In the Midst of Life

It was one of those rare late March days in the Deep South, which came on with a surprising vengeance. Already the roads, houses, and cars were covered with the fine pinkish dust more typical of June or July, after temperatures had climbed into the nineties for the ten days past. A bead of sweat rolled down Caitlyn’s nose as she slowed her car. She stopped at the intersection. A strand of limp gold hair had escaped from her scrunchie. She pushed the strands behind her ear, barely sparing a thought for the motion.

For almost a minute she signaled a left turn, waiting for nonexistent traffic to pass, as she stared into the field across from her. Empty of almost all but tall, fine grass, burnt yellow by the sun, it looked more like a field ripened for harvest after the summer’s warmth than that with grass newly grown. Here and there were scattered clumps of kudzu, the climbing vine ubiquitous to the Georgia countryside. In less than a month, kudzu would engulf bushes, trees, even telephone poles, whatever stationary object that didn’t move from the path of its voracious appetite.

Even now, with close observation, suggestions of the vine’s future consumption of the landscape were visible. Large, heart-shaped green leaves licked around the feet of three crosses, prominent on the slight rise in the field, the only remnants of the small church that had once existed there. A second drop of perspiration rolled from Caitlyn’s eyebrow to the corner of her eye then followed the length of her cheekbone. Abruptly, she turned onto the crossing road. She had no air-conditioning to explain the shiver that raised the hair on her arms.

“Dust thou art and to dust thou shalt return,” her neighbor had joked as she shook the pink film from the sheet she had hung out to dry. Both she and Caitlyn had smiled and laughed as Caitlyn brushed the film of dust from her windshield, just as she had brushed away snow flurries in her New England past.

Upon opening her car door, however, Caitlyn had made a discovery that made the joke seem less humorous. A single smudge of pink dust had been traced down the length of the driver’s side window, resembling the number one. Or the upright bar of a cross. It began again.

For the last three years Caitlyn had been able to convince herself that she had moved from Connecticut because she had wanted to, because she liked the extended growing season of the Deep South. She had convinced herself that she did not miss the crisp autumn mornings, or the sight of the first crocus to push its head through the ice and snow. She had told herself she did not miss her family, or her dog. Or chipmunks. Or her name. Or Peter. She had convinced herself that her trailer was home enough, the birds at her feeders were companions enough. Until that pink smear.

She had convinced herself that the beads hanging from her rearview mirror three weeks ago had been an accident, left by someone, perhaps tipsy, who had mistaken her car for theirs. Until that pink smear. The field receded behind her, but the three crosses remained elevated before her eyes. Inescapable. She drove faster in a vain attempt to leave them behind.

She had to go to work. She had to answer the phones, take messages, and deal with accounts payable and receivable. She had to water the plants on her desk and check her email and do all the other normal things in her life. She could not give in to . . . To what? What had really happened? A pink smear had been drawn down her window. Nothing was going to happen again. That was why she was in Georgia. She had been promised.

Caitlyn slowed the car to a speed closer to normal. She had nothing to fear, nothing to run from. Nothing. She repeated that mantra to herself many times over the twenty-minute ride to Canton. Despite that repeated mantra, her sweat-drenched clothes clung to her. She switched off the ignition in the lot of her office building and looked up at the windows behind which her bosses sat.

What was the point of going in? Even now, her mouth was as dry as if she’d crossed a desert without a canteen. Her stomach still lurched. Her legs rebelled at the idea of holding her up if she left the car.

No one had seen her pull up. Not a single car had pulled into the lot after she had arrived. No one would see her leave. Caitlyn turned the key in the ignition and backed out of her space before she could rethink her decision. When she got on the road she would call from her cell phone, explain away her absence as car trouble. She had never been absent before--she had never even been late--so she was certain no one would examine her excuse too closely. All she had to do now was face whatever awaited her when she got home, whatever it might be.

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There was nothing, at least nothing she could see. She had missed a day of work for nothing except for a bad case of fragile nerves.

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Heat reigned for the rest of the day, and the night as well. Caitlyn slept fitfully. She struggled in her sleep, trying to kick away the heart-shaped leaves that lapped at her rooted feet. When that effort failed she fought them, slashing, stabbing with a long, curved knife that had emerged from the blackness. A knife with a nick taken from the tip of its blade. Caitlyn screamed at the appearance of the too-familiar weapon. She threw it back into the dark depths, heedless of the encroaching vines. The tendrils swept up her legs, engulfing her, encircling her head like a halo.

