Her words trailed off as her friend drifted closer to sleep. Laura released her hand and placed it by her side. Lifting from the chair she slipped quietly toward the patio door. A breath of fresh air would provide a welcomed relief from the distinct smell of death. It wasn’t overwhelming yet but the presence was building.
A sudden spell of dizziness and nausea washed over her. She gripped the rail with both hands and stared at the small amount of supper that now lay spoiled on the grass. The side effects of chemo were tightening their grip and Laura knew the worst was yet to come. Like a fog hanging in the back of her mind, she realized this particular battle was potentially more than she could take on. In the end—if it was greater, it only seemed fitting things should end where they began.
The sun hung low in the Wisconsin sky, clinging to the remnants of today as if it had a reverent fear of what lay on the other side. Billowy shadows crowded the adjacent hillside. With respect to shape the darker counterparts were an exact replica, but a colorless rendition could never do justice to the oaks standing guard over the hillside. The incline rose gently beyond the creek until it melted into the shadows near the guardian’s feet. Such perfect imagery sparked memories of a magical place where two young girls, hand and hand, skipped through grass that shifted and waved like ripples on the ocean. A thousand times she walked the dusty lane to Sharon’s place where they sipped tea from tiny cups, giggled at the names of young boys they had no interest in, and waded in the creek when the spring rains came.
That particular day in May the duo wandered further down the creek than Sharon’s mother allowed. Their actions far removed from disobedience or rebellion; more a silent agreement that some missions in life are greater than any boundary. The blackbird’s wing was injured. Each time Sharon cupped her hands the bird fluttered further along. When Laura looked back the two-story home had faded into a speck on the hillside, and even birds grow tired of chase. Laura was certain the adventure had come to a disappointing end when the bird left the confines of the creek banks for refuge in a mulberry tree. Undeterred, Sharon ascended the clay bank with her eyes fixed squarely ahead. Using exposed tree roots for hand-holds she propelled herself quickly up the face. The two sounds were inseparable; the snap of a root bowed past the breaking point, and Sharon’s shriek. Laura’s heart raced as she heard the subsequent thud and watched the muddy water surrounding her friend’s foot take on a crimson hue. Moments melted into millenniums. Steep banks on either side were like brick walls a hundred feet tall and every moment that passed seemed to draw them closer to touching. Propelled by an urgent sense to escape the walls, Laura grabbed Sharon’s arm and dragged her to a shallow spot. Sharon gasped, struggling to reclaim the wind that had been knocked from her. Thoughts of broken bones and ruptured innards sent Laura’s mind reeling, but once gasps gave way to quiet sobs a sense of peace washed over her. She wet a handkerchief, placed it over Sharon’s eyes, and gave specific instructions to envision the wounded bird. Laura examined her friend’s foot and discovered a shard of glass extending from it.
“It’s going to hurt for a second, but I promise you’ll be alright after that. Have you caught the bird yet?”
With a firm tug the worst was over, but the wound was angry and ugly. Laura pressed the separated pieces of flesh together to slow the flow.
“Sharon, you’re going to be fine….good as new I promise.”
Laura had no idea of the power of her words or in her touch. When she removed her fingers from the wound only a scratch remained. Laura stared at the crusted blood on her hand; she knew what she had seen. She never told anyone about the gaping wound turned scrape in a matter of moments, and especially about the mysterious gash that developed in the arch of her own foot within a matter of hours.
Fifty-seven summers had come and gone; the scar barely visible, but what transpired in those few hours would shape a lifetime. At the age of nine Laura discovered her gift. She supposed it was a gift, but not at all like she remembered Reverend Michael’s referencing in his sermons. Mrs. Turner baked the most amazing pies and every Wednesday she took six of them to the homeless shelter and no one disputed that a voice as angelic as Daisy Clark’s belonged in the choir. It seemed so ironic that even in the house of the lord those believing in miracles were few and far between. Miracle, in the biblical sense, was too strong a word. The symptoms, pain and suffering did not simply evaporate. It was more a transference to her own person. Through the years Laura discovered there were few limitations to what could she could absorb. A tiny hoot-owl colliding with a glass window and falling lifeless to the ground produced a migraine lasting a few short days, but there were others that left her bed-bound for weeks, and some remnants simply refused to leave. Laura took comfort in knowing the limp she carried on her right side allowed a young man somewhere in Maine, barely in his thirties, to live a relatively normal life. Had she not been driving that dark road she knew his head-on collision would have been fatal. After so many years and multiple encounters she still didn’t know what to call it, but reluctantly settled on referring to herself as a pain-eater.
Laura returned to find Sharon sleeping peacefully so she began straightening the living room. Since Sharon’s lymphoma diagnosis and subsequent treatment, it really had become a place for all things, portable hospital bed and toilet in adjacent corners. Laura sensed it was more a ‘dying room’. She inhaled deeply and the smell was stronger now, but yet she smiled. The day Laura arrived; the two lifelong friends had nearly come to blows. Laura wanted to sleep on the couch because of the proximity to her friend, but in no uncertain terms Sharon disagreed.
“You will stay in my old bedroom, or I’ll call the Sheriff and ask him to remove you from my home! We’re good friends you know…the Sheriff and I. Not another peep…it’s bad enough you came here to look after me. You’ll not have a sore back doing it!”
Laura lifted the photo from the coffee table, wiping the dust from the edges of the frame. The Sheriff and Roy were best of friends. Laura knew what it felt like to have a forever-friend, but wondered how awful it must be to lose a husband of thirty years. Standing at Sharon’s side at the alter she recalled the moment they were presented as man and wife. A smiling of their eyes announced to the entire world that Roy and Sharon were made for each other. Now Roy rested no more than two-hundred yards away; lying still beneath ground at the foot of the tallest oak. A simple stone for simple man he said. Laura supposed if she had married she would have wanted someone like Roy. There was one proposal of marriage, but Laura knew that a commitment like that would produce second thoughts when it came to the use of her gift, and she could not live with herself if even one time she passed an opportunity to use the power God had given her.
Laura needed to finish what she had come to do. She scooped Sharon’s hand. Closing her eyes she pushed her mind to reflections of days gone by, but skipping on the hillside while the sun caressed the faces of innocent girls was not nearly enough to dull what flowed from one hand to the other. The wrinkles around her eyes tightened as she focused on drawing the poison away.
“Stop it!”
Sharon was awake now, and visibly agitated.
“Don’t touch my hand again!”
Laura laughed nervously, “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because I’m fairly certain of what you’re doing, and I won’t allow it to happen. While I was sleeping I had a dream. God’s coming for me and he isn’t far away. Close enough that I hear his voice clearly. It’s time for me to be with Roy, and he told me he still has plans for you.”
Laura matched the intensity of her accuser managing to lie with a straight face.
“Don’t be silly, dear…it was just a dream.”
Sharon wiggled until the pillows beneath fit the small of her back.
“All of the pieces are falling in place now. You’ve had this gift since we girls, haven’t you—this power to heal people?”
Laura fought against them, but the swirling of emotions brought on bitter tears as Sharon unraveled secrets of the past.
“In the creek that day—I fell twenty feet, and barely a scratch. When you were staying with us after Roy Jr. was born. Senior was at work and I was in shock because my two-week old son stopped breathing. You took him from my arms and rushed to the other room. You told me you gave him CPR, but he was dead wasn’t he….until you brought him back?”
The room grew still as death itself, while flashes of scenes and people played in Laura’s head. Like a nightmare, as it always did, a tiny face moved out of the collage and hung in place until the image broke her completely.
“I would have given anything to have been here for Roy Jr. the second time!”
Sharon motioned her close.
“Here’s what I know. In a world where it is difficult to illicit a wave from a neighbor let alone a stranger, you are willing to give all you have to others. You gave me eight precious years with my boy before he passed…he was born with a bad heart. I know there are scores of others that you cared for. It is an unbelievable gift you’ve been granted—loving people like Jesus. Get it out of your head that you have been sent here to save me from what God has planned. He’s not finished with you, he told me exactly that. Move out of the way and let him take me now.”
Laura missed her friend intensely, but better Roy's stone had finally received its mate. She supposed in certain cases letting go is the kindest thing we can do.
Laura pushed her walker over the gap where the elevator met the tile floor. She was broken and tired, but never failed to smile. Just two days shy of her ninety-fifth birthday Laura fell lifeless on the sidewalk. She was far enough down the street that none of the workers at the children’s hospital saw her go, but they all remarked how wonderful it was to see her hugging and squeezing all of the young patients, steadying each of their trembling hands with hers, while she whispered the importance of faith and hope into ears that were starving for such things.
For many of you this story will seem foolish, sorry you wasted time reading it. It is purely fictional, but the amount of faith you possess will determine the believability of it. I whole-heartedly believe God places people in our lives for specific reasons and often only for a season. Who am I to question the ability and means of our Creator? You decide how the story ends, but in my version the sky opens and an exceedingly bright light accompanies a band of angels coming to retrieve one of their own. Perhaps one of them removes their wings and fixes them on Laura’s back, taking on human form to stay behind in her place.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
A Better Man (Part 1)
For a man with two first names, Kenny Joe Southerland seemed like a nice enough guy, but I’m pretty sure that’s what everyone assumes when they first meet a college roommate. At least in Vegas the odds are plainly posted. Best case scenario you split a 12’ X 20’ space with a sleep talker that rambles like an auctioneer with a serious Red Bull dependency. A couple hops over on the roulette wheel and you discover your ‘roomie’ enjoys “Sweating to the Oldies”, buck-naked with the exception of four inch stiletto heels because he likes the clicking sound of a tile floor. In fairness to Kenny Joe, he bore no semblance to the aforementioned, but nonetheless inside of a semester I came to view his mere presence as minutes shaved from an otherwise productive life.
According to father, my first mistake was failing to inquire about his major. “The minds and personalities of those drawn to drama and theatre are too abstract and loosely constructed to mesh with those geared for hard science and medicine.”
Father dealt exclusively in condescension and while he believed an eloquent undressing somehow made it less offensive—it didn’t. There existed a certain friction between Kenny Joe and myself, but it paled in comparison to the chasm separating a father and his son. Verbal disagreeance would only incense him—that much I had learned. Instead, a mental marquee scrolled from one side of my mind to the other, “A man forged under the noonday sun—brittle and unforgiving.”
Of four siblings none of us escaped completely, equally damaged by means of entirely different methods. Ours was a world where something as uncontrollable as gender dictated everything. During my informative years he openly referred to having endured the setback of three daughters; careless words like a hard frost striking lilies in full bloom. While my older sisters pined for a moment’s attention I begged for respite from it. Each morning I knelt bedside praying for something as benign as blithe dismissal or perhaps even a brother to dilute the full measure of his critical eye and burden of great expectations. As it were no rescuers came. I only watched my sisters fade further into nothingness and one dreadful day rolled into another as he molded me into a miniature version of him. He wanted me to believe there were worse outcomes in life than becoming a respected neurosurgeon that made a comfortable living, and perhaps occupationally speaking there was, but more than anything I regretted that someday I too would warn my son to avoid contact with those who ignored the seriousness of life.
Kenny Joe’s inspiration came from a performance in a third grade play and his drama instructor, Miss Jenkins’ insistence that she never witnessed such passion from a frog. A public school teacher not only recognized a young boy’s natural ability and desire to perform, she went out of her way to nurture, encourage, and coach him. As such Kenny Joe spent his weekends crunching cheese snacks, honing his Kramer imitation from a lost episode of Seinfeld while I grappled with a more complete understanding of Homosynaptic plasticity. It is crystal clear to me now that my disdain for him then was due to the absence of a Miss Jenkins in my own life.
“Doctor, he insists you were his roommate freshman year. Will you take the call?”
Despite the venomous ways of the world, Kenny Joe’s amiability remained. After fifteen years he spoke to me like a neighbor over a privacy fence, extending an invitation to celebrate his birthday. The 750 miles separating us should have been reason enough to decline, but I was convinced more than ever that Kenny Joe had been born a better man, and I needed to understand why.
Early in my life spontaneity and I crossed paths briefly, but offering a time slot in a busy schedule insulted his very nature, so we quickly claimed irreconcilable differences and moved on. Open-ended decisions left my insides tied in knots, so early evening fell over the city and although I was behind the wheel, selecting a gas station on the outskirts of Memphis was purely precautionary as it was still close enough to turn back.
Standing staunch behind the counter was a man of Indian descent. His turban added a foot to his height but strangely gave perspective to a beard that turned gray waiting to reach his waistline. Arms folded high across his chest indicated my arrival left him waiting longer than expected. The entire scene felt creepy and scripted, as if I was an understudy thrown in at the last moment, unprepared and unsure of my lines. After placing a cup of coffee on the counter I become aware of his penetrating stare. Dark eyes with the power to convert moments into millenniums, focused squarely on me. Even fishing in my front pocket for payment took entirely too long.
“Never underestimate the power of a journey”, he said.
He seemed quite certain of his words and as much as I wanted to believe he spent his spare time writing tiny messages stuffed inside fortune cookies, the improbability was absurd. I acknowledged a strange power in the moment, but perhaps he was bluffing. Pointing to my car just outside the door I intended on drawing him out.
“Thanks for the advice, but it’s only a few steps—do it every day.”
My attempt to dismiss his comment as horoscopic in nature not only failed to bring a smile, but provoked a deeper reach into uncomfortable territory.
“A reflection knows nothing of depth. Whether in a puddle or the ocean it always appears perfect, but it is the obligation of every man to himself to dive beneath the surface and explore the integrity of what it is he projects.”
The storekeeper’s name was Vivek, and he intrigued me completely. Initially because he exemplified the kind of man my father denied existed. By way of owning a business he qualified as a contributor to society, but he also possessed a significant philosophical component belonging exclusively to radicals and free-loaders. As our conversation progressed it became increasingly difficult to view him in such stark and rigid terms. Neither at that moment nor now can I begin to explain his sage-like intuition. He saw more of me than I was willing to; the moment I entered through the door of his mart he sensed I was as disengaged with my surroundings as the day I was born. More specifically Vivek insisted that visiting Kenny Joe was about much more than barbequed ribs and cole-slaw. I had not been searching for a beginning point for this journey—or perhaps unknowingly I was. In either case Vivek stirred something within me that continues to linger and grow in intensity, like a boiling summer breeze riding the lead edge of a storm.
