Arts
Mark stepped out of his front door the next morning and was immediately aware of the threat. There was some kind of odd reversal going on: it was harder to breathe outdoors than in, more claustrophobic under the sky than inside the house. He found that it took an effort even to lift his eyes to the heavens, where heavy-looking masses of grey cloud, pressing down low in the sky, seemed to weigh on his gaze. It was the sort of day that makes any sensible animal decide to remain in its den. But although the official forecast was dire, and the supermarket forecasts even more so, and although the news from neighboring states showed the power of the winter storm now bearing down on them, still everyone agreed that it wouldn’t hit until tomorrow, probably tomorrow night. Mark hunkered down in his jacket and headed over to the church, thinking with a pang of his warm bed, and the warm woman he had left sleeping there. Inside the church, Mark could ignore the skies and breathe normally again. It was a good day for working indoors. There was no shortage of things to be done: an annual report for the denomination, and an essay for the monthly newsletter, and a sermon, and a new hymn that wanted to be written. There were, for a change, few interruptions. Perhaps the ominous weather was keeping people from venturing out. But whatever the reason, on this day, Mark was glad of the solitude. That evening, Sandra was scheduled to close at the tavern, so Mark decided to work late himself. He drove through McDonald’s for dinner—a little indulgence that he knew Sandra wouldn’t want to share with him. He took the food back to the church and reworked the first draft of his sermon. By nine o’clock, he thought the second draft was in good shape, so he went up the back stairs to the empty sanctuary and sat there for a while. He didn’t feel like talking, and no prayer came to his lips. He just wanted to spend some time there, sharing a companionable silence. Eventually, with a murmured thanks, he left the sanctuary, closed up the office, and headed home, planning to end his solitary day by settling down with a cup of cocoa and a book, waiting for Sandra to come home. When he got there, however, he saw that Sandra’s car was already in the garage. Huh—he was sure she had told him she was closing. But inside, he found her on the sofa, and one look told him why she was home early. She was sick. “My dear!” he said. “What’s wrong?” “I feel terrible,” she said in a raspy voice. “Fever, chills, achy all over. And my throat’s sore.” “Oh, poor thing … I was working late, because I thought you were working late. But I’d have been here to coddle you, if I’d known.” “Just as well you didn’t know, then,” she said, with a pained smile. “When did this come on?” Mark asked her. “I think I was already getting sick this morning. But the sore throat got me after lunch, and I couldn’t ignore it, so I came home.” Mark saw that she was shivering, in spite the blanket she was huddled under. She looked miserable, and his heart went out to her. “Let’s get you up to bed, my dear,” he said. He walked her up to the bedroom, got her some medicine and a glass of water to wash it down with, and tucked her in. She endured it all quite meekly—she must, Mark thought, really be feeling terrible. In the morning, she seemed a little better, and Mark went to work, under a sky that looked even heavier than the day before. But when he came home at noon, Sandra was worse again. Her fever had risen to a hundred and three, and her throat looked repulsively painful. Mark called the McCutcheon farm, and Timi called Lois in from the greenhouses to speak to him. “Lois,” he began, “Sandra has the super-strep, I think. She has a fever of a hundred and three. I don’t want to take her to the hospital—they can’t seem to do anything for this anyway—but I don’t want to be alone here caring for her when this storm hits. I’m sorry to ask this of you, but—”