Shaking out the Dead by K M Cholewa Page A

slept, wet November snow shot out from the black of night, splatting against the windshield. Tatum’s eyes shifted back and forth between white lines and guardrails as she drove into a pit. She thought of black holes, bellies full of swallowed light. The experts used to say that no light could escape one. But Tatum had read that now they say it might not be true, that tiny particles of light may well be able to escape the black and bottomless vacuum. She had been disappointed by the news, by the loss of absolutism.
    A sign for an upcoming exit glowed through the precipitation. Tatum hit the blinker. Normally, she wasn’t one to pull over to escape storm, snow, or fog. But not tonight. Things were different, now. She wouldn’t try to outrun the dark clouds. She felt a wave of compassion for all the careful parents of the world who mind the speed limit and come to full stops.
    She took the exit and picked up drive-thru food. They pulled into the lot of the Cloud 9, a small motel west of the middle of South Dakota. Tatum had stayed there before. It was cheap, simple, and clean. The owner struck her as a retiree who needed some income beyond his social security. He lived in a room behind the check-in desk. A little bell above the door rang when she entered the registration office. He shuffled out, old, tall, and lean, reminding Tatum of an Irish wolfhound.
    He handed over a key, and Tatum drove across the gravel lot to the parking space in front of their room. The sleet was wet and cold on their faces as they each dug out from the hatch a small bag to take in for the night.
    â€œLet’s eat,” Tatum said, hitting the light switch as they entered. The room consisted of a small round table flanked by two well-worn chairs and two double beds separated by a nightstand. The TV sat on a six-drawer dresser. The floor was hard, as though the thin carpet had been glued directly onto a concrete slab. Tatum dropped the bag with the food onto a bed. She found the thermostat, turned up the heat, and joined Rachael sitting cross-legged and opening the bag of food. Rachael had already turned on the TV and found her way to a program taking place in a high school with young actors carrying books and being funny outside of their lockers. Tatum and Rachael opened their sandwiches’ wrappers to use as plates.
    â€œI think we should pray,” Rachael said.
    â€œOkay,” Tatum said. “Good idea.” She thought a little dinnertime grace might have been part of Rachael’s family dinner routine, good to return to for a small comfort. Tatum put down her chicken sandwich, folded her hands, and gave it her best shot. “Thank you, God, for the food,” she started.
    â€œNo,” Rachael said. “For my mom. Ask God to take care of her.”
    â€œOh,” Tatum said. It was a more serious sort of prayer than she had thought. She picked up the remote from the bedspread and clicked off the television set. She searched for words, prayer words. “Dear God,” she started but wasn’t sure where to go. “God . . . ” she started again.
    Tatum hadn’t prayed since she was not much older than Rachael. By then, she had already recognized that most of what she prayed for never came to pass and figured Mr. Big and Important probably wasn’t even listening. She had tried some lesser celestials, saints and virgins, mostly just to insult God, to show him she didn’t need him.
    â€œGod,” Tatum said, “Rachael and I would like you to take care of her mom and my sister.” She paused, lost for words again. “Amen,” she said. “Please,” she added for good measure.
    Rachael remained in prayer posture. Not finished, Tatum supposed. Then she blessed herself and picked up her sandwich. She took a bite and then reached for the remote.
    â€œHow will we know if He does?” Tatum asked.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHow will we know if God takes care of