With a rainbow of neon fading in the rear-view mirror and a dark highway stretched out before me, it became apparent why so many desire the company of the city. Busy streets and overloaded schedules leave little time to answer the questions a mind naturally wants to ask. Learning to dissect people like regions of the brain was an unintended consequence of becoming my father’s shadow. I was a student skilled in the art of avoiding personalities and emotional connections, and Father, the instructor much too eager to teach dysfunction. Had I possessed the inner strength to break free from his way of thinking perhaps things would have been different, but I suspected there were a million others out there waiting to take his place; wolves standing in the shadows of the meadow, those that killed more for pleasure than hunger.
Dark hours on a lonely highway became an odyssey of sorts, one revelation predicated upon another, each progressively more disturbing, but I sensed this was a place of hard truths, where the excuse of transferring responsibility for my own shortcomings was unacceptable. Subconsciously I had assigned my father the role of ogre, and myself as victim, but as I closed the distance between the perception of myself and who others perceived me to be, the collective bits of truth rolled over me with all the forgiveness and subtly of a locomotive. We were one in the same; the beast was a detestable but accurate representation of who I had become. Certain truths were inescapable and indefensible. Only a fool builds his life on the foundation of another. My personal and professional life shared a single point of failure, fatefully entwined like the twisted snakes in the symbol of the profession I represented. One of the primary tenets of the Hippocratic Oath is to “Do no harm”, and alone I had done more to desecrate that than ten men in a lifetime.
Sifting through the ashes of self-evaluation delivered me to an uncomfortable place, but I am convinced had I not come here that tomorrow would be nothing more than a miserable collection of yesterdays. Until now I believed epiphanies existed in the minds of the foolish and easily coerced, but I assure there is not nearly enough breadth in the definition of random to describe the connection between the quiet moments of dawn and my own personal awakening. What was unfolding within and all around me was profound enough to pull to the side of the road.
There were a million places I could have been at that moment, but parked on the side of the road just this side of nowhere was my destiny. Watching a thousand paint brushes, each of them broad and knowing, heal the smallest cracks in the landscape with color. The hues were indescribable, except the overwhelming feeling that each of them represented the hope and promise of a new day. The procedure was radical, leaving more of me lying on the roadside than was left to continue. A majority of me was too damaged to salvage, more suitable for buzzards that circled overhead.
According to father, my first mistake was failing to inquire about his major. “The minds and personalities of those drawn to drama and theatre are too abstract and loosely constructed to mesh with those geared for hard science and medicine.”
Father dealt exclusively in condescension and while he believed an eloquent undressing somehow made it less offensive—it didn’t. There existed a certain friction between Kenny Joe and myself, but it paled in comparison to the chasm separating a father and his son. Verbal disagreeance would only incense him—that much I had learned. Instead, a mental marquee scrolled from one side of my mind to the other, “A man forged under the noonday sun—brittle and unforgiving.”
Of four siblings none of us escaped completely, equally damaged by means of entirely different methods. Ours was a world where something as uncontrollable as gender dictated everything. During my informative years he openly referred to having endured the setback of three daughters; careless words like a hard frost striking lilies in full bloom. While my older sisters pined for a moment’s attention I begged for respite from it. Each morning I knelt bedside praying for something as benign as blithe dismissal or perhaps even a brother to dilute the full measure of his critical eye and burden of great expectations. As it were no rescuers came. I only watched my sisters fade further into nothingness and one dreadful day rolled into another as he molded me into a miniature version of him. He wanted me to believe there were worse outcomes in life than becoming a respected neurosurgeon that made a comfortable living, and perhaps occupationally speaking there was, but more than anything I regretted that someday I too would warn my son to avoid contact with those who ignored the seriousness of life.
Kenny Joe’s inspiration came from a performance in a third grade play and his drama instructor, Miss Jenkins’ insistence that she never witnessed such passion from a frog. A public school teacher not only recognized a young boy’s natural ability and desire to perform, she went out of her way to nurture, encourage, and coach him. As such Kenny Joe spent his weekends crunching cheese snacks, honing his Kramer imitation from a lost episode of Seinfeld while I grappled with a more complete understanding of Homosynaptic plasticity. It is crystal clear to me now that my disdain for him then was due to the absence of a Miss Jenkins in my own life.
“Doctor, he insists you were his roommate freshman year. Will you take the call?”
Despite the venomous ways of the world, Kenny Joe’s amiability remained. After fifteen years he spoke to me like a neighbor over a privacy fence, extending an invitation to celebrate his birthday. The 750 miles separating us should have been reason enough to decline, but I was convinced more than ever that Kenny Joe had been born a better man, and I needed to understand why.
Early in my life spontaneity and I crossed paths briefly, but offering a time slot in a busy schedule insulted his very nature, so we quickly claimed irreconcilable differences and moved on. Open-ended decisions left my insides tied in knots, so early evening fell over the city and although I was behind the wheel, selecting a gas station on the outskirts of Memphis was purely precautionary as it was still close enough to turn back.
Standing staunch behind the counter was a man of Indian descent. His turban added a foot to his height but strangely gave perspective to a beard that turned gray waiting to reach his waistline. Arms folded high across his chest indicated my arrival left him waiting longer than expected. The entire scene felt creepy and scripted, as if I was an understudy thrown in at the last moment, unprepared and unsure of my lines. After placing a cup of coffee on the counter I become aware of his penetrating stare. Dark eyes with the power to convert moments into millenniums, focused squarely on me. Even fishing in my front pocket for payment took entirely too long.
“Never underestimate the power of a journey”, he said.
He seemed quite certain of his words and as much as I wanted to believe he spent his spare time writing tiny messages stuffed inside fortune cookies, the improbability was absurd. I acknowledged a strange power in the moment, but perhaps he was bluffing. Pointing to my car just outside the door I intended on drawing him out.
“Thanks for the advice, but it’s only a few steps—do it every day.”
My attempt to dismiss his comment as horoscopic in nature not only failed to bring a smile, but provoked a deeper reach into uncomfortable territory.
“A reflection knows nothing of depth. Whether in a puddle or the ocean it always appears perfect, but it is the obligation of every man to himself to dive beneath the surface and explore the integrity of what it is he projects.”
The storekeeper’s name was Vivek, and he intrigued me completely. Initially because he exemplified the kind of man my father denied existed. By way of owning a business he qualified as a contributor to society, but he also possessed a significant philosophical component belonging exclusively to radicals and free-loaders. As our conversation progressed it became increasingly difficult to view him in such stark and rigid terms. Neither at that moment nor now can I begin to explain his sage-like intuition. He saw more of me than I was willing to; the moment I entered through the door of his mart he sensed I was as disengaged with my surroundings as the day I was born. More specifically Vivek insisted that visiting Kenny Joe was about much more than barbequed ribs and cole-slaw. I had not been searching for a beginning point for this journey—or perhaps unknowingly I was. In either case Vivek stirred something within me that continues to linger and grow in intensity, like a boiling summer breeze riding the lead edge of a storm.
With a rainbow of neon fading in the rear-view mirror and a dark highway stretched out before me, it became apparent why so many desire the company of the city. Busy streets and overloaded schedules leave little time to answer the questions a mind naturally wants to ask. Learning to dissect people like regions of the brain was an unintended consequence of becoming my father’s shadow. I was a student skilled in the art of avoiding personalities and emotional connections, and Father, the instructor much too eager to teach dysfunction. Had I possessed the inner strength to break free from his way of thinking perhaps things would have been different, but I suspected there were a million others out there waiting to take his place; wolves standing in the shadows of the meadow, those that killed more for pleasure than hunger.
Dark hours on a lonely highway became an odyssey of sorts, one revelation predicated upon another, each progressively more disturbing, but I sensed this was a place of hard truths, where the excuse of transferring responsibility for my own shortcomings was unacceptable. Subconsciously I had assigned my father the role of ogre, and myself as victim, but as I closed the distance between the perception of myself and who others perceived me to be, the collective bits of truth rolled over me with all the forgiveness and subtly of a locomotive. We were one in the same; the beast was a detestable but accurate representation of who I had become. Certain truths were inescapable and indefensible. Only a fool builds his life on the foundation of another. My personal and professional life shared a single point of failure, fatefully entwined like the twisted snakes in the symbol of the profession I represented. One of the primary tenets of the Hippocratic Oath is to “Do no harm”, and alone I had done more to desecrate that than ten men in a lifetime.
Sifting through the ashes of self-evaluation delivered me to an uncomfortable place, but I am convinced had I not come here that tomorrow would be nothing more than a miserable collection of yesterdays. Until now I believed epiphanies existed in the minds of the foolish and easily coerced, but I assure there is not nearly enough breadth in the definition of random to describe the connection between the quiet moments of dawn and my own personal awakening. What was unfolding within and all around me was profound enough to pull to the side of the road.
There were a million places I could have been at that moment, but parked on the side of the road just this side of nowhere was my destiny. Watching a thousand paint brushes, each of them broad and knowing, heal the smallest cracks in the landscape with color. The hues were indescribable, except the overwhelming feeling that each of them represented the hope and promise of a new day. The procedure was radical, leaving more of me lying on the roadside than was left to continue. A majority of me was too damaged to salvage, more suitable for buzzards that circled overhead.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
The River
She stood in front of the mirror in a state of undress, her form muted only by a thin, black slip worn the night before. Katie smoothed the wrinkled silk from top to bottom, her hands rising over exaggerated curves of implants falling abruptly to her protruding abs, starved of reserves by liposuction. If she were alive, her mother would be pleased that there was literally nothing left of an awkward and homely girl that lived in the mirror. Most of her mother’s words and thoughts died unexpressed carried to an early grave. When a well-constructed thought passes through a brain scrambled from too much vodka and the effects of a crack pipe, it becomes gibberish. Katie remembered only a single lucid conversation, and having no company it lingered awkwardly until it lodged in her brain like a cancer.
Katie was excited about starting Jr. High, and busy fastening a large blue ribbon in her hair when a knock came at the door. Her mother walked straight that morning and her words were unusually crisp and shrill.
“Girl, when was the last time you ran a brush through that bird’s nest you callin’ hair? Come over here and let’s throw some make-up at that nasty complexion God gave ya. Lord have mercy, your chest looks like your little bothers—grab a box of tissue and start stuffing. I’m just dying to pin up that skirt a couple of inches, but them knobby knees is a show stopper. Katie, a girl unwilling to maintain her own appearance will never get a second glance from a decent man.”
Her mother was nothing more than a painted horse on a merry-go-round, plenty of men were willing to pay for a ride, but they never stayed long and none of them were above beating or leaving them in the end—what did she know of decent?
Katie’s insides ached to the point of throwing up, and the tears were as warm and plentiful as ten years earlier. Slumping over the bed she retrieved her journal, turning to a worn page where all of the names had been crossed through. Each man had a corresponding page detailing the breakup. She had been a hopeless fool to think the latest would be different.
Harley was either oblivious to suggestion or in the running for the world’s cruelest man, she was too upset to decide. Yesterday marked the year anniversary of their first date. Katie had in mind a quiet dinner at the new Italian place on 32nd, and perhaps a movie afterwards, where they paid full admission price instead of sneaking in the side door when the attendant was on restroom break. Splitting a calzone at some dingy pizza parlor felt like a biker boot to the mouth.
Her mother lied. Decent men were attracted to naturally pretty girls like the waitress, and those made of plastic got kicked in the corner like a day-old Christmas toy. This full-time job of hoping for better was for losers. Katie moved back to the bathroom mirror where she found comfort.
Feet, thighs, and upper arms were good places to work, really anywhere rarely exposed to the public’s critical eye. She applied pressure to the box cutter, sliding along until it separated the skin cleanly and a thin line of blood rose to the surface. Over and over she repeated the broken process. Doctors say that scars are a body’s mechanism for healing; they only add obstacles to a cutter’s already misunderstood existence.
It is difficult for me to convey how proud I am of Katie for sharing her confession during our group counseling session. Katherine Ellen Luby is so uncomfortable in her own skin that cutting provides a temporary relief from an otherwise unbearable existence. Her story is only the most recent, but due to its profound impact on a man who hears horror stories each day I am compelled to share it with the world.
We are all but single stones in a raging river called life; moved, shaped and carried by forces beyond our control. For many it is a frightening and desolate journey, whereby dysfunction has displaced hope, betrayal has mired the beauty of the river to such an extent they no longer believe it will carry them to a greater connecting body of water. My station in life is to uncover these stones, convince them that while withdrawing to stagnant water may save immediate discomfort it is only a cruel suffocation in disguise. This story is written for those who have found a comfortable resting place, quite possibly injured themselves; that feel they are too jaded to be moved by the river. It is a difficult and gradual process, but in the end I—rather we will have failed if we cannot convince those within our reach that we believe more today than yesterday that the ebb and flow of the river has purpose.
Katie was excited about starting Jr. High, and busy fastening a large blue ribbon in her hair when a knock came at the door. Her mother walked straight that morning and her words were unusually crisp and shrill.
“Girl, when was the last time you ran a brush through that bird’s nest you callin’ hair? Come over here and let’s throw some make-up at that nasty complexion God gave ya. Lord have mercy, your chest looks like your little bothers—grab a box of tissue and start stuffing. I’m just dying to pin up that skirt a couple of inches, but them knobby knees is a show stopper. Katie, a girl unwilling to maintain her own appearance will never get a second glance from a decent man.”
Her mother was nothing more than a painted horse on a merry-go-round, plenty of men were willing to pay for a ride, but they never stayed long and none of them were above beating or leaving them in the end—what did she know of decent?
Katie’s insides ached to the point of throwing up, and the tears were as warm and plentiful as ten years earlier. Slumping over the bed she retrieved her journal, turning to a worn page where all of the names had been crossed through. Each man had a corresponding page detailing the breakup. She had been a hopeless fool to think the latest would be different.