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Caitlyn dressed in bright orange skirt and yellow blazer the next morning, colors as far from green and pink as she could make them. Nothing had happened. Just dreams. Unimportant dreams caused by nerves frayed by the unusual heat.

She sipped her coffee and nibbled her breakfast bar to make it last. The bluebirds at the feeder outside her kitchen window were unconcerned with anything outside the mealworms that she had place there for them. They would have seen a neighborhood cat if one approached, she was sure of that. But despite having such fragile lives the pair of birds lived without the paralyzing fear that had taken hold of her.

Long finished with her breakfast bar, Caitlyn rinsed her coffee cup and put it in the dishwasher. Her fear was unfounded. By all accounts it was a normal morning, with normal consequences. She brushed her teeth and touched up her hair and makeup in an attempt to bolster her self-confidence. Caitlyn took a deep breath before she opened the door. She strode to the car with conviction that she did not feel and waved at her neighbor who was hanging out laundry this morning. Normal, normal, normal. She brushed away the dust from her windshield before unlocking her car door.

There’s not quite as much here as yesterday. Maybe it’s almost over.

Nothing was drawn on her driver's side window. With a triumphant smile, Caitlyn reached out for the door handle.

A small pink oval shimmered in the morning sun, glaring, obvious, in the middle of that handle.

Despite the heat, Caitlyn’s fingers fumbled with the door, as if her fingers had frozen. She pulled the door open, already knowing what she would find. She could see it through the window. A length of blue cloth lay folded on the front seat of her car.

Caitlyn picked it up despite herself. It was beautiful, silken, the blue of a robin's egg. Folded neatly, it was bound with a fine white cord, knotted three times at one end. The last time she had seen cloth that color, it was not nearly as fine, and it had been stained with red. Caitlyn stroked the soft pile of the cloth. March twenty-fifth. It couldn't be a coincidence.

“Who are you?” she whispered. The cloth didn't provide an answer.

The question remained what to do with it? She could take it to the police, she supposed. But what purpose would that serve? What explanation could she offer? The police did not know who she was or what she had seen or why she was living in a trailer in Georgia. Right now all they would see was a crazy lady who was afraid of a few yards of fabric. And, she supposed, that right now they would be right.

She stared down at the fabric, lost in debate. Did she dare throw it away, or would that spur her stalker to greater efforts? No. She sensed that disposing of the cloth would be the worst thing that she could do.

With deliberate care, Caitlyn slid into the driver's seat and closed the door. As if the cloth were no more than yesterday's paper, she placed it on the seat behind her. All that remained was to turn on the car, place it in gear, and drive away. Caitlyn crossed herself, inserted the key, and turned it. When the car started instead of detonating beneath her, she let out breath she didn't know she had been holding.

Caitlyn found herself examining the homes and people that she passed as she drove out of her trailer park. Which one of them was her tormentor? She had never given any of them a moment of thought in the past, preferring to keep to herself. Due to her circumstances, there had never really seemed any point in getting to know any of them, if she had to be honest. But could any of them possibly know about her past? Could any of them be involved with it? It seemed impossible.

Yet the suspicion would not leave her, even as she went about her daily routine at the office. The sense of security that she once had felt inside the building’s walls had been shattered. If her neighbors might know about her past, might any of her co-workers know her secret? Faces that had once seemed merely neutral to her now seemed threatening. If she could hide in this watchtower of steel and glass, so could her pursuer.

Anonymity, once a friend, seemed a cage. After three years of keeping her fellow workers at a distance, however, she could hardly begin to surround herself with friends. How could she even know who to put into her cadre? Sitting alone at her desk, and later, at lunch, Caitlyn could feel the pressure of the vines circling her ankles. Ropes that bound hands and feet, preparing a victim for the sacrifice.

Before returning home she removed the cloth from her back seat. It was only a few short strides to the dumpster. As she turned from the car, a woman co-worker approached. Caitlyn replaced the cloth, still reluctant to dispose of it in front of witnesses. For the first time since she had come to work at this place, someone waved to her as she left. Fear clutched at her as she returned the wave.

This person could be the one.

“I didn't know you sewed,” the woman called out from her space, one row up from hers. She recognized the woman now; she was Pinder something-or-other, from the third cubicle as you entered their floor. “What a pretty color.”

