t know why, but I simply took my foot from the gas pedal and pulled off the road onto the shoulder, just beyond the gravel drive leading to the church. I backed up, drove across the vacant lot and turned off the motor. The engine ticked as it cooled.

There was a small cemetery to the left of the church. I got out of the Jeep and stood under a bough of the old oak. A blackbird flew from the tree to a cedar near the church. Speckled light flickered across the small graveyard. Some of the old headstones tipped to the right under pressure of the huge oak’s hidden roots.

I thought about Elizabeth’s voice message, a plea really, for me to attend Molly’s funeral. I started to get back in the Jeep, but I found myself walking around it up two wooden steps leading to the church door. I touched the door handle. The faded brass was cool in my hand, the sun’s hot breath on my neck. I looked to my left and caught the blackbird quietly staring at me from the top of the cedar tree. Spanish moss was motionless in a morning with air that felt dense and somehow trapped.

I turned the handle. The door opened, slowly yawning wide, almost as if it inhaled the humid air outside. I stepped in, wondering if the door would slam behind me. The old church smelled of age, the hidden scent of worn Bibles, faded flowers and starched clothes.

There were about a dozen wooden pews separated by an aisle that led to the pulpit. Hanging from the dais was a satin white cloth with the image of a dove holding an olive branch in its beak. Behind the podium was a stained glass window displaying an image of a man in a river, his hair wet, eyes wide, and his hand locked in the hand of Jesus.

I remembered how Luke Palmer looked as the deputies pulled his exhausted body out of the river. I sat in the first pew, immersed in silence, and simply stared at the imagery in the stained glass. The sunlight and breeze moving through the trees gave the colors a suggestion of motion.

I thought of my wife, Sherri. I could almost see her face somewhere through the painted glass, and I could just about feel her presence on the pew beside me. I wanted to reach out and take her hand, to hold it like I’d done on too few Sundays in church. I looked beside me, expecting to see her and to somehow hold her hand for one more stolen moment in time.

There was nothing, only a long, empty pew supporting a lone Bible. A bookmark in the shape of an angel protruded from the center of the Bible. I opened it to the marked spot, the twenty-third chapter of Psalms. After a minute, I got up and walked to the door. It was closed, and I remembered that I did not shut it. But why didn’t I hear it close?

I’d left my Glock between the seats of my unlocked Jeep. Had someone taken my gun? Were they standing on the other side of the church door? Careless, I thought. There were no windows facing that section of the church. I moved to one side of the door and jerked it open. I could feel the warm breeze entering. From where I stood, I saw my Jeep. There was no one around it. I stepped outside. A man with a head full of cotton-white hair stood on the small porch. His beard came down to the first opened button on his sweat-stained, blue jean shirt. His eyes were bright as the blue river in the stained glass window. He reached out his hand. “Mornin,’ glad you could stop in our little church. I’m Paul Goodard. I double as the groundskeeper most days and the minister most Sundays. They call me Preacher Paul. What do they call you?”

“Sean O’Brien, nice to meet you. I was just leaving.”

He had a firm grip. Releasing my hand, he said, “Saw you in there and thought I’d close the door to give you some privacy.”

“Guess I was in deep thought. Didn’t even hear you close the door.”

“Keep the hinges well oiled.”

“Noticed that when I opened it.”

“We’d love to have you join our church family.”

“Thanks, Preacher Paul, but I’m just passing through.”

He studied me for a moment. I nodded and stepped around him.

“We’re all passing through, you know. I hope you got what you came for.” His beard parted in a wide smile.

I turned back to him. “Thank you.”

“Is there anything that you might want to talk about?”

“No thanks.”

“Please forgive my forwardness, but you seem deeply troubled. Maybe I could help.”

I nodded. “I’m fine. Need to be going.”

“Going from something, Mr. O’Brien, or going into something.”

“In a way, I suppose, it’s a little of both. And, I imagine we’re all in that boat from time to time.” I turned to leave.

“We are. But I suspect you find yourself on those troubled waters more frequent than most.”

I didn’t turn around. I heard the blackbird cry out from the cedar tree as the old preacher said, “God walks with you. You may not see his footprints, but He’s with you if you let Him join you. You’ll find He makes an excellent traveling companion. Doesn’t need food or water. All He asks is that you let him walk the walk with you. You do that, Mr. O’Brien, and he’ll lead you through the valley of death.”

I stopped at the Jeep door and turned around. Preacher Paul had gone. The church door was closed. The blackbird flew from the cedar and alighted on a tall tombstone that was pushed over by an invisible root hidden beneath the dark earth.