Harley was either oblivious to suggestion or in the running for the world’s cruelest man, she was too upset to decide. Yesterday marked the year anniversary of their first date. Katie had in mind a quiet dinner at the new Italian place on 32nd, and perhaps a movie afterwards, where they paid full admission price instead of sneaking in the side door when the attendant was on restroom break. Splitting a calzone at some dingy pizza parlor felt like a biker boot to the mouth.
Her mother lied. Decent men were attracted to naturally pretty girls like the waitress, and those made of plastic got kicked in the corner like a day-old Christmas toy. This full-time job of hoping for better was for losers. Katie moved back to the bathroom mirror where she found comfort.
Feet, thighs, and upper arms were good places to work, really anywhere rarely exposed to the public’s critical eye. She applied pressure to the box cutter, sliding along until it separated the skin cleanly and a thin line of blood rose to the surface. Over and over she repeated the broken process. Doctors say that scars are a body’s mechanism for healing; they only add obstacles to a cutter’s already misunderstood existence.
It is difficult for me to convey how proud I am of Katie for sharing her confession during our group counseling session. Katherine Ellen Luby is so uncomfortable in her own skin that cutting provides a temporary relief from an otherwise unbearable existence. Her story is only the most recent, but due to its profound impact on a man who hears horror stories each day I am compelled to share it with the world.
We are all but single stones in a raging river called life; moved, shaped and carried by forces beyond our control. For many it is a frightening and desolate journey, whereby dysfunction has displaced hope, betrayal has mired the beauty of the river to such an extent they no longer believe it will carry them to a greater connecting body of water. My station in life is to uncover these stones, convince them that while withdrawing to stagnant water may save immediate discomfort it is only a cruel suffocation in disguise. This story is written for those who have found a comfortable resting place, quite possibly injured themselves; that feel they are too jaded to be moved by the river. It is a difficult and gradual process, but in the end I—rather we will have failed if we cannot convince those within our reach that we believe more today than yesterday that the ebb and flow of the river has purpose.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Lost
There is rarely if ever a good reason to prolong the inevitable so I was pleased to finally receive my summons to the Vice President’s office. An exit interview was something I had polished over the years, learning that unless a company was in its infancy there was no use wasting anyone’s time explaining the true reason for your leaving. If there was even a spark of interest in saving a good employee at the expense of the bottom line, the changes would have occurred long ago. For different, but equally selfish reasons, employers and employees allow a mutually bad relationship to linger too long. In cases of divorce the judge simply declares irreconcilable differences, but without the benefit of an impartial ruling body, it always reminds me of a bad ending to a knife fight. My solution: man-up, accept the blade of the other against your throat, agree to count to three, and it’s finished. Counting in unison squelches any lingering doubt that one party is more or less responsible than the other.
No sooner did I arrive, he slammed down the receiver of his phone and bolted past me, leaving a cloud of mumbled obscenities floating in the room. The simplicity of the moment was grand, no longer was I obligated to share in the frustration or take sides in daily pissing matches not of my own making. Some time ago I had given up the prospect of making any substantial difference here, and pushing the door to and uttering inaudibly, “Good luck with that”, teetered on the precipice of caring too much. It felt exceedingly good to sit in one of the cheap visitor chairs because in precisely two hours I would be just that.
Roughly fifteen minutes passed before I questioned his return. It was part of the executive game, a subliminal message that corporately speaking you were a bottom-rung dweller and undeserving his best effort. He took his plays directly from some Universal Corporate Behavior Manual with the following buried in a mission statement gone awry; “Deferring meetings indefinitely and showing up late is acceptable behavior if you carry a smart phone that blinks like a light house on Cape Hatteras during hurricane season.” To me, it was inconsiderate and rude behavior, something all good mothers warned against. I could only assume he awoke each morning aspiring to become everything I hoped to avoid in life.
During the past year the dysfunction at this organization had morphed ten times over, his office a direct reflection of a ship steaming toward a jagged reef. His desk calendar looked like a panel of Egyptian hieroglyphics, where indiscernible scribbles outweighed printer’s ink three to one. Adjacent sat two laptops, an obscure reference to his importance that I found particularly amusing. The all-seeing eye in the corner of the room was blind, the hard drive on the computer responsible for closed-circuit monitoring had crashed months earlier and was deemed too expensive for repair. The backup of the corporate e-mail database had been failing going on six months now, and twenty-three emails stating so had been ineffective in producing any substantive actions to rectify it. If this was not the birthplace of hypocrisy it was undeniably a finishing school for it. His sales force peddled the statistics every day, grim numbers for companies with no business continuity plan with regards to data losses too great to consider. Reluctantly I acknowledged some burdens are simply too heavy to carry with a single set of hands, but in one hour and forty-five minutes and counting, the albatross hanging around my neck belonged to another.
Eventually he returned and disappointingly his part of our final discourse came directly from a canned document. Monotonous words flowing from an expressionless face allowed my mind to drift to some random point in time before the corporate machine had commandeered another minion.
The image of a young boy walking along a dirt road was as clear and vivid as life itself. A corridor of trees lined the path on either side, barren branches and long shadows indicated late winter and the approach of dusk. His shoulders were slumped and his course uncertain as he lingered at one side before moving to the other. He was obviously distraught, his attention divided between the dark forest and glances toward a setting sun. Leaning deep into the shadows his calls to a lost friend echoed back at him and the lack of response produced an eerie sense of indescribable loss that resonated deep within me. Only when he dropped to his knees and began to sob in elongated bursts did I see his face for the very first time, shocked to identify him as miniature version of me.
I had been mistaken all along, never considering the man who sat across from me a fellow victim of circumstance. In postal terms, perhaps he was a drop-shipped package, wrapped in plain brown paper, lacking a return address. Maybe the past several years were only a miserable prelude to what I might say to him in the scant two minutes that remained.
“Stop, with the nonsense!” I blurted out.
His eyes grew wide, but he said nothing as I swept the collection of vendor awards over the edge of his desk and into the trash can.
“Reach in the bottom drawer and pull out the dusty picture of your wife and children. I want to know where you daughter intends to go to college. How your boy felt when he saw the baseball clear the fence in the county tournament? I want to know where you and the Mrs. plan on retiring once you finally realize this job…..any job, is nothing more than a pit-stop on a grandiose but very finite journey called life.”
No sooner did I arrive, he slammed down the receiver of his phone and bolted past me, leaving a cloud of mumbled obscenities floating in the room. The simplicity of the moment was grand, no longer was I obligated to share in the frustration or take sides in daily pissing matches not of my own making. Some time ago I had given up the prospect of making any substantial difference here, and pushing the door to and uttering inaudibly, “Good luck with that”, teetered on the precipice of caring too much. It felt exceedingly good to sit in one of the cheap visitor chairs because in precisely two hours I would be just that.
Roughly fifteen minutes passed before I questioned his return. It was part of the executive game, a subliminal message that corporately speaking you were a bottom-rung dweller and undeserving his best effort. He took his plays directly from some Universal Corporate Behavior Manual with the following buried in a mission statement gone awry; “Deferring meetings indefinitely and showing up late is acceptable behavior if you carry a smart phone that blinks like a light house on Cape Hatteras during hurricane season.” To me, it was inconsiderate and rude behavior, something all good mothers warned against. I could only assume he awoke each morning aspiring to become everything I hoped to avoid in life.
During the past year the dysfunction at this organization had morphed ten times over, his office a direct reflection of a ship steaming toward a jagged reef. His desk calendar looked like a panel of Egyptian hieroglyphics, where indiscernible scribbles outweighed printer’s ink three to one. Adjacent sat two laptops, an obscure reference to his importance that I found particularly amusing. The all-seeing eye in the corner of the room was blind, the hard drive on the computer responsible for closed-circuit monitoring had crashed months earlier and was deemed too expensive for repair. The backup of the corporate e-mail database had been failing going on six months now, and twenty-three emails stating so had been ineffective in producing any substantive actions to rectify it. If this was not the birthplace of hypocrisy it was undeniably a finishing school for it. His sales force peddled the statistics every day, grim numbers for companies with no business continuity plan with regards to data losses too great to consider. Reluctantly I acknowledged some burdens are simply too heavy to carry with a single set of hands, but in one hour and forty-five minutes and counting, the albatross hanging around my neck belonged to another.
Eventually he returned and disappointingly his part of our final discourse came directly from a canned document. Monotonous words flowing from an expressionless face allowed my mind to drift to some random point in time before the corporate machine had commandeered another minion.
The image of a young boy walking along a dirt road was as clear and vivid as life itself. A corridor of trees lined the path on either side, barren branches and long shadows indicated late winter and the approach of dusk. His shoulders were slumped and his course uncertain as he lingered at one side before moving to the other. He was obviously distraught, his attention divided between the dark forest and glances toward a setting sun. Leaning deep into the shadows his calls to a lost friend echoed back at him and the lack of response produced an eerie sense of indescribable loss that resonated deep within me. Only when he dropped to his knees and began to sob in elongated bursts did I see his face for the very first time, shocked to identify him as miniature version of me.
I had been mistaken all along, never considering the man who sat across from me a fellow victim of circumstance. In postal terms, perhaps he was a drop-shipped package, wrapped in plain brown paper, lacking a return address. Maybe the past several years were only a miserable prelude to what I might say to him in the scant two minutes that remained.
“Stop, with the nonsense!” I blurted out.
His eyes grew wide, but he said nothing as I swept the collection of vendor awards over the edge of his desk and into the trash can.
“Reach in the bottom drawer and pull out the dusty picture of your wife and children. I want to know where you daughter intends to go to college. How your boy felt when he saw the baseball clear the fence in the county tournament? I want to know where you and the Mrs. plan on retiring once you finally realize this job…..any job, is nothing more than a pit-stop on a grandiose but very finite journey called life.”
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Consider for a moment you are in Bethlehem, seated at a dinner table with others that have also traveled back to their home town to register for a new tax. You’re weary from the journey, but the innkeeper is gracious, the food is plentiful, and the wine is good. Suddenly there is a rap at the door. Curiously you lean forward in your chair to see who is calling. The innkeeper turns the young couple away as he has room for them. He returns to the table, but his steps are slow, as if deep thought has consumed more of him than the notion of moving forward.
“It was Joseph and Mary, do any of you remember them?”
The man sitting next to you speaks quickly.
“I’ve know Joseph’s father for years, what a disappointment the two of them must be; Mary, carrying a child that is not her husbands, and Joseph too blind to see the truth standing before him. Do you know each of them claim to have been visited by angels…..heavenly bodies indeed!”
The others seem to share his opinion, or perhaps they see no danger in combining too much wine with gossip. Suddenly the table is abuzz with sharp words and ugly innuendos. The inn keeper is troubled by this and excuses himself. You join him outside for a breath of fresh air. He notices he is not alone and addresses you.
“Do you know the couple, and surely you have something to say as well.”
As at the table you keep to yourself and simply point to a brilliant star overhead. You suspect there is something special about this night in Bethlehem, something that transcends the understanding of man, yet was designed specifically for his rescue. As you consider the depth of the night, a chorus of a thousand angels floats down from above; each of them proclaiming the arrival of their King. You understand little of what has transpired, but for now it is enough to know those still inside the inn are profoundly mistaken.
We all want our holiday gatherings to be perfect, like a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting. While such imagery warms our hearts, in reality the perfectness of it does not exist. Even the arrival of our Savior came under less than ideal conditions. Although the Bible does not speak to it, I’m certain that Joseph, Mary, and their parents endured some level of ridicule and humiliation, but their faith in God was greater.
Put aside what the world tells you Christmas should be. Rest assured in your faith that God did send his Son by way of Immaculate Conception, selecting earthly parents who were pure commoners for an unprecedented arrival…that the baby Jesus did have a resting place in a feed trough, and the only thing perfect and flawless on that night, was the one true savior of the world.
“It was Joseph and Mary, do any of you remember them?”
The man sitting next to you speaks quickly.
“I’ve know Joseph’s father for years, what a disappointment the two of them must be; Mary, carrying a child that is not her husbands, and Joseph too blind to see the truth standing before him. Do you know each of them claim to have been visited by angels…..heavenly bodies indeed!”
The others seem to share his opinion, or perhaps they see no danger in combining too much wine with gossip. Suddenly the table is abuzz with sharp words and ugly innuendos. The inn keeper is troubled by this and excuses himself. You join him outside for a breath of fresh air. He notices he is not alone and addresses you.
“Do you know the couple, and surely you have something to say as well.”
As at the table you keep to yourself and simply point to a brilliant star overhead. You suspect there is something special about this night in Bethlehem, something that transcends the understanding of man, yet was designed specifically for his rescue. As you consider the depth of the night, a chorus of a thousand angels floats down from above; each of them proclaiming the arrival of their King. You understand little of what has transpired, but for now it is enough to know those still inside the inn are profoundly mistaken.
We all want our holiday gatherings to be perfect, like a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting. While such imagery warms our hearts, in reality the perfectness of it does not exist. Even the arrival of our Savior came under less than ideal conditions. Although the Bible does not speak to it, I’m certain that Joseph, Mary, and their parents endured some level of ridicule and humiliation, but their faith in God was greater.
Put aside what the world tells you Christmas should be. Rest assured in your faith that God did send his Son by way of Immaculate Conception, selecting earthly parents who were pure commoners for an unprecedented arrival…that the baby Jesus did have a resting place in a feed trough, and the only thing perfect and flawless on that night, was the one true savior of the world.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Gummi Worms
Tommy Braxton slowed to a trot. His calf muscles were in knots and the straps on his backpack were slowing sawing through the bony portion of his shoulders. A sense of injustice washed over him as he placed his hand on his front pocket. His lunch money had been there only moments earlier, but tossing it on the ground had saved another beating.
For years now, Gus Childers had been his personal nightmare. Rumors floated around school as to how someone came to power within an organization comprised of equally disgusting villains. Tommy supposed it involved some form of hand-to-hand combat or perhaps he had eaten his predecessor alive. A face to face meeting with Gus Childers never lasted long; he preferred you face down, eating dirt.
