Trying to go Home

It was two days before 1921, but rain was eternally a pain in the ass. The cloth roof on his car hadn’t been much protection and his feet rested in a good four inches of hateful cold South Carolina December rain. It was almost warmer than opening the door and letting the water out. Goggles on, to protect the one eye he had left, frozen hands on the steering wheel, he tried to focus on home, a thick warm bed, and a plate of potatoes and eggs. Smirking as dark rain dripped over the edge of his fedora, he thought about how much money he had safely tucked in his trunk, twenty-five bottles of illegally imported French wine, five bottles of Irish whiskey, and three Caribbean rums. Wind blew the cold rain back to slide down his face, winding through the maze of his unshaven face. He also had some rare and not commercially available antiseptic. He was going to make Jack happy, have some booze, make some money, which was good because Jack’s antiseptic had been ungodly expensive. If he hadn’t been stuck in Noah’s newest flood, it would have been a perfect night.

The dirt road didn’t like the rain any more than Gael did. His car could handle it, the mud and impromptu streams. His baby had outrun every cop he’d encountered in the last three months. St. Christopher had given him a mighty blessing when he’d managed to get his, also illegally imported, fokker engine to work in a reinforced Model T. Jackie had sworn if he could get it to work it would have to be a miracle, but his precious engine wasn’t keeping his feet dry. Miracles only go so far, after all.

A blurry figure held the center of the road, arms or branches waving and he gentled the breaks. He was not going in a ditch this close to home! He was also not getting robbed or arrested. Coming to a stop a few feet from a scarecrow of a man in black waving his arms over his head, shouting something that the rain and engine drowned out.

Gael thought about the pistol holstered at the small of his back, carefully wrapped in oilcloth to keep it dry. His engine gave out with a sputter and he sighed. Getting robbed was not high on his wish list, better than arrested. Hurriedly, he got his eyepatch up from where it lay on the seat next to him and replaced the goggles. He might shoot someone, but he didn’t want to scare them to death with his empty eye socket.

The man ran towards him, slipping and awkward in the mud, clean-shaven, his hat crumpled in his hand. “Oh Sir! I’m so happy to see you! Jesus sent you to help me.”

Gael grunted, about the only greeting he could come up with right then.

The man, who was dressed like a priest, but clearly wasn’t a priest stared at Gael’s chest for a moment. His wet shirt clung to his skin, to the rosary. “You’re a Catholic.”

“Yeah,” Gael said, not even having the energy to hide his Irish accent.

“And you’re Irish,” the man said, with no small bit of horror.

“God uses what stones he has, now don’t he? It’s a shit of a night. What da ya need?”

The man took a deep breath, like he was sucking up his soaked pride. “We got off the road and I can’t get Nancy out of the mud.” He swallowed again. “Can you help me, please?”

Dig in the mud with a Protestant? The night couldn’t get any worse. “You got rope?”

“No,” the man said, lips trembling.

Sighing, Gael smoothed his fingers over his eyebrows, then touched his thumb to his first knuckle and made the sign of the cross, praying a soft prayer in Latin. “Fine. Let’s get the lady out. There’s nothing worse than a wet, angry woman.”

“She’s uh,” the man said, palms clapping together, “not a woman. She’s a horse.”

There was the headache. “I got rope,” Gael said with a smirk, taking his headache out on the man by playing up his Irish accent. Not that he actually knew, but he told himself that men didn’t go out in the storm without rope in Dublin.

The horse in question was exhausted, front legs up on the dirt road, but her back legs were in the mud to her tail. Gael shoved his hat a little farther down on his head. What they would have done with that in the Great War wasn’t something one could mention in even somewhat polite civilian society. “Ya went ta war?”

“Over there? No, no, I’m a man of God and peace. I’m Pastor Mark Lucas.”

“Gaelen McNeil, esquire,” Gael said, holding out a dripping hand. “Most call me Gael.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the pastor shook Gael’s hand. “Gael.”

“Mark,” Gael replied, before starting to unbutton his shirt.

“What on earth?”

“I only got one set of clothes. I ain’t goin in there with’em on. Jackie’s gon be table-flipping pissed at me anyway.”

“Oh. Yes, well,” Mark said, blushing and turning away.

Gael rolled his eyes. American Protestants were so uptight, Gael really wasn’t sure how there kept being new generations of them. He hung his clothes over the trunk of his car. Maybe they’d be cleaner that way. He set his nice leather shoes and ruined hat in the back seat, then stood before the mud pit and made the sign of the cross again. “Saint Albert, guide me to the path of wisdom.”

“Why not pray to Jesus for help,” Mark asked, accepting the rope that Gael had brought back from the car.

“I’m an idiot. I don’t need forgiveness just now, but wisdom.” Gael blew the air out of his lungs, made the cross again and then went into the mud after Nancy. Diligent digging and shoving finally got her moving. When she finally won free, Gael fell face-first into the soupy mud. The price of wisdom is sometimes dignity.