“It's for Easter,” she called back. “I thought I saw a stain . . .” A red stain. She smiled away the trill of fear, hoping that Pinder would just go away.

“Oh no! Good luck with it! See you tomorrow!”

With a second wave, the other woman got into her car and drove away. Sometimes God did listen to prayers.

Caitlyn could feel the green coils grasping her legs, moving up her calves. She pulled her car door open, wishing that she could blink her eyes and be at home. She did not feel safe driving. Then again, there was no place safe for her. Not now, never. She would never be safe again.

But home was still home. She had nowhere else to go. Any other haven had been taken from her years ago, along with everything else in her life. Why had she given it all up, just to have it turn to this? There was no good answer.

After turning off her car when she arrived at home, Caitlyn waited, watching. Nothing appeared out of place, but then, nothing had before. She reached behind her and grasped the cloth, not taking her eyes from her surroundings. With the cloth clutched to her breast, she rushed from the car and ascended the three steps to her door. On the second try, her key found the door lock. She turned it, and stepped inside. Quiet. All was quiet. She flicked on the light switch beside her, to chase the shadows from the dimness of the room.

All was normal. No one rushed at her, knife upraised. She was safe. But she had thought the same that morning. The only thing that had saved her from madness was the routine of the office. Routine was the only important thing now. Caitlyn tossed the cloth onto the nearest chair and reached for the mailbox key, hanging in its usual place by the front door. She would get the mail, drink her tea, and listen to her phone messages, just like normal. There was nothing to fear.

Her mail was nothing but junk, advertisements for things that she would never buy. All the same, she forced herself to look through the ads, perusing the cookware, clothing, and other goods that no longer held any appeal for her. The sweet, milky tea soothed her as she glanced through the glossy pages.

She could not focus. From the corner of her eye Caitlyn could see the light on the handset to her phone blink three times. Three messages. It was amazing how many calls a person could get, even when she didn't know anyone. The light beckoned her. Compelled to listen, Caitlyn put down her teacup. The tape rewound to the first message when she pressed the button.

She should erase them, now, without listening to them. They were nothing but junk, like the mail. No one she had ever known would call her. Caitlyn's finger hovered over the “delete” button. Instead she jabbed at “play.”

Junk, like the mail. The first call was a confirmation from the dentist, the second, a hang-up. Wrong number, the story of her life. The third was music. Within three breaths she recognized it, low and melodious. Movement No. 5, “Agnus Dei, from Requiem, by John Rutter. The sobs started low in her throat. Caitlyn jabbed at the button, delete, delete, delete. Still, the bass line echoed in her head, “in the midst of life, we are in death, we are in death . . .” She sank to her knees and clasped her hands in front of her.

Dear Lord, make it stop.

When Caitlyn finally rose, grooves from the carpet threads were pressed deep into her knees. Her interior tremors had gone, numbed into stillness. What was pain or horror to one already dead? She went about her evening tasks mechanically, unable to find pleasure even in her music. Dinner, untouched, went into the trash, not the refrigerator. At nine o’clock, early, she prepared for bed. She was almost surprised, when she removed her panty hose, to find her calves unstained by sap.

In the midst of life . . .

Unable to trust her eyes, Caitlyn ran her hands along her legs. Invisible, the vines did not reveal themselves to her fingers. Still, she could feel them climbing, savoring her knees and thighs. Fear rushed back: all-encompassing and ineffable. Caitlyn tried to brush the vines away. Still, she could feel their movement. She struggled from their rooting grasp and ran into the bathroom, to her medicine cabinet.

We are in death . . .

Caitlyn swung open the mirrored door to the cabinet and reached inside. Her hand reached toward the left, toward the bottom corner. Her fingers brushed the small brown bottle, half-full with pills. She hadn't taken Valium since coming to this place, but she had never thrown them out either.

We are in death . . .

The white cap felt reassuring under her fingers. Caitlyn grasped the bottle, twisted the cap, and cascaded pills into her palm. It would be easy. She would never know fear again. Or life, or the bluebirds outside her window. She sighed and returned all but one of the pills to the bottle. She downed it with a glass of water and fell onto her bed. There she slept till morning.

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It was Friday again, the Friday before Palm Sunday. The days since the Valium incident had passed like Prufrock's, “measured out in coffee spoons.” Her milestones were tiny. First, she'd had to pass an hour without the thought of death, then two. After what had seemed millennia, the first day had passed. That first long night was a stillwatch--she hadn't dared take the Valium again. At last, the second night passed, which she had slept through by virtue of exhaustion. Only her milestones kept her sane: the end of one project at work, the beginning of another, the tiny peeps that were at last emerging from the bluebird box in the morning.