Comfortable with the distance between them, Tommy turned toward the scavengers and waved a defiant middle finger. The response to such a rebellious gesture came in the form of an angry growl. Even at 300 yards his sentiment rang clear.
“Go ahead you chicken-shit, hang out with the hobos—but you better believe I’ll be waiting again tomorrow!”
The scamper had carried him to the train yard, a poor choice of escape routes considering the ample supply of ammunition within arms reach, but rarely if ever does fear consult logic. On such a chilly morning Tommy knew to follow the sign. A trail of white smoke rolled skyward until the shelter of the roofline exposed it weakness, and the swirling wind dismantled it easily. He rounded the north-east corner of the abandoned depot and saw the familiar glow of the burn barrel. Despite their many differences, the heat was like a magnet, drawing the wanderers into a tight circle. Tommy searched for one face in particular. Carl had never given his full name, but with no mortgage papers, bank accounts, or auto loans to sign for, a career hobo had little use for a last name. Tommy admired the freedom of his lifestyle; Carl had seen a thousand places and answered to no one. He spoke to Tommy as if he understood the wildness of his heart.
Tommy made his way into the circle and emptied his pack. Large bags of Gummi Worms spilled onto the ground.
“Let’s here it for Old Man Carver—deaf and blind as he is, I slipped in and out of there before he knew I lifted a thing.”
The smallest of the group wasted no time in claiming an entire bag for himself. Dwarf, aptly nicknamed, was second in command behind Carl. He held the dubious distinction of being the oldest of the wanderers, but forty plus years on the run had taken their toll. The hunch in his back required him to lift his bald head in order to keep from speaking to the ground. He stared a moment at Tommy’s ripped jeans.
“Looks like you run into trouble this mornin’, Tommy.”
“Same old, same old—turns out Gus Childers and his goons wanted my lunch money more than I wanted my ass beat.”
The miniature man grinned as he withdrew a knife from his boot and ran his thumb across the blade.
“Big, red-headed kid ain’t he? For another bag of them goodies we’ll see if ole Gus Childers is as rotten inside as he his out!”
“I’ll take care of Gus one day and you’ll be the first to hear about it.”
Each of the outstretched hands had been satisfied except for one; one which lacked three fingers and half of a thumb. Carl had slipped trying to board a train outside of Boston. Tommy never tired of hearing about learning to pick his nose with a pinky finger or the nasty visual represented by wiping one’s backside with an inexperienced hand. No matter the circumstance Carl took what the world was willing to give and made the best of it.
Tommy held up a giant bag of worms reserved for his favorite, “So where’s Carl?”
Dwarf tilted his head to the left. “Ain’t sure you wanna talk to him this morning—crabbier than usual I’d say!”
“This’ll put a smile on his face,” Tommy beamed.
Carl stared at the bag Tommy tossed at his side as if it were poison.
“Ain’t this a school day?”
“What are you…a truancy officer? Why spend another boring day in school—when I can hang out with you guys learning about the real world?”
Carl’s voice took a serious tone, one that Tommy was unfamiliar with.
“Sit down here for a minute, Tommy. Let me tell you about the ‘real world’.”
“What do you plan on doing once you graduate?”
Tommy smiled, “Not sure I will—graduate I mean; thinkin’ about droppin’ out and hoppin’ cars with you.”
Carl exploded and grabbed the collar of Tommy’s shirt.
“Get it out of your head that you’re anything like me. First thing you need to do is take the stolen stuff back and then you need to stop coming here—not for a week….forever!”
Suddenly the friendly surrounding had become cold and demanding. Tommy was on the verge of tears as he stood to leave. Carl grabbed his arm.
“Look, kid—it ain’t that I don’t like you, but you got potential. This ain’t about stolen candy, but that’s where it starts. Tommy some day you’ll have to look in a mirror and the stranger staring back at you will ask questions—hard questions.”
Carl fished around in the pocket of his soiled flannel shirt until he produced and envelope and handed it Tommy. Inside was a picture of a young women holding the hand of a little girl.
“That’s my mirror, Tommy—and I hate what I see staring back at me.”
Carl’s voice wavered as he continued.
“That used to be my wife and daughter before I made the decision to leave. We were so young and I was scared to be a daddy—scared to fail the woman I loved. Chelsea was only three when I hopped my first train, last week my little girl got married and in my absence some other man walked her down the aisle. Those you abandon and hurt will eventually grow cold and indifferent to you. Neither will take my calls any longer, can you blame them? This shell of a man rides a train because that’s all he knows. Tommy, there comes a day when there are no more trains—when you can’t run any farther from yourself and you realize the problem never was the world, only how you chose to deal with it. It will literally break my heart in two if I ever meet up with you in a boxcar. Don’t throw away your future, don’t be a wanderer!”
Tommy left the train yard that day beaten. It wasn’t the ‘face in the dirt’ kind of beating Gus Childer’s delivered, but stung just the same. He respected Carl and his request, finished high school respectably, and graduated from a community college some years later.
Tommy walked the familiar path with purpose; he wished to check on the wanders, more specifically to thank Carl for his advice. In one hand he carried a diploma proudly and in the other a jumbo bag of Gummi Worms.
As he stared at those that circled the fire Dwarf’s was the only face he recognized. He didn’t attempt to lift his head as he explained the circumstances surrounding Carl’s sickness and eventual death. Before turning and melting into the darkness he handed Tommy an envelope. The scribbling was difficult to read with only the dancing flames’ intermittent light. Tommy BRAXTON; the last name was capitalized and underlined.
Tommy,
The very first day you came to the train yard I knew you were different, but in my selfish desire for company I allowed you to stay. For that I must apologize; but for the harsh words I spoke to you I cannot. When you walked away from here I celebrated inside.
Since I know you’re a thinker—yes; the small amounts of cash I mailed to you each month was earned honestly. Once you enrolled in college I found a reason to work again. I lost something very valuable in a boxcar back in Omaha and spent twenty six years searching for it.
If you ever receive this letter and it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’ve included my wife and daughter’s address. Tell them I spent a lifetime regretting a decision made in haste, but that I died with a smile on my face. I finally did do something I’m proud of—and you’re it, Tommy Braxton. You represent hope for the future.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
A Hunter's Eyes
Autumn creeps ever closer, displacing humidity with each determined step. I embrace her arrival, as if feelings otherwise could change the inevitability of natures’ power play. A distant landscape is washed in yellow, orange, and fiery red hues, and it occurs to me death shall never be displayed more brilliantly. Across the harvested fields lies the heart of the woods, calling to me like a forgotten friend.
Despite settling down early I wake restless and frazzled from the hunts in my head. While the world-weary slumber, I prepare in the dark for another opening day. My mind readies itself to record the hunt, as it has for years; archiving each detail, making them available for replay. Subtle—like the grin of a possum, a smile creeps across my unshaven face as I reach past the collared shirts to the camouflage that patiently waits. Appointments, voicemails, and deadlines become tiny specs in my truck’s rearview mirror.
The moment my boot encounters the crunch of fallen leaves I’m innately aware of the fact I’ll never be more alive than in the midst of nature. Mundane tasks flushed away and replaced with data relayed from heightened senses. I am completely in tune with her and she with me, content with a smaller role on a grander scale. It is another world where communication occurs on a higher plane, spoken words become awkward and unnecessary.
A towering oak is the first to address me with a mere gentle waving of branches. She has boldly stood the test of time, but splintered limbs on her right side signify that even nature cannot sing harmoniously during every chorus and from time to time one force imposes its will upon another. A tip of my cap serves to acknowledge her fortitude, as well as my intention to scale her side. Whispered words leave a visible trail in the chilly air, “It’s good to see you again, my friend.” Through the darkest veil of night, the gnarled knot on her side winks in approval.
For another year she has held my front row seat. Nestled among her branches we shall both witness an unscripted play as if for the very first time. With the precision of an orchestrated symphony, orange and red light splashes over the horizon, dancing across the broken stalks. Inch by inch the rays bring life and death simultaneously. Cyclical beauties are the beginning and ending of a day, yet what transpires in the hours between is life; hours comprised of minutes, minutes of seconds, each appearing only once and never to be regained. Where lamenting those wasted in the past will only consume the present.
Even now as I sit in my tranquil state, the transformation from hunter to hunted looms near. Truly it began seconds after drawing my first breath, but it is only now I’m aware of its steely approach. Being prey is nothing to fear, for everything is hunted by something or someone. My prayers are only that I may face the hunter who desires me with dignity and grace.
Despite settling down early I wake restless and frazzled from the hunts in my head. While the world-weary slumber, I prepare in the dark for another opening day. My mind readies itself to record the hunt, as it has for years; archiving each detail, making them available for replay. Subtle—like the grin of a possum, a smile creeps across my unshaven face as I reach past the collared shirts to the camouflage that patiently waits. Appointments, voicemails, and deadlines become tiny specs in my truck’s rearview mirror.
The moment my boot encounters the crunch of fallen leaves I’m innately aware of the fact I’ll never be more alive than in the midst of nature. Mundane tasks flushed away and replaced with data relayed from heightened senses. I am completely in tune with her and she with me, content with a smaller role on a grander scale. It is another world where communication occurs on a higher plane, spoken words become awkward and unnecessary.
A towering oak is the first to address me with a mere gentle waving of branches. She has boldly stood the test of time, but splintered limbs on her right side signify that even nature cannot sing harmoniously during every chorus and from time to time one force imposes its will upon another. A tip of my cap serves to acknowledge her fortitude, as well as my intention to scale her side. Whispered words leave a visible trail in the chilly air, “It’s good to see you again, my friend.” Through the darkest veil of night, the gnarled knot on her side winks in approval.
For another year she has held my front row seat. Nestled among her branches we shall both witness an unscripted play as if for the very first time. With the precision of an orchestrated symphony, orange and red light splashes over the horizon, dancing across the broken stalks. Inch by inch the rays bring life and death simultaneously. Cyclical beauties are the beginning and ending of a day, yet what transpires in the hours between is life; hours comprised of minutes, minutes of seconds, each appearing only once and never to be regained. Where lamenting those wasted in the past will only consume the present.
Even now as I sit in my tranquil state, the transformation from hunter to hunted looms near. Truly it began seconds after drawing my first breath, but it is only now I’m aware of its steely approach. Being prey is nothing to fear, for everything is hunted by something or someone. My prayers are only that I may face the hunter who desires me with dignity and grace.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Casting Stones
He stared at the ground long and hard enough until the color and shape of the pebbles melted into a slate of mud-puddle brown. This path had been good thing; his father’s company, laughter emerging strong as it skipped across the water, but for reasons too varied and complicated to fully comprehend, today he made the trip alone. Bobby Miller’s gait was noticeably impaired by burden; the weight of a stone, easily half his own, had quickly turned his arms into jelly. This would mark the third time he stopped to rest and while his heart returned to a normal rhythm he observed the trail much differently than ever before. It still dove sharply and disappeared beneath the surface, but today there was an air of finality to its course; a distinct line of separation between two mediums, a boundary not easily crossed. Thinking in philosophical terms made his head hurt. Bobby adjusted his grip, and with a lopsided heave launched the rock and chased it with angry words.
“Have you gone completely deaf? Did you hear that!?”
For two-thirds of his life Bobby had been coming to this pond and supposed by now the bottom of it looked like a rock quarry. Casting stones was a way to get God’s attention before praying for a specific need. “The larger the rock the more urgent the need”, his father said. Randy Miller’s belief in the unseen was unshakable, and how should a boy mistrust the instincts of a man who raises him? Even persuasive words loose their influence when stretched thin across the years. Bobby supposed a foundation built on the faith of on another was destined to crumble. The concept of stones and prayers seemed illogical now, yet a rare smile crept through his guard as his mind flashed to a more innocent time.
The mind of a five-year old grinds twenty-four hours a day, and more a matter of chance than logical deduction, he recalled with clarity the first question to boil to the surface and roll from his lips. ‘Why did God choose to live underwater, Dad?’ Randy Miller explained that God was the creator of all things, but that he took special care to pour his very essence into nature, and if Bobby looked hard enough he could see God in the weeping branches of the willow, in the stillness and churning of the water, and in every creature that roamed the meadows. For a moment in time Bobby was convinced he saw the wonders of which his father spoke, but the sightings were brief and without question the creator of all things had moved far from this place.
Presently, what stirred within was festering and ugly; it had been for some time, yet none of the fury was directed at his father, how could it be? That sunny, Sunday afternoon the two of them had cast more stones than on all other days combined. The blame lay squarely on an unresponsive and less than compassionate God. It was as if his father kneeling on the shoreline pleading for his wife’s life meant nothing. Her passing was like the sun had been ripped from the sky, and his father’s explanations sounded more like excuses. Bobby didn’t believe someone else had been waiting for answers longer, and there was no possibility that another’s hurt could be deeper than his own.
He traced the stainless barrel on the revolver with his index finger. The world has become harsh and cold and Bobby was no longer five. Never once did he feel the urge to pray as the rounds hit the bottom of the cylinder. This torment was too much; the hopelessness he wrestled with each day had finally gotten him in a stranglehold.
“One last chance, God. If you have even a remote plan for my future you better speak up load and clear!”
Bobby felt awkward in his demand, but after floating his last bit hope he waited for a sign. Like a rush of warm air tails a subway shooting through the tube, images past came in a barrage. The predictable din of thoughts colliding and careening created a buzz, but Bobby was certain he heard a faint giggle.
He quickly tossed the revolver in his backpack and turned to locate the source. He saw blonde curls bobbing just above the weeds and a bright red and white fishing bobber leading the way. As the young girl entered the clearing she stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him.
“Who are you?” she asked in a tiny voice.
“My name’s Bobby, what’s yours?”
“Miranda”
“Do your parents know you’re down by the water alone?”
Her curly head tilted downward and she kicked at the dirt.
“I don’t have a Daddy—but I’m a very lucky girl to still have my Momma. She’s parking the car.”
Bobby recognized the discomfort in her reaction and changed the subject quickly.
“That’s a mighty pretty dress you’re wearing—just to go fishing.”
