“That’s interesting,” Nick said. He suspected that it probably would work, too, if the crevasse wasn’t too large.
They passed a sheriff’s department vehicle—nice to know that someone official was present—and then, in front of the church, set up like a kind of wall, Nick saw a pair of banners, all covered with brilliantly colored, astoundingly detailed scenes. Nick saw angels, demons, volcanoes, scenes of violence and fire.
“What’s this?” he said.
“Sister Sheryl’s Apocalypse,” Garb said. “She’s been working on it for years—careful, there.” This last was said to Jason, who had come very close to one of the banners, his nose just inches away from the Antichrist branding the number 666 into the forehead of one of his followers.
“Come here, Jason,” Nick said.
“That’s amazing,” Jason said. “You know, I bet you there are rock bands, heavy-metal types, who would pay a lot of money to put this on their album covers.”
“Well, maybe.” Garb smiled. “You should get Sister Sheryl—she’s Brother Frankland’s wife—to give you a tour of her art.”
Nick was impatient to see Arlette, and he walked faster, giving the others no time to view the banners. Behind Sheryl’s Apocalypse about a dozen children played in the area around the church. Nick craned his neck as he looked for Arlette. Garb led him into the church. The pews had been pulled back against the walls, and the space divided by blankets and towels hung on lines. Mattresses filled half the floor space. The place smelled of babies and disinfectant, and the crying of infants echoed off the metal walls. Nick’s heart gave a leap as he saw his daughter at the back of the church. She was bending over a table, folding laundry, dressed in a cotton shirt and cut-off blue jeans. She wore a kerchief over her hair and a frown of concentration on her face.
My God, she’s grown, Nick thought. Arlette seemed a head taller than when he’d seen her last. And she’d thinned out—at Christmas she’d seemed a little chubby, the way adolescents sometimes get just before a growth spurt. But now she was almost up to his chin, and looked graceful as an athlete. He sprang forward. Arlette looked up at that moment, and for a moment there was a little frown between her brows, as if she couldn’t understand why this strange unshaven man with grimy clothes and matted hair was lurching toward her; and then her face lit up, eyes wide with surprise and delight… “Daddy!” she cried, and ran to meet him.
Her arms went around him and Nick’s head reeled. Arlette had survived the terror of the quake, the hazards of the river, the killers that had followed from her home. She had come through all this, to him. His sense of relief was so overpowering that it almost staggered him. He felt weak as a child, and clung to Arlette as much for support as out of joy.
“Amen, brother,” he heard Garb say. “Amen.”
The timeless moment ended. Nick dropped his arms, then stepped back to gaze at his daughter. “You’re looking fine, baby,” he said.
Her chocolate-brown face broke into a smile. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“I’ve got something for you. A present.”
Nick reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the battered cardboard box that he’d brought from the jeweler’s.
“Happy birthday,” he said.
And there it was, what he’d waited for these weeks, what he’d dreamed about when he touched the box in his pocket—he saw it at last, the shining glow that kindled in her eyes as she gasped and raised the necklace to the light that came through the broken windows of the church.
“It’s beautiful!” she said, and hugged him again.
“Turn around,” Nick said, “and I’ll put it on you.”
She turned and swept hair and kerchief off the back of her neck. Nick worked the clasp with clumsy fingers, and she hooked on the earrings.
When she turned around to face him, her smile was brighter than the gems he’d given her.
“Very pretty, young lady,” Garb said, and suddenly Nick was aware of the other people watching, Garb and Jason, other young girls and nursing mothers and a large number of children, all of whom had nothing better to do than watch Nick’s reunion with his daughter. Nick turned to Jason, feeling suddenly awkward.
“Arlette,” Nick said. “This is my friend Jason. He got me down out of a tree the morning after the earthquake.”
“Hi,” Arlette said. “Thanks for rescuing my daddy.”
Jason mumbled something and shook Arlette’s hand.
Arlette turned back to Nick. “Did you come from Toussaint? Did you see Gros-Papa and Penelope?” Nick felt his exhilaration die like a moth shriveled by flame. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, but I should talk to your momma.”
“She’s working in the kitchens,” Arlette said. She turned to Garb. “Could you spare me for a little while?” she said.
“Ask Mrs. Perkins,” Garb said.
Arlette bounced away, spoke to an elderly black lady—Mrs. Perkins took a moment to admire the necklace and earrings—and then returned.
“She says I can fold the diapers later,” she said.
“Got you working already, huh?” Nick said.
Arlette looked serious. “Diapers are going to be a problem. You can only reuse the Pampers so many times, and there aren’t a lot of old-fashioned diapers around. So some of the ladies are making them out of old clothes.”
“Nick,” Garb said, “I’ll leave you with Arlette, all right? Come look for me after you’ve talked to your family, and we’ll get you a place to sleep and a place to stash your stuff, okay?” Jason was standing there looking like he didn’t know what to do, so Nick put an arm around him as they followed Arlette from the church. Their route took them over a four-foot-wide chasm. Its banks had partly fallen in, which made it even more of a hazard, but the fissure had been spanned by a wooden bridge, stoutly built of fresh lumber and complete with handrails.
Nick had to conclude that the camp was very well organized.
“Seven angels!” shouted the voice over the loudspeaker. “Seven angels with seven plagues!” Nick’s stomach rumbled to the scent of baking bread. The kitchen area was shaded by bright picnic awnings, and featured a number of mismatched gas ranges that looked as if they’d been scavenged from wrecked buildings—mobile homes or RVs, possibly, since they were being run off containers of LP gas. There were also grills that could burn charcoal or gas, and a large black smoker so big that it might have once been the boiler of a steam locomotive. Nearby was the dining area, more awnings sheltering long folding tables and benches that looked as if they’d been taken from the nearby grade school.
“Momma?” Arlette called.
In the shade beneath the awning, Nick could see Manon only in silhouette, and she was among other women, but he knew her at once—knew the way her chin lifted at the sound of Arlette’s voice, knew the arch of her back, knew her familiar pose, one hand resting on her hip. Knew the contralto voice that cried from the shadows.
“Nick! My God!”
Manon rushed from beneath the awning and threw her arms around him. He held her to him and welcomed the moment of bliss before the memory of the house at Toussaint returned to darken his mind. Manon drew back, held him at the length of her smooth mocha arms. “You don’t look too bad,” she judged.
Which was the sort of phrase that she, and her whole family, used instead of compliments.
“This is Jason,” Nick said. “He pulled me out of a tree.” Manon turned to Jason and smiled, pink gum showing beneath her upper lip, the familiar little imperfection that sent a shiver up Nick’s spine. “Welcome,” she said in her regal way, as if the whole camp belonged to her.