Mark hugged his horse, petting her, probably making her all kinds of promises as men are wont to do. “Hey,” Gael yelled, as he felt himself sinking into the mud. By luck, he saw his eye patch and grabbed that up too. “If you two could return the favor, uh?”

“Oh yes, Oh I’m so sorry. Oh Lord! Your eye! Did you lose an eye?”

With a heavy sigh, Gael looked up at the rain, letting it wash his face clean. “Yes, that’s why I had an eye patch on. It was long ago, in the war.”

“I shall pray to God to restore your eye!”

“Great, rope, please!”

With a bit more tugging, and some Irish curses, the three of them had Gael up out of the mud. The rain hadn’t let up. Gael held his arms out, slowly turning in the downpour, giving his thanks to whatever nameless saints wanted to take credit for him not getting killed by his stupidity again.

Not much longer after that he had his wet clothes back on, talked Mark into riding in the car, with Nancy following gently behind. Mark was, after all, the idiot that ended up in the ditch and he didn’t have any saints to help.

Another mile down the road, they came upon a small diner with the lights still on. In that moment, Gael wanted a hot coffee even more than he wanted a rum. “Come on, Mark, ma man, I’ll buy you a coffee.”

“I can’t go inside if Nancy’s out in the rain,” the pastor said sadly.

“Bring her on the porch. Maybe they have a barn or something. What in God’s name are you doing out here anyway?”

“I’m a preacher,” the man said with pride.

“Tá,” Gael said, agreeing and cursing in the same breath. As much as he wanted a hot coffee, the longer he lingered, the more danger there was of getting caught by the cops. He also didn’t feel comfortable leaving this strange man on his own just yet. “But why were you out in the rain like this? Why not find a place to wait it out?”

“God told me to, or war would come back.” Mark whispered.

“Uh,” Gael said, hands freezing even more now that hot coffee was close. Under his urge to just let the guy sit there, he could hear Jack lecturing on caring and being understanding. Jack, it was worth pointing out, did not do any rum-running. “Did you lose someone in the war?”

“My little brother and my other sister. They were so brave! Did you lose your eye in the war?”

“Tá,” he said with a nod. “Yeah, I was a pilot. I got shot down, but here I am. Come on, let’s get warm. Nancy can come up under the porch and we can get her some oats. They have to have oats, right?”

“I don’t have any money.”

“That’s alright, Preacher,” Gael said, kind of prying his cold stiff fingers off the steering wheel. “I’ll pay, even for Nancy’s oats. Our house is a couple hours from here. There’s a stable. You can stay for a couple of days, then head back out and preach the good word. Keep the world at peace.”

“But... you’re Catholic.”

“The house is owned by my brother-in-law. He’s a Baptist.”

“Oh! Those are worse. I’m a Methodist!”

To be honest, Gael really didn’t know the difference between a Baptist and a Methodist and he didn’t really want to. By then he’d made it to the back in water slogged shoes to untie the horse. “Fine. You can stay in the stable with Nancy. Is that Christ-like enough for ye?”

Now next to the door where the preacher sat, Gael opened up the door and half tugged the man out. “Coffee. Do ye drink coffee?”

“Yes!”

With Nancy on the porch, Gael nudged Mark towards the door, then stepped in front of him to hide the man’s muddy trousers. As he stepped into the door, he cleared his throat and held his hat over his heart. He smiled sheepishly at the middle-aged woman behind the counter. In an utterly perfect South Carolinian accent, Gael said, “Ma’am, we are ungodly wet, tired, and hungry. Will you allow us in to purchase some of that there pie and some nice hot coffee?”

“Oh goodness, sweetie, come on in! We always open! A little rain won’t hurt mah floors at all! Do you want something warm to get in you? Some eggs and some grits?”

“Oh yes, Ma’am,” Gael said, “That would be right fine. This fine gentleman here with me is Preacher Mark. He done got lost in the road like Paul and it was only the light of your fine establishment that saw us both through.”

Gael had Mark and set him down at the counter.

“Now do you boys live here abouts,” she asked, putting down some white cups and pouring coffee dark enough that it could have supported Satan in a pinch.

There was sugar and milk, which Gael considered redemption enough. “Yes, Ma’am. Well, I do Ma’am. I live with Dr. Walker.”

“Oh goodness,” she said, patting Gael’s hand. “You must be his brother-in-law then. Dr. Jack saved my niece's life, and her baby too. You don’t need to pay for the food, sweetie.”

Gael tried not to look at Mark. There are relationships that just aren’t spoken off. “God can use rocks,” Gael pointed out. He should have lied. He should have said it’s not what you think, but there are only so many times you can deny the love of your life.

“Indeed.” Pastor Mark agreed, not looking at Gael. “We’re all just trying to get home.”

Maybe helping this preacher would bring him a little more home from the war too. “Yeah. Home.”