Her tiny hand stroked the red velvet cloth and then moved to twirl the ribbons holding her pigtails.
“It’s a very special day. The first time Momma could leave the hospital in a very long time. I wanted to show her the place me and Gramps came and prayed for her.”
Bobby fought to control his frustration. Tiny, young ears should not be subjected to the thoughts running through his mind.
“So you’ve been here before?”
“Lots and lots of times. Me and Gramps catch fish here. Sometimes he cusses when the hook gets caught, ‘Damned rocks!”
She took a deep breath before continuing and her blue eyes grew wide in anticipation of her words.
“While we prayed an angel touched my Momma.”
“An angel…really? I’m no expert, but it’s my understanding angels are quite rare.”
“Yeah—and they’re hard to find too.”
Miranda’s mother joined them along the shoreline. Instead of scolding her daughter for speaking to a stranger she extended her hand towards him and smiled warmly.
“Sorry if Miranda’s been talking you to death. She’s never met a stranger, and the excitement of being here today—well, has put her over the edge.”
Bobby barely heard any of the words she spoke and clung to her hand. She was younger than his mother, but reminded him so much of her; the bubbly reception and the quick unnecessary apology.
“Sorry about the handshake, it was very out of place. Well—I really should be going now.”
Bobby gathered his backpack and started up the path, but the pitter-pat of tiny steps caused him to pause. He turned and knelt in order to come to her level.
“It was very good to meet you Miranda and I hope you catch lots of fish.”
The curls above her forehead wagged as she nodded and spoke again.
“Mom says her angel had a name—Katherine Miller. Kinda of a funny name for an angel ain’t it? She couldn’t use her heart no more, but it still had beats left in it, so she gave it to my Mommy as a gift. If you ever see the angel, please thank her for saving my Mommy’s life.”
“Have you gone completely deaf? Did you hear that!?”
For two-thirds of his life Bobby had been coming to this pond and supposed by now the bottom of it looked like a rock quarry. Casting stones was a way to get God’s attention before praying for a specific need. “The larger the rock the more urgent the need”, his father said. Randy Miller’s belief in the unseen was unshakable, and how should a boy mistrust the instincts of a man who raises him? Even persuasive words loose their influence when stretched thin across the years. Bobby supposed a foundation built on the faith of on another was destined to crumble. The concept of stones and prayers seemed illogical now, yet a rare smile crept through his guard as his mind flashed to a more innocent time.
The mind of a five-year old grinds twenty-four hours a day, and more a matter of chance than logical deduction, he recalled with clarity the first question to boil to the surface and roll from his lips. ‘Why did God choose to live underwater, Dad?’ Randy Miller explained that God was the creator of all things, but that he took special care to pour his very essence into nature, and if Bobby looked hard enough he could see God in the weeping branches of the willow, in the stillness and churning of the water, and in every creature that roamed the meadows. For a moment in time Bobby was convinced he saw the wonders of which his father spoke, but the sightings were brief and without question the creator of all things had moved far from this place.
Presently, what stirred within was festering and ugly; it had been for some time, yet none of the fury was directed at his father, how could it be? That sunny, Sunday afternoon the two of them had cast more stones than on all other days combined. The blame lay squarely on an unresponsive and less than compassionate God. It was as if his father kneeling on the shoreline pleading for his wife’s life meant nothing. Her passing was like the sun had been ripped from the sky, and his father’s explanations sounded more like excuses. Bobby didn’t believe someone else had been waiting for answers longer, and there was no possibility that another’s hurt could be deeper than his own.
He traced the stainless barrel on the revolver with his index finger. The world has become harsh and cold and Bobby was no longer five. Never once did he feel the urge to pray as the rounds hit the bottom of the cylinder. This torment was too much; the hopelessness he wrestled with each day had finally gotten him in a stranglehold.
“One last chance, God. If you have even a remote plan for my future you better speak up load and clear!”
Bobby felt awkward in his demand, but after floating his last bit hope he waited for a sign. Like a rush of warm air tails a subway shooting through the tube, images past came in a barrage. The predictable din of thoughts colliding and careening created a buzz, but Bobby was certain he heard a faint giggle.
He quickly tossed the revolver in his backpack and turned to locate the source. He saw blonde curls bobbing just above the weeds and a bright red and white fishing bobber leading the way. As the young girl entered the clearing she stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him.
“Who are you?” she asked in a tiny voice.
“My name’s Bobby, what’s yours?”
“Miranda”
“Do your parents know you’re down by the water alone?”
Her curly head tilted downward and she kicked at the dirt.
“I don’t have a Daddy—but I’m a very lucky girl to still have my Momma. She’s parking the car.”
Bobby recognized the discomfort in her reaction and changed the subject quickly.
“That’s a mighty pretty dress you’re wearing—just to go fishing.”
Her tiny hand stroked the red velvet cloth and then moved to twirl the ribbons holding her pigtails.
“It’s a very special day. The first time Momma could leave the hospital in a very long time. I wanted to show her the place me and Gramps came and prayed for her.”
Bobby fought to control his frustration. Tiny, young ears should not be subjected to the thoughts running through his mind.
“So you’ve been here before?”
“Lots and lots of times. Me and Gramps catch fish here. Sometimes he cusses when the hook gets caught, ‘Damned rocks!”
She took a deep breath before continuing and her blue eyes grew wide in anticipation of her words.
“While we prayed an angel touched my Momma.”
“An angel…really? I’m no expert, but it’s my understanding angels are quite rare.”
“Yeah—and they’re hard to find too.”
Miranda’s mother joined them along the shoreline. Instead of scolding her daughter for speaking to a stranger she extended her hand towards him and smiled warmly.
“Sorry if Miranda’s been talking you to death. She’s never met a stranger, and the excitement of being here today—well, has put her over the edge.”
Bobby barely heard any of the words she spoke and clung to her hand. She was younger than his mother, but reminded him so much of her; the bubbly reception and the quick unnecessary apology.
“Sorry about the handshake, it was very out of place. Well—I really should be going now.”
Bobby gathered his backpack and started up the path, but the pitter-pat of tiny steps caused him to pause. He turned and knelt in order to come to her level.
“It was very good to meet you Miranda and I hope you catch lots of fish.”
The curls above her forehead wagged as she nodded and spoke again.
“Mom says her angel had a name—Katherine Miller. Kinda of a funny name for an angel ain’t it? She couldn’t use her heart no more, but it still had beats left in it, so she gave it to my Mommy as a gift. If you ever see the angel, please thank her for saving my Mommy’s life.”
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Crossroads
Marcus Jamal Conley comes from a long line of street urchins, a reminder that even among the classless there is room for advancement. He studied under his father, and his father before him, becoming a master at discovering vulnerability and exploiting it for his own gain. Had he stuck to burglary perhaps things would be different, but Marcus crossed the line that night and dragged the rest of us into a revolving nightmare. Every morning I deal with consequences extending from a situation in which I had no control, and honestly I’ve grown weary of trying to reverse the past by simply willing it away. Marcus did his time in the eyes of the law, but I am convinced certain levels of justice are not attainable within the boundaries of our judicial system.
After twenty years in the penitentiary and less than two hours into his freedom I almost felt badly for what I had done. The sight of an empty bar was more than he could resist and I had hoped it would be. A tiny cluster of bells clanking above the door probably sounded more like cymbals crashing on either side of his head. I’m certain he expected to find an alert bartender, but instead he discovered an elderly man behind the counter, seemingly too preoccupied washing glasses to look up. A few lonely wisps of white hair and a hearing aide perched in his left ear provided the vulnerability Marcus preyed upon. Just hours before his arrival we peeled away the height chart pasted to the door frame, ensured every barstool in the place was empty, and relocated the cash register to within sprinting distance of the door.
I allowed Marcus to close half the distance between he and my father before winking at him from my hiding spot. Due to poor hearing he often speaks much louder than he realizes; which I’m certain rattled Marcus all the more.
“Kinda creepy out tonight, ain’t it—being Halloween and all? Why don’t you pull up a stool; you look like a man with a story to tell.”
Without a word from the patron dad poured a drink and slapped it onto the counter.
“Two shots of Beam in a tall glass, right, Marcus?”
Crouching in the back room I could see the look on his face and observed a slight shudder as the flesh on the back of his neck was certain to be crawling. My father knowing his drink and calling him by name caught him off guard.
“Nice guess on the drink, buddy, but I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
The lack of an immediate response brought a nervous smile to his face. No doubt Marcus was pleased with his bluffing abilities, but like a storm comes creeping across the plain my father’s fist against the bar was the thunder, and his radically changed tone a heat-seeking bolt from the sky.
“Look, jackass—by now both of us know it was more than a guess. Go ahead and drink up—it’s likely to be long night for a bastard like you!”
Emerging from the back room I approached with the confidence of a double-barreled shotgun and the cold steel of a trigger beneath my finder. I advanced toward him until the barrels rested comfortably between his ribs.
“You heard the man, drink up!”
After placing the empty glass on the counter I removed a handgun from his jacket, sliding it a safe distance down the bar. My father took the shotgun from me and rested the business end on the bridge of Marcus’ nose, nodding toward the entrance.
“Take care of the shades and lock door. Now that our guest has arrived, it’s time to party.”
“Look fellas, I certainly appreciate the drink, but you got the wrong dude. Why you wanna close the shades and lock the door? I’ve been in the pen for the last twenty years; what do you want from me?”
I settled in and rested my chin on the back of a barstool.
“You’re in luck Marcus, the memory game we’re about to play took place exactly twenty year ago today. Around 7:30pm you entered a bar on the other side of town looking to rob the place. When the bartender resisted, you pistol whipped him with the butt of your gun. Does the scar my father wears on his forehead look familiar? While you’re accomplice was clearing out the register, since it was Halloween, three trick-or-treaters wandered in; a chubby little red-headed guy in a clown outfit, a beautiful, curly blonde-headed princess, and the youngest of three, an adorable four-year old fairy.”
“Look man, I didn’t hurt them kids. I gagged ‘em and left ‘em tied up in the back room, I swear!”
“Marcus, those were my children and his grandchildren, and most of me wants to believe you meant them no harm.”
I reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes.
“These are very bad news; not good for you at all.”
“What do you care—you a doctor or some shit?”
“I am indeed a surgeon—but honestly it would have been better if the smokes had gotten to you before I did. You being in possession of the cigarettes doesn’t bode well for the outcome of your evening.”
While father held Marcus at bay I began stacking tables and chairs until I was satisfied with the barricade at the front entrance. I moved to the back room and finished my work there.
“Marcus, I’ve always believed in crystal-clear communication, so let me explain the details leading up to the finale of this fascinating game.”
I offered him a cigarette, taking one for myself.
“Their names were Frankie, Melissa, and Alexandria. They never returned home that night from trick-or-treating. Although my father believes otherwise he bears no responsibility for that. He was unconscious, how could he know they were there? Once he came to there was barely enough time to save himself. The authorities were unconvinced that the fire was related to the burglary, but a friend of mine who works on the forensics side of investigation determined a discarded cigarette lying near a trashcan ignited the blaze. Whether you actually tossed the cigarette is irrelevant, because my mind is made up that you did, and tonight is all about freeing my mind from worry and regret.”
I flicked my cigarette over his head into the grain alcohol I had poured on the floor. When Marcus turned his attention to the small fire I plunged the butcher knife through his right thigh and into the chair beneath.
“I’m a fair man, Marcus. I’m leaving you with a couple of choices you denied my children. It was no mistake we named this bar Crossroads and right now you’re at a very important one. I’d prefer you suffered the same lingering death that my children did, but you may also choose the front door. As I stated earlier I am doctor and there’s about a ninety-nine percent chance the knife has severed your femoral artery. By the time you remove the barricade I estimate you’ll have no more than two minutes to make the fifteen-block run to the hospital. Marcus, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed our game. On the outside chance you do survive, rest assured I’ll find you and we can pick up where we left off.”
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Groundskeeper
I wasn’t convinced the rigors of travel alone produced this kind of unrest. It was more than likely the broken vow to never return that plagued me. While I still considered Dallas my home, a second layoff and an over-zealous divorce lawyer had pushed me into a corner. My father opened his home and regretfully I knew he would. Sleepy towns and people like him never change. I gauged his obsession with caring for strangers to be terminal in nature. What he called a gift from God, I considered a curse, and to complicate matters he appeared content frittering away his life caring for the dead.
My opinion of his character was starkly different than any other. The townsfolk held him in high regard and I supposed by now were making plans for his sainthood. Although he spoke often of tolerance and understanding, he extended neither in my direction. On his best days he barely tolerated me and made no effort to understand my life at all. Even a young boy learns to cut his losses. Kept at arms length, I learned that caring for your father is far removed from loving him deeply or ever wanting to be like him.
“Son, you don’t know how good it is to have you back.”
“Temporarily, Dad…I’m only here temporarily.”
I remembered how Momma asked me to be understanding and patient. Dad was slow in dealing with a terrible accident involving a neighbor boy that happened some years ago, but my own hurt continued to fester. I hated the cemetery and what it had done to him. It was awkward watching my mother run out of excuses for his absence from school activities. I understood the time spent engraving stones; it was the profession he had chosen, but the non-working hours he lingered there and the inability to let go were particularly damaging. As far as I was concerned, he was as empty and hollow-eyed as any spirit roaming there. I suppose more than anything I wanted for him to admit that I had done nothing wrong; that it was his inattention to his only son that predisposed me to a life of failure.
He still moved pretty well for an old man. Hustling about the shop he gathered objects and placed them into a tired wheelbarrow; one I remembered having more red paint than rust. Most of the contents consisted of maintenance related tools, yet a few seemed out of place. He offered no explanation and I had no intention of asking; it was still like that between us. After perusing the items one last time, he gripped the worn handles, and motioned with his head for me to follow.