Even the fiasco of the material had become a milestone. She'd purchased an inexpensive sewing machine and made herself a dress for Easter, as she had told Pinder she would. The dress was luxurious, though her skills were rusty from disuse. It was a dress fit to be buried in.

In the field, the kudzu climbed. The tallest vines would have wrapped anaconda-like around the invisible Savior's waist, tiny tendrils quivering like tongues seeking sustenance.

As one day had faded into another, and finally ten of them had passed without incident, Caitlyn began to wonder if whatever it was over. Had she not given the right responses, forcing her tormentor to back away unsatisfied? The thought was nearly as difficult to bear as the torment had been. She had to know why everything had begun now, and who was causing it, or go mad.

Once again, the questions roiled in her mind. Was it someone who had heard of her past? But who? And how would they have heard of it? No one knew her anymore, not even her family, with whom she'd had no contact for three long years. Everything was new, from her driver's license to her social security number; even her name was taken from a romance novel she had once read. She had been careful. So careful.

What if it was the same person as before? That would mean she had been found. But that wasn't possible. It couldn't be. They had told her she would be safe. And she’d been careful. All the same, she moved her desk to block her front door that night. The next day, Caitlyn purchased an additional lock and hasp for both the back door and her bedroom. The measures gave her some sense of false security. Knowing that many mobile homes were made nearly of tissue paper seemed beside the point.

Caitlyn rose with the sun Palm Sunday morning. The sky was battleship gray; it seemed appropriate. She emerged from her shower feeling more drained than she had when she had entered it, as if the warm water had leeched the strength from her body. Even the cacophony of bird song, usually so welcome, seemed off-kilter.

She dressed limply for church, not certain if she wanted to hear the joyous sounds of His entrance into Jerusalem. She could not explain her trepidation. Nothing had happened in the intervening years, not since that one church celebration that had gone terribly wrong. Images hung before her eyes: the knife coming down in an arc, the spurt of blood . . . Caitlyn shook her head, determined to free herself of those memories. She took her car keys from the hook beside the door, mentally lashing the recalcitrant donkey she rode toward its inevitable goal. Once outside, she stopped in mid-stride. The scream lodged at the roof of her mouth; her hands flew up to trap it there. Caitlyn backed up, returning inside. Safe from the outside world, she slammed the door behind her.

The bodies of the bluebirds lay on the porch, heads twisted to face their backs. Near the body of the female were the crushed forms of four small, blue eggs. Two strokes, in a cross formation were drawn on the door in blood.

How could she have wondered why she was being stalked? Now the scales had been removed from her eyes; she could see the truth with clarity. Caitlyn leaned heavily against the door. The strength left her knees and she slid along its length to the floor. A ripple of calm overtook her. She needed prepare.

That afternoon she cleaned house. Bag upon bag went into the trash as she disposed of unneeded belongings. By that evening, it would not have been possible to tell that someone lived there. Caitlyn felt at peace.

The week was one of quiet routine, save for one call to the sheriff's department. No calls came to disturb her; there were no mysterious disturbances to her car. Holy Thursday she attended the service commemorating the symbolic washing of His feet, praying in thanksgiving for the end to her suffering she knew was soon to come. On the eve of Good Friday, Caitlyn fell into the sleep of the dead.

Mandi was smiling at her, the way she had long ago. She held a single finger up before her lips as she gestured for Caitlyn to follow. They walked side by side, giggling the way they had that time, as if a novice sneaking from her room was no big deal after all. More like friends from birth than sisters, they had wanted to spend one last evening together before Mandi entered the cloister with full orders. But when they arrived in the chapel, Mandi had turned serious. In the darkness Mandi took her hands.

“Pray for me Megan,” the dream-Mandi beseeched her. And she had done as Mandi asked. She had gone to the votive candle stand, and had lit a candle. The tiny warmth of the candle licked at her face as she knelt before the stand.

Dear Lord, she prayed, the sound echoing in her mind, prepare the soul of Amanda for what is to come. Make her worthy of being your servant.

She shrank back into the darkness at the sound of breaking glass. A stealthy form approached the chancel. Something stopped the form, however, as it reached for the monstrance. Megan-Caitlyn watched in horror as it turned toward Mandi, who for some reason walked toward the chancel as well. Her blue habit appeared ethereal in the dim moonlight coming through the clerestory windows.