“Red Foster had taken care of this cemetery for years. Red was a righteous man, started cuttin’ grass here when he was in his twenties. Some say it helped pass the lonely days after losing a wife—you know they wasn’t married more than a couple years. Anyhow, Red done fine work; even the fussy widows that build their lives around findin’ fault, had nothin’ but praise for him. But in time, Red passed. He left behind a son, but he never was much count—bad seed, I guess. Old Red didn’t deserve most of what he got in life, ‘specially that boy. Roy showed up two day late for his daddy’s funeral and drunk as three-hundred Indians. He took to smashin’ bottles and cussin’ his old man for not leavin’ an inheritance. Truth was Red didn’t have nothin’ but a big heart and he give most of that away.”
The mention of Roy sparked a flurry of memories, most of them only partial recollections. During high school he and I were a couple of misfits who enjoyed more than one bender and the mischief that accompanies too many beers. Each morning before first bell we gathered under a tree across from school grounds and shared a cigarette. Memories of those Lucky Strikes triggered an urge, and I stopped long enough to light one.
“Hey, Pop. Is that how you see me—some kind of no count renegade?”
The extended amount of time he spent stroking his chin made me nervous, but on the other hand I wanted to hear him say what I always suspected.
“What makes you think something like that?”
Without saying more he lifted the handles and began moving again.
“As I was sayin’—‘cause of the commotion and since I was the caretaker now, I had to escort Roy from the property. There ain’t no merit in drivin’ a boy from his father’s grave, but I felt a sight better after me and Red had a long talk. He said I done right, ‘cept he’d a taken a chunk of his hide before he sent him packin’.”
He stopped abruptly, but said nothing; leaving me to believe the extra steps had provided time to reconsider my renegade status.
“Don’t be leavin’ your butts layin’ around, especially not by Ernie’s marker. Died of lung cancer in ’82 and he can’t stand the smell of smoke.”
I only nodded in affirmation. It was difficult knowing my father believed he spoke to the dead, and a painful reminder he preferred their company to mine.
He handed me a garden spade along with instructions.
“Make a small trench, leading away from her grave—see how the water’s building up.”
Everyone knows the vaults are sealed, what was a tiny bit of moisture going to hurt? In the short time it took to process the thought my father observed hesitation.
“Time’s a wastin’—get to it!”
The frustration in his tone turned to velvet in an instant when he turned his attention from me to the stone.
“We’ll get it taken care of—don’t you fret none.”
I began to wonder how terribly disturbed a man had to be when he found a deeper connection with those below grade than above.
“For the life of me I can’t explain why—but I still worry about you. Honest to God, Pop, tell me you don’t actually hear these corpses speak?”
It was as if kicked him in the gut.
“First of all, don’t call ‘em corpses! Sounds like one of them stupid zombie movies. Of course I hear ‘em talk and on bad days I hear ‘em cry.”
His finger traced the dates on the stone, lingering over the second.
“In the winter of seventy-eight, Mrs. Barlow hit an ice-patch on route 62. Her Plymouth went off the bridge and broke through the ice. Waiting to drown must be an awful way to go. She don’t ask much, just to keep the water away from her.”
Before I’d had time to fully consider the first story, he gripped my shoulder tightly. It was the first time I could remember feeling his touch and then I noticed the sadness welling in his eyes.
“Son, I know you deserved better, and I wished I could have give it too ya, but turned out I wasn’t strong enough. You can’t hate me any more than I already hate myself. I ain’t makin’ excuses, I’ll take full responsibility for screwin’ up your life, but what I’m askin’ for now is a little forgivness.”
He guided my steps to a plain small white stone before continuing.
“I’m sure you’re momma told you what happened. That we was watchin’ the neighbor boy when she had to run to town and left him with me. He was almost two years old and into everything. While I was cussin’ my work he wandered off. I didn’t notice he was gone for some time—long enough for curious legs to carry him over the hill and into an abandoned well. It tore me up when they pulled that little man’s lifeless body out—knowin’ what I’d done.”
Father lifted a teddy bear from the wheelbarrow and placed it gently by the stone.
“Most of what your momma told ya was right, ‘cept it wasn’t a neighbor boy. You’re older brother’s name was Billy.”
___________________________
The morning heat rose from the valley restless and willing. In shimmering waves it climbed and clawed at the scrub brush. Its roost was temporary as a gentle breeze swept it away. The duo traveled a winding path of rising ground to where my father and I stood. As the gust arrived, more of it traveled through me than swirled around, and when it passed it spoke more clearly than it ever had.
“A single day can change a person’s life, but only if he is willing. He must cast aside the familiar so that his arms are free to embrace the promise of tomorrow.”
My opinion of his character was starkly different than any other. The townsfolk held him in high regard and I supposed by now were making plans for his sainthood. Although he spoke often of tolerance and understanding, he extended neither in my direction. On his best days he barely tolerated me and made no effort to understand my life at all. Even a young boy learns to cut his losses. Kept at arms length, I learned that caring for your father is far removed from loving him deeply or ever wanting to be like him.
“Son, you don’t know how good it is to have you back.”
“Temporarily, Dad…I’m only here temporarily.”
I remembered how Momma asked me to be understanding and patient. Dad was slow in dealing with a terrible accident involving a neighbor boy that happened some years ago, but my own hurt continued to fester. I hated the cemetery and what it had done to him. It was awkward watching my mother run out of excuses for his absence from school activities. I understood the time spent engraving stones; it was the profession he had chosen, but the non-working hours he lingered there and the inability to let go were particularly damaging. As far as I was concerned, he was as empty and hollow-eyed as any spirit roaming there. I suppose more than anything I wanted for him to admit that I had done nothing wrong; that it was his inattention to his only son that predisposed me to a life of failure.
He still moved pretty well for an old man. Hustling about the shop he gathered objects and placed them into a tired wheelbarrow; one I remembered having more red paint than rust. Most of the contents consisted of maintenance related tools, yet a few seemed out of place. He offered no explanation and I had no intention of asking; it was still like that between us. After perusing the items one last time, he gripped the worn handles, and motioned with his head for me to follow.
“Red Foster had taken care of this cemetery for years. Red was a righteous man, started cuttin’ grass here when he was in his twenties. Some say it helped pass the lonely days after losing a wife—you know they wasn’t married more than a couple years. Anyhow, Red done fine work; even the fussy widows that build their lives around findin’ fault, had nothin’ but praise for him. But in time, Red passed. He left behind a son, but he never was much count—bad seed, I guess. Old Red didn’t deserve most of what he got in life, ‘specially that boy. Roy showed up two day late for his daddy’s funeral and drunk as three-hundred Indians. He took to smashin’ bottles and cussin’ his old man for not leavin’ an inheritance. Truth was Red didn’t have nothin’ but a big heart and he give most of that away.”
The mention of Roy sparked a flurry of memories, most of them only partial recollections. During high school he and I were a couple of misfits who enjoyed more than one bender and the mischief that accompanies too many beers. Each morning before first bell we gathered under a tree across from school grounds and shared a cigarette. Memories of those Lucky Strikes triggered an urge, and I stopped long enough to light one.
“Hey, Pop. Is that how you see me—some kind of no count renegade?”
The extended amount of time he spent stroking his chin made me nervous, but on the other hand I wanted to hear him say what I always suspected.
“What makes you think something like that?”
Without saying more he lifted the handles and began moving again.
“As I was sayin’—‘cause of the commotion and since I was the caretaker now, I had to escort Roy from the property. There ain’t no merit in drivin’ a boy from his father’s grave, but I felt a sight better after me and Red had a long talk. He said I done right, ‘cept he’d a taken a chunk of his hide before he sent him packin’.”
He stopped abruptly, but said nothing; leaving me to believe the extra steps had provided time to reconsider my renegade status.
“Don’t be leavin’ your butts layin’ around, especially not by Ernie’s marker. Died of lung cancer in ’82 and he can’t stand the smell of smoke.”
I only nodded in affirmation. It was difficult knowing my father believed he spoke to the dead, and a painful reminder he preferred their company to mine.
He handed me a garden spade along with instructions.
“Make a small trench, leading away from her grave—see how the water’s building up.”
Everyone knows the vaults are sealed, what was a tiny bit of moisture going to hurt? In the short time it took to process the thought my father observed hesitation.
“Time’s a wastin’—get to it!”
The frustration in his tone turned to velvet in an instant when he turned his attention from me to the stone.
“We’ll get it taken care of—don’t you fret none.”
I began to wonder how terribly disturbed a man had to be when he found a deeper connection with those below grade than above.
“For the life of me I can’t explain why—but I still worry about you. Honest to God, Pop, tell me you don’t actually hear these corpses speak?”
It was as if kicked him in the gut.
“First of all, don’t call ‘em corpses! Sounds like one of them stupid zombie movies. Of course I hear ‘em talk and on bad days I hear ‘em cry.”
His finger traced the dates on the stone, lingering over the second.
“In the winter of seventy-eight, Mrs. Barlow hit an ice-patch on route 62. Her Plymouth went off the bridge and broke through the ice. Waiting to drown must be an awful way to go. She don’t ask much, just to keep the water away from her.”
Before I’d had time to fully consider the first story, he gripped my shoulder tightly. It was the first time I could remember feeling his touch and then I noticed the sadness welling in his eyes.
“Son, I know you deserved better, and I wished I could have give it too ya, but turned out I wasn’t strong enough. You can’t hate me any more than I already hate myself. I ain’t makin’ excuses, I’ll take full responsibility for screwin’ up your life, but what I’m askin’ for now is a little forgivness.”
He guided my steps to a plain small white stone before continuing.
“I’m sure you’re momma told you what happened. That we was watchin’ the neighbor boy when she had to run to town and left him with me. He was almost two years old and into everything. While I was cussin’ my work he wandered off. I didn’t notice he was gone for some time—long enough for curious legs to carry him over the hill and into an abandoned well. It tore me up when they pulled that little man’s lifeless body out—knowin’ what I’d done.”
Father lifted a teddy bear from the wheelbarrow and placed it gently by the stone.
“Most of what your momma told ya was right, ‘cept it wasn’t a neighbor boy. You’re older brother’s name was Billy.”
___________________________
The morning heat rose from the valley restless and willing. In shimmering waves it climbed and clawed at the scrub brush. Its roost was temporary as a gentle breeze swept it away. The duo traveled a winding path of rising ground to where my father and I stood. As the gust arrived, more of it traveled through me than swirled around, and when it passed it spoke more clearly than it ever had.
“A single day can change a person’s life, but only if he is willing. He must cast aside the familiar so that his arms are free to embrace the promise of tomorrow.”
Saturday, July 24, 2010
The Believers
One by one, he placed the personal items in a cardboard box. The message was clear; his services were no longer needed. During an unceremoniously brief and one-sided meeting the board called for his resignation, rather by proxy. Each sat tight-lipped and stoic, as if it had been long decided they had no opinion on the matter and it was quite acceptable for one man to speak the mind of another. The chancellor’s words were few with the crux of the matter settled in one efficient swoop.
“The paperwork shall be on my desk by day’s end.”
For the better part of two decades Professor Chad Gardner had enjoyed working at John Hopkins University. He remembered having jumped at the opportunity to head a study on accelerated climate change, but with the two-year program complete the whole matter sat crossways in his gut. The chancellor had advised it was well within his right to appeal the decision, but in the same breath warned that such proceedings often drudge on for years. Time was no longer a luxury for the professor—for any of them.
Chad realized the resignation request came as an indirect result of the climate study. He had not anticipated the barrage of bitter skepticism launched by the elite in his field and no one could have predicted the level of chaos created by media coverage. Together it was an ugly combination; one the chancellor would rather not deal with. The simple fact remained the majority of society was not ready to wrap their minds around something as intense as worldwide drought.
__________________________
In geological terms, a scant five years passed, but the deterioration of the environment and subsequent unraveling of a society progressed more quickly than even his study indicated. Not a drop of rain had fallen on the earth in more than three months. In itself it was the beginning of the end; a creeping death with an affinity for suffering and little deference to the time tables of man. Lush lawns morphed into brittle graveyards of clay while rioters flooded the streets of major cities, forcibly collecting food and water. The procurement and processing of oil came to a halt as a series of explosions rocked the Middle East. Perhaps it was an appropriate final chapter as some believed, a reckoning brought on by greed. Both in scale and severity this drought dwarfed any before it, but it had not arrived without warning.
Dr. Gardner sat alone in a dimly lit room, speaking to the news anchor as if she might acknowledge him.
“A bafoon with a twisted version of reality was I—how do you like me now?”
Flipping between major news outlets incompetency seemed the common denominator; their empty slant like drills against his forehead.
“What will it take for you fools to understand? It doesn’t make a damn whether this catastrophe was caused by man’s misuse of the environment, and to be consumed by such things now is as irrelevant as a group of fireman standing before an inferno deliberating as to what might have sparked the blaze. It’s so unbecoming—this collective wringing of hands!”
He reached for the remote and the screen went dark.
On the heels of his dismissal the ex-professor immediately began to pool resources; coordinating financiers, and persuading a small team of dedicated colleagues and students to join him underground—in the most literal sense. He affectionately called them the believers, and it was those of like mind that created the ‘Den’. While those on the surface simmered in their own juices, the Den was far removed from chaos. The believers had established solar power, a functioning greenhouse, fresh air filtration systems, and a series of large water storage tanks. Some within the group suspected Professor Gardner intended to establish a new society, others believed his claim that he only wished to buy time, but considering the alternative, none of them questioned their decision to follow.
Cloud seeding had existed for decades, but was often dismissed as flimsy science. The process involved injecting silver oxide, delivered by plane or missile, into a cloud formation. Existing moisture was instantly frozen whereby other molecules could accumulate more easily. Dr. Gardner believed the immediate solution to such a complex problem could be as simple as kicking nature in the seat of the pants.
Ascending the spiral staircase he emerged aboveground and quickly set his eyes on the horizon. Dark, angry, clouds gathered and spider webs of lightning spread like gnarled fingers reaching for the ground. In a brilliant show of natural forces the swirling and churning skies delivered on promises long past due. While it was only a small scale test, nearly a half inch of rain fell in a twenty-five mile radius.
__________________________
Dr. Gardner raised a toast.
“To the success of those who believed—through hard work and careful planning we are now in a position that the entire world must listen.”
As a man dictated by protocol, Dr. John Stein waited for the applause to subside before lobbing a displeased glare that narrowly cleared his glasses.
“Bravo, doctor; the results are undeniable, but I’ve grown curious about what I perceive as a troubling trend. Forgive me for not asking this morning when we met in the hallway. It was 3:00am and my mind was not fully engaged. Would you care to explain to all of us your midnight rendezvous’ with someone outside of the group?”
Dr. Gardner appeared unshaken by such a question peppered with the insinuation of wrongdoing.
“John, may I remind you I’m still fully in control of this project. Perhaps afterwards you and I can talk privately about your over-involvement in my personal time.”
The close relationship the two shared while working together at the university had grown strained and difficult when the believers moved underground and Dr. Gardner resented the public airing of what had previously been a private disagreement.
After the others had retired for the evening the two shared coffee in a secluded room.
“John, it was wrong of me not to include you, but the success of this project comes before your own reservations. I want the believers to be recognized and compensated for their contributions. Regretfully, it is against your wishes that I’ve begun shopping the market for potential buyers. Our command-and-chief remains obstinately opposed; his disdain for the free market is more deep-seated than I realized. True to character, he insists on complete government control and I’ll be damned if I turn over the operation to those who ridiculed my study. It’s time to consider other offers.”
Rattled by startling revelations, but more the brashness of his friend’s actions, Dr. Stein allowed a moment of silent processing before launching a torrent of pointed questions.
“Who gave you permission to shop the technology—and when did this suddenly become less about a dying planet and more about personal accolades? You were right all along—are you such a small man that you need to hear it from me? Let it go, Chad, just let it go.”
Dr. Gardner lunged for his friend’s collar and dragged him across the table.
“They chose to make it personal when they took my job for simply being right!”
He released his grip and began pacing around the table.
“Let me continue. As I was leaving the meeting with the president and his advisors, a limousine pulled along side. I must say that King Abdullah from Saudi Arabia is a level-headed gen…..”
“Stop right there! In a single bound you’ve leapt from a respected professor to a damned traitor!”
From behind, Dr. Gardner seized a handful of his associate’s hair and pressed his lips to his ear.
“Let’s be reasonable about this. For decades the Middle East has controlled our economy through oil, is there really any difference?”
“Do you expect me to just stand by and do nothing while you sell out our country?”
In a swift downward motion Chad responded.
“Let me save you the trouble.”
Dr. Gardner knelt over the crumpled body on the floor, the butt of his revolver shiny with blood. He dragged the larger man to a closet, secured his hands, and reached into his lab coat pocket for the syringe.
“By the time that wears off it will be too late for objections.”
Dr. Gardner glanced nervously at his watch as he stood on the tarmac. The documentation in the briefcase was all the Saudi’s would required, but he convinced the King otherwise. The professor would travel to Riyadh and oversee the program until the Saudi’s were satisfied they had purchased a working model.
A flashing blue light indicated the King’s arrival, and it was as impressive as he expected. Comparing street to air, the doctor was about to step aboard a Lamborghini. The engines were throttled to an idle and a hydraulic set of stairs glided until they kissed the pavement. A young Saudi appeared in the entry and motioned for the doctor to move forward.
As he kept a careful eye on the steps the doctor spoke to the man.
“If I’m not mistaken, this is a Bombardier Learjet Model 85, properly appointed at a price tag exceeding $18 million.”
Receiving no response the doctor lifted his head and presented the perfect angle.
Two successive rounds were followed by a voice carrying a heavy accent.
“You are mistaken about many things professor; Springfield Armory, Model 1911, $350 dollars U.S.”
A voice originating from the cockpit drifted into the midnight air.
“Make sure the briefcase sees the entire return trip, the professor as far as the ocean.”
__________________________
Doctor Stein sat just outside of the Den’s entrance contemplating the downward spiral of a friendship. Almost a month had passed and no one had heard from him Chad. If he did return he didn’t know whether to greet him with a hand-shake or launch a stiff right-cross. He supposed he would make the decision when the time came.
In the distance a streaking flash of light caught his eye, far too brilliant for a falling star. Then came a second burst, followed in sequence by others. The fiery tail gave the impression of missiles; perhaps Chad had broken from the believers completely and was attempting trials from a remote location.
Over the next month a multitude of missiles lit up the sky, bringing with them torrential rains, often more than an inch an hour. Soon the ‘Den’ began to take on water and eventually became uninhabitable. Next the low-lying were submerged, then smaller hills, and eventually the tallest mountains until nothing remained.
“The paperwork shall be on my desk by day’s end.”
For the better part of two decades Professor Chad Gardner had enjoyed working at John Hopkins University. He remembered having jumped at the opportunity to head a study on accelerated climate change, but with the two-year program complete the whole matter sat crossways in his gut. The chancellor had advised it was well within his right to appeal the decision, but in the same breath warned that such proceedings often drudge on for years. Time was no longer a luxury for the professor—for any of them.
Chad realized the resignation request came as an indirect result of the climate study. He had not anticipated the barrage of bitter skepticism launched by the elite in his field and no one could have predicted the level of chaos created by media coverage. Together it was an ugly combination; one the chancellor would rather not deal with. The simple fact remained the majority of society was not ready to wrap their minds around something as intense as worldwide drought.
__________________________
In geological terms, a scant five years passed, but the deterioration of the environment and subsequent unraveling of a society progressed more quickly than even his study indicated. Not a drop of rain had fallen on the earth in more than three months. In itself it was the beginning of the end; a creeping death with an affinity for suffering and little deference to the time tables of man. Lush lawns morphed into brittle graveyards of clay while rioters flooded the streets of major cities, forcibly collecting food and water. The procurement and processing of oil came to a halt as a series of explosions rocked the Middle East. Perhaps it was an appropriate final chapter as some believed, a reckoning brought on by greed. Both in scale and severity this drought dwarfed any before it, but it had not arrived without warning.
Dr. Gardner sat alone in a dimly lit room, speaking to the news anchor as if she might acknowledge him.
“A bafoon with a twisted version of reality was I—how do you like me now?”
Flipping between major news outlets incompetency seemed the common denominator; their empty slant like drills against his forehead.
“What will it take for you fools to understand? It doesn’t make a damn whether this catastrophe was caused by man’s misuse of the environment, and to be consumed by such things now is as irrelevant as a group of fireman standing before an inferno deliberating as to what might have sparked the blaze. It’s so unbecoming—this collective wringing of hands!”
He reached for the remote and the screen went dark.
On the heels of his dismissal the ex-professor immediately began to pool resources; coordinating financiers, and persuading a small team of dedicated colleagues and students to join him underground—in the most literal sense. He affectionately called them the believers, and it was those of like mind that created the ‘Den’. While those on the surface simmered in their own juices, the Den was far removed from chaos. The believers had established solar power, a functioning greenhouse, fresh air filtration systems, and a series of large water storage tanks. Some within the group suspected Professor Gardner intended to establish a new society, others believed his claim that he only wished to buy time, but considering the alternative, none of them questioned their decision to follow.
Cloud seeding had existed for decades, but was often dismissed as flimsy science. The process involved injecting silver oxide, delivered by plane or missile, into a cloud formation. Existing moisture was instantly frozen whereby other molecules could accumulate more easily. Dr. Gardner believed the immediate solution to such a complex problem could be as simple as kicking nature in the seat of the pants.
Ascending the spiral staircase he emerged aboveground and quickly set his eyes on the horizon. Dark, angry, clouds gathered and spider webs of lightning spread like gnarled fingers reaching for the ground. In a brilliant show of natural forces the swirling and churning skies delivered on promises long past due. While it was only a small scale test, nearly a half inch of rain fell in a twenty-five mile radius.
__________________________
Dr. Gardner raised a toast.
“To the success of those who believed—through hard work and careful planning we are now in a position that the entire world must listen.”
As a man dictated by protocol, Dr. John Stein waited for the applause to subside before lobbing a displeased glare that narrowly cleared his glasses.
“Bravo, doctor; the results are undeniable, but I’ve grown curious about what I perceive as a troubling trend. Forgive me for not asking this morning when we met in the hallway. It was 3:00am and my mind was not fully engaged. Would you care to explain to all of us your midnight rendezvous’ with someone outside of the group?”
Dr. Gardner appeared unshaken by such a question peppered with the insinuation of wrongdoing.
“John, may I remind you I’m still fully in control of this project. Perhaps afterwards you and I can talk privately about your over-involvement in my personal time.”
The close relationship the two shared while working together at the university had grown strained and difficult when the believers moved underground and Dr. Gardner resented the public airing of what had previously been a private disagreement.
After the others had retired for the evening the two shared coffee in a secluded room.
“John, it was wrong of me not to include you, but the success of this project comes before your own reservations. I want the believers to be recognized and compensated for their contributions. Regretfully, it is against your wishes that I’ve begun shopping the market for potential buyers. Our command-and-chief remains obstinately opposed; his disdain for the free market is more deep-seated than I realized. True to character, he insists on complete government control and I’ll be damned if I turn over the operation to those who ridiculed my study. It’s time to consider other offers.”
Rattled by startling revelations, but more the brashness of his friend’s actions, Dr. Stein allowed a moment of silent processing before launching a torrent of pointed questions.
“Who gave you permission to shop the technology—and when did this suddenly become less about a dying planet and more about personal accolades? You were right all along—are you such a small man that you need to hear it from me? Let it go, Chad, just let it go.”
Dr. Gardner lunged for his friend’s collar and dragged him across the table.
“They chose to make it personal when they took my job for simply being right!”
He released his grip and began pacing around the table.
“Let me continue. As I was leaving the meeting with the president and his advisors, a limousine pulled along side. I must say that King Abdullah from Saudi Arabia is a level-headed gen…..”
“Stop right there! In a single bound you’ve leapt from a respected professor to a damned traitor!”
From behind, Dr. Gardner seized a handful of his associate’s hair and pressed his lips to his ear.
“Let’s be reasonable about this. For decades the Middle East has controlled our economy through oil, is there really any difference?”
“Do you expect me to just stand by and do nothing while you sell out our country?”
In a swift downward motion Chad responded.
“Let me save you the trouble.”
Dr. Gardner knelt over the crumpled body on the floor, the butt of his revolver shiny with blood. He dragged the larger man to a closet, secured his hands, and reached into his lab coat pocket for the syringe.
“By the time that wears off it will be too late for objections.”
Dr. Gardner glanced nervously at his watch as he stood on the tarmac. The documentation in the briefcase was all the Saudi’s would required, but he convinced the King otherwise. The professor would travel to Riyadh and oversee the program until the Saudi’s were satisfied they had purchased a working model.
A flashing blue light indicated the King’s arrival, and it was as impressive as he expected. Comparing street to air, the doctor was about to step aboard a Lamborghini. The engines were throttled to an idle and a hydraulic set of stairs glided until they kissed the pavement. A young Saudi appeared in the entry and motioned for the doctor to move forward.
As he kept a careful eye on the steps the doctor spoke to the man.
“If I’m not mistaken, this is a Bombardier Learjet Model 85, properly appointed at a price tag exceeding $18 million.”
Receiving no response the doctor lifted his head and presented the perfect angle.
Two successive rounds were followed by a voice carrying a heavy accent.
“You are mistaken about many things professor; Springfield Armory, Model 1911, $350 dollars U.S.”
A voice originating from the cockpit drifted into the midnight air.
“Make sure the briefcase sees the entire return trip, the professor as far as the ocean.”
__________________________
Doctor Stein sat just outside of the Den’s entrance contemplating the downward spiral of a friendship. Almost a month had passed and no one had heard from him Chad. If he did return he didn’t know whether to greet him with a hand-shake or launch a stiff right-cross. He supposed he would make the decision when the time came.
In the distance a streaking flash of light caught his eye, far too brilliant for a falling star. Then came a second burst, followed in sequence by others. The fiery tail gave the impression of missiles; perhaps Chad had broken from the believers completely and was attempting trials from a remote location.
Over the next month a multitude of missiles lit up the sky, bringing with them torrential rains, often more than an inch an hour. Soon the ‘Den’ began to take on water and eventually became uninhabitable. Next the low-lying were submerged, then smaller hills, and eventually the tallest mountains until nothing remained.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Nowhere They Ain't
Alpha company waited until dusk to cross the rice field. The commander assured his men it would be safer then, but safer than what? There was no refuge in this god-forsaken jungle, only lesser-degrees of hell. He should have been home looking after his mother, punching his kid brother in the arm, hitting a curveball over the fence, drinking a milk-shake so thick it produces instant brain-freeze; doing pretty much anything—anywhere, other than fighting another man’s war. This wasn’t even close to how he supposed it would end.
The commander was wrong. Ritchie made the edge of the field and collapsed in the undergrowth. An enemy round had ripped through his left knee cap and even the slightest pressure caused pain to radiate upward through his thigh and settle deep in his gut. The crawl had taken much longer than it should, but Ritchie couldn’t stomach seeing the frozen faces of friends, bloody innards worn on the outside, good men lying face down. He couldn’t allow his mind to absorb the images, not now. There was no getting past the blood trail he’d left behind. It was only a matter of time before it was discovered. Decisions were deceptively simple; do nothing and meet with a final dispatching bullet, or mount an ill-advised attack. There were honorable ways for a Marine to check out, but waiting to be shot like a dog wasn’t one of them.
Ritchie listened to the foreign chatter as ‘Charlies’ combed the field. He couldn’t understand a word, but hoped to determine the number and position of the enemy. Hacking and slashing at the greenery they attempted to unearth the wounded. He felt the weight of his combat knife heavy on his side. If death came calling he intended to face the reaper head on. Both of them were about to find out how much damage a one-legged Marine was capable of inflicting.
He knew well the awful toll of hand-to-hand combat. A significant chasm existed between simply taking a man’s life via a well-placed round, and the task of dispatching him face to face. The introduction of guns had complicated matters, made killing too easy, sparing a man unsettling details; a mouth laying agape, waiting for a last ragged breathe that never came, eyes stretched wide in disbelief, yet ironically unable to see the bullet charging towards his skull. Distance in yards, proportionately lessened the effects of taking a husband from a wife, a father from a child. Men were not designed to make such final decisions, yet here, mere boys struggled with fatal choices every day.