“We're a poor order,” the dream-Mandi repeated from that earlier day. “Please don't do this. Return it and leave, and nothing will be said.”

Mandi had reached out her hand to the man. Megan-Caitlyn's eyes had adjusted to the darkness well enough to see that. As if in a scene from an action movie, the figure leapt forward. He knocked Mandi to the floor. A knife, heavy and large, appeared in his hand. Before her eyes, Mandi raised her arms to protect herself from the inevitable knife blow. She had stayed in the shadows as he returned to the chancel, to remove the chalice and paten. As quickly as he had appeared, he disappeared. By the time she reached Mandi, her sister had died.

For the first time in almost a week Caitlyn awoke afraid. A cusp had been reached. She rose before her alarm and showered. The shift dress she selected was black silk, with ruffled black lace at the cuffs and collar, complemented by black hose and shoes. After several tries, she was able to capture her hair neatly in a black snood, unused since Good Friday the previous year. A jet pendant hanging from a black leather cord about her neck completed the ensemble. Unrelieved black, in honor of the day.

Under the clear blue sky, the kudzu had engulfed the cross, circling the top in a halo. The finality of its growth filled her with tranquility. Gentle arms seemed to encircle her as she drove to work, soothing nerves strained by the earlier dream. No trace of anxiety remained as she pulled into the office parking lot.

By lunchtime she had finished all the work that remained on her desk. She distributed the sealed envelopes herself, rather than send them through inter-office mail. It gave her a chance to stop at Pinder's office. She knocked on her co-worker's cubicle and stuck her head inside the door.

“Today is my last day,” she said. “Do you want my philodendrons?”

“Thank you, I would.” There was a brief, uncomfortable pause. “I didn't know you'd given notice. I'm sorry to hear you're leaving. Do you know where you'll be going?”

“I'm not really certain. It’s just time to move on.”

Pinder nodded. “There are times I wish I had enough money to do that too. You're a lucky woman.”

That afternoon Caitlyn cleared the rest of her desk, leaving with only a small box of her possessions tucked under her arm. No one asked her what the box contained. No one stopped her to wish her his or her best. She wasn't even certain how many people had heard of her departure or even if they cared. Once through the doors it was as if Caitlyn had never existed; which, of course, she never had.

She did not spare a glance for the crosses in the field. There was no need. Both she and they had reached their apex. Yet as she climbed her porch stairs a weight descended on her shoulders. She had certainly expected something, somewhere, to be left for her. This “something” had not been it. Caitlyn reached her hand out to touch the iron nail that had been pounded into the window frame in her trailer door then traced her fingers on the briar and kudzu wreath that hung from it. She entered her home, leaving the wreath hanging from its nail. It was not important. Nothing was important any longer.

Mother, the hour has come.

Saturday was quiet, a day of preparation. Caitlyn unplugged her phone and left the television off. She had no breakfast, no lunch. Dinner consisted of tea, a pita, and some falafel. Around midnight she took a long bath, then wrapped herself in a thick white robe. Before seating herself in the living room, she plugged the phone back in. Praying in the darkness, she waited. Not until dawn did her vigil break. She was ready.

When Caitlyn rose, the blue heavens were streaked with red. This morning not even a sip of tea would pass her lips. She walked slowly to her room. There she carefully removed her robe and hung it on the back of her door, as she always did. With equal care, Caitlyn made up her face, then put on the blue dress. Everything needed to be perfect. As she returned to the living room, the phone rang once. She made no effort to answer it. Instead, she reseated herself and waited for the knock she knew was to come.

It came. Three short, hard raps. Metal against metal.

She answered it.

There was no time to think, no time to react to the silver blade arcing toward her chest. There was no time to see the face or raise her hands against it. She wouldn't have, even if she could have. It was time.

Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit.

Caitlyn felt herself fall backward, but felt the vines cushion her, licking her wounds as she fell. Her body landed hard on the carpeted floor of her living room, arms outstretched at her sides. For almost a minute her heart continued to pump. Two streams of blood soaked her dress, staining it nearly to her waist. With a smile, her assailant tossed the briar and kudzu wreath onto her still form. It struck her forehead and careened to one side. The door shut quietly behind him.

Peter? From a distance, Caitlyn heard the door shut. She was finally at rest, at peace. At last, she was going home.