Ritchie waited on his back trail, eventually an unlucky soldier would pass within striking distance. Sounds associated with the clearing of vines were insufficient to mask those replaying in his head. Fear coursing through your soul, so loud you can hear it; the uncertainty of outcome regarding the struggle, the unfamiliar sound of a blade slicing cleanly through a windpipe, and the awful gurgling sounds that followed. Finally, as the lifeless weight of another man rests against you, your soul begins to weep and you pray that this will be the final time.
Chilling scenes from killings past caused his body to shiver and glisten in a cold sweat. Ritchie’s heart-rate ratcheted as he watched a single soldier veer dangerously close. Like a tiger, he leapt from his hiding spot and quickly gained control of the thrashing man. Gritting his teeth he began to draw the blade across the exposed throat; his necessary work almost complete.
“Ritchie—Ritchie, what the hell are you doin’? Let momma go. For God’s sakes you’re gonna choke her!”
Ritchie shook his head from side to side, unwilling to completely trust his ears. Fearing a trick, he loosened his grip only slightly. Slowly he became aware of his young brother’s fists beating upon his back, demanding their mother’s release.
Ritchie immediately raised his hands towards the bedroom ceiling. When she turned to face him, he grabbed his mother and kissed her forehead, tears collecting at the corner of his eyes.
“Ma, I swear I didn’t know it was you—couldn’t never hurt you, ma. Havin’ one of them, damn ole dreams again.”
Betty made use of her apron and wiped his tears. Soon after her husband’s passing, she made a vow to protect her children from all harm but some things are beyond a mother’s reach. Each horrible night her family was separated she prayed that God would bring Ritchie home safely. He had returned, but not the young boy that had left for Vietnam. His eyes had seen too much, his hand forced to perform unspeakable deeds, and now his troubled soul desperately longed for rest.
“It’s alright, baby, I knew you was havin’ a bad dream. Just hopin’ I could wake ya; keep the sufferin’ to ‘minimum. You get on downstairs and get some of ‘dat breakfast. We goin' to Birmingham ‘safternoon to see another doctor. Now go on—git.”
Ben, the youngest of the boys, sat fidgeting in the waiting room chair. Thoughts of baseball consumed his young mind. It had been more than a year since Ritchie came home and he hadn’t even shown the slightest interest for the game. Ritchie’s record of ten home-runs in a single game still stood, balls that sailed well past the chicken fence and into the tall grass that bordered the Johnson farm. The locals used to talk about Ritchie playing in the big leagues, but they didn’t talk much anymore, not about Ritchie playing baseball.
The doctor removed his stethoscope from the young man’s chest. He glanced at the chart and nodded his head in affirmation.
“Healthy as a horse, I’d say! So what seems to be the matter, young man?”
Ritchie glanced at his mother, who appeared equally anxious to hear a response. He didn’t know exactly how to put his troubles into words, especially in mother’s presence.
“Doc, I’d rather not speak in front of momma.”
The doctor lowered his black framed glasses, peered at Ritchie and then at Betty.
“Ma’am, can you give us a few minutes alone.”
Betty picked up her purse and patted her son’s shoulder on the way out.
“You tell the good doctor what’s ailin’ ya, so as we can get the old Ritchie back.”
“So son, what is it that’s bothering you?”
“Well doc, ain’t somethin’ I can put into words, ‘xactly. Just ain’t been right, since comin’ back—my head I mean. Strange thoughts ‘creepin’ round all the time, don’t seem like I fit in no more. Momma and Ben, they treat me extra good now, but with these haints and buggas haggin’ round I’m ‘fraid I might hurt one of ‘em, and I can’t live with that.”
“What do you mean, Ritchie? Do you feel like you want to hurt people sometimes?”
“No—not ‘specially momma or Ben. Done more killin’ in ‘Nam than any man shoulda been asked to do, for his country or otherwise. Don’t wanna never hurt no one again, not on purpose. Seems like it’s ok sometimes, for maybe a week, but they keep comin’ back—dreams, real as anything, doc. Can’t shake ‘em and can’t run from ‘em; seems like I can’t get nowhere they ain’t.”
“Alright son, you can go back to the waiting room now. Send your mother back in, if you will.”
Betty allowed time for the door to close completely.
“What do ya think, doc? Can ya fix him up?”
“Mrs. Barnard, I believe your son’s very ill, but I need him to take a test to confirm my suspicions.”
“What kinda test?”
“Something that would allow me to properly gauge his metal state.”
Betty faced flushed with anger.
“You think Ritchie’s some kinda nut, don’t ya? Test—fer what? So you can lock ‘em away somewhere, forgit he ever existed. My boy gave everything for his country and I’m damn proud of him. Ain’t gonna reward him by havin’ him put some place where all he got to do is watch his roommate drool. Thank you for yer time, doctor. We’ll be on our way now!”
Betty hoisted her youngest from the chair, while signaling for Ritchie to follow. No one spoke during the two-hour drive home. Betty’s mind, still consumed with anger and frustration, Ben thinking of playing in his first World Series, and Ritchie doing his best to think of nothing at all.
-----------------------------------------------------
Betty placed a bag of groceries inside the door, and reached for another. With little warning, life had become difficult. She understood the challenges associated with being a single mother, but Ritchie’s troubles were of another kind, one that couldn’t be solved by working a double-shift.
Ben came streaking down the stairs with his baseball glove in hand.
“Headed over to the Johnsons, ma—be back around dark!”
She opened the cupboard with a smile. Young Ben had developed the same love as Ritchie. The two of them were much alike, but Betty intended to keep a tighter reign on the youngest. She feared she had already lost Ritchie. That damned war claimed many a young life, and not just one’s returning in bags, but others just as broken. Borrowed for killing in someone else’s cause; then when their usefulness determined done, turned back from where they came ill-prepared to resume a life put on hold.
A bottle slipped from her tired grip and shattered on the floor.
“Damn—can’t hardly ‘ford groceries as it is, clumsy old fool droppin’ things now.”
On her way to retrieve a towel Betty noticed an envelope on the table. Dish-towels and spills suddenly became unimportant. Betty folded into the easy-chair and opened the envelope addressed to Momma.
Been havin’ an extra bad day, decided to take the ole coon dog for a run. Ben sure loves his baseball. You make sure he practices good, some day he might just find a spot in da majors. Momma, I’m hurtin’ way deep down inside, don’t know how to fix it. I know you hurt too, I hear ya cryin’ at night, and know its cause of me and the way I am now. I feels like that sick old calf we had, couldn’t stand to look at it sufferin’, but can’t put it down neither. Kinda why I’m huntin’ today, don’t wanna be a burden to ya, don’t wanna see ya hurt like that.
That night in my bedroom, didn’t mean ya no harm; thawt the gooks was comin’ after me again. I’m so awful tired, momma, tired of fightin’ things ain’t there.
Ya took good care of me, but I’m grown now, need to fend on my own. Pop’d be proud of what ya done fer us boys. Sure will miss yer cookin’. Don’t hold supper count a me. Figurin’ I’ll be gone a good while. Don’t know ‘xactly where I’m goin’, but ‘spect it’s far, far away. Think I’ll just keep walkin’ til I find somewhere they ain’t!
The commander was wrong. Ritchie made the edge of the field and collapsed in the undergrowth. An enemy round had ripped through his left knee cap and even the slightest pressure caused pain to radiate upward through his thigh and settle deep in his gut. The crawl had taken much longer than it should, but Ritchie couldn’t stomach seeing the frozen faces of friends, bloody innards worn on the outside, good men lying face down. He couldn’t allow his mind to absorb the images, not now. There was no getting past the blood trail he’d left behind. It was only a matter of time before it was discovered. Decisions were deceptively simple; do nothing and meet with a final dispatching bullet, or mount an ill-advised attack. There were honorable ways for a Marine to check out, but waiting to be shot like a dog wasn’t one of them.
Ritchie listened to the foreign chatter as ‘Charlies’ combed the field. He couldn’t understand a word, but hoped to determine the number and position of the enemy. Hacking and slashing at the greenery they attempted to unearth the wounded. He felt the weight of his combat knife heavy on his side. If death came calling he intended to face the reaper head on. Both of them were about to find out how much damage a one-legged Marine was capable of inflicting.
He knew well the awful toll of hand-to-hand combat. A significant chasm existed between simply taking a man’s life via a well-placed round, and the task of dispatching him face to face. The introduction of guns had complicated matters, made killing too easy, sparing a man unsettling details; a mouth laying agape, waiting for a last ragged breathe that never came, eyes stretched wide in disbelief, yet ironically unable to see the bullet charging towards his skull. Distance in yards, proportionately lessened the effects of taking a husband from a wife, a father from a child. Men were not designed to make such final decisions, yet here, mere boys struggled with fatal choices every day.
Ritchie waited on his back trail, eventually an unlucky soldier would pass within striking distance. Sounds associated with the clearing of vines were insufficient to mask those replaying in his head. Fear coursing through your soul, so loud you can hear it; the uncertainty of outcome regarding the struggle, the unfamiliar sound of a blade slicing cleanly through a windpipe, and the awful gurgling sounds that followed. Finally, as the lifeless weight of another man rests against you, your soul begins to weep and you pray that this will be the final time.
Chilling scenes from killings past caused his body to shiver and glisten in a cold sweat. Ritchie’s heart-rate ratcheted as he watched a single soldier veer dangerously close. Like a tiger, he leapt from his hiding spot and quickly gained control of the thrashing man. Gritting his teeth he began to draw the blade across the exposed throat; his necessary work almost complete.
“Ritchie—Ritchie, what the hell are you doin’? Let momma go. For God’s sakes you’re gonna choke her!”
Ritchie shook his head from side to side, unwilling to completely trust his ears. Fearing a trick, he loosened his grip only slightly. Slowly he became aware of his young brother’s fists beating upon his back, demanding their mother’s release.
Ritchie immediately raised his hands towards the bedroom ceiling. When she turned to face him, he grabbed his mother and kissed her forehead, tears collecting at the corner of his eyes.
“Ma, I swear I didn’t know it was you—couldn’t never hurt you, ma. Havin’ one of them, damn ole dreams again.”
Betty made use of her apron and wiped his tears. Soon after her husband’s passing, she made a vow to protect her children from all harm but some things are beyond a mother’s reach. Each horrible night her family was separated she prayed that God would bring Ritchie home safely. He had returned, but not the young boy that had left for Vietnam. His eyes had seen too much, his hand forced to perform unspeakable deeds, and now his troubled soul desperately longed for rest.
“It’s alright, baby, I knew you was havin’ a bad dream. Just hopin’ I could wake ya; keep the sufferin’ to ‘minimum. You get on downstairs and get some of ‘dat breakfast. We goin' to Birmingham ‘safternoon to see another doctor. Now go on—git.”
Ben, the youngest of the boys, sat fidgeting in the waiting room chair. Thoughts of baseball consumed his young mind. It had been more than a year since Ritchie came home and he hadn’t even shown the slightest interest for the game. Ritchie’s record of ten home-runs in a single game still stood, balls that sailed well past the chicken fence and into the tall grass that bordered the Johnson farm. The locals used to talk about Ritchie playing in the big leagues, but they didn’t talk much anymore, not about Ritchie playing baseball.
The doctor removed his stethoscope from the young man’s chest. He glanced at the chart and nodded his head in affirmation.
“Healthy as a horse, I’d say! So what seems to be the matter, young man?”
Ritchie glanced at his mother, who appeared equally anxious to hear a response. He didn’t know exactly how to put his troubles into words, especially in mother’s presence.
“Doc, I’d rather not speak in front of momma.”
The doctor lowered his black framed glasses, peered at Ritchie and then at Betty.
“Ma’am, can you give us a few minutes alone.”
Betty picked up her purse and patted her son’s shoulder on the way out.
“You tell the good doctor what’s ailin’ ya, so as we can get the old Ritchie back.”
“So son, what is it that’s bothering you?”
“Well doc, ain’t somethin’ I can put into words, ‘xactly. Just ain’t been right, since comin’ back—my head I mean. Strange thoughts ‘creepin’ round all the time, don’t seem like I fit in no more. Momma and Ben, they treat me extra good now, but with these haints and buggas haggin’ round I’m ‘fraid I might hurt one of ‘em, and I can’t live with that.”
“What do you mean, Ritchie? Do you feel like you want to hurt people sometimes?”
“No—not ‘specially momma or Ben. Done more killin’ in ‘Nam than any man shoulda been asked to do, for his country or otherwise. Don’t wanna never hurt no one again, not on purpose. Seems like it’s ok sometimes, for maybe a week, but they keep comin’ back—dreams, real as anything, doc. Can’t shake ‘em and can’t run from ‘em; seems like I can’t get nowhere they ain’t.”
“Alright son, you can go back to the waiting room now. Send your mother back in, if you will.”
Betty allowed time for the door to close completely.
“What do ya think, doc? Can ya fix him up?”
“Mrs. Barnard, I believe your son’s very ill, but I need him to take a test to confirm my suspicions.”
“What kinda test?”
“Something that would allow me to properly gauge his metal state.”
Betty faced flushed with anger.
“You think Ritchie’s some kinda nut, don’t ya? Test—fer what? So you can lock ‘em away somewhere, forgit he ever existed. My boy gave everything for his country and I’m damn proud of him. Ain’t gonna reward him by havin’ him put some place where all he got to do is watch his roommate drool. Thank you for yer time, doctor. We’ll be on our way now!”
Betty hoisted her youngest from the chair, while signaling for Ritchie to follow. No one spoke during the two-hour drive home. Betty’s mind, still consumed with anger and frustration, Ben thinking of playing in his first World Series, and Ritchie doing his best to think of nothing at all.
-----------------------------------------------------
Betty placed a bag of groceries inside the door, and reached for another. With little warning, life had become difficult. She understood the challenges associated with being a single mother, but Ritchie’s troubles were of another kind, one that couldn’t be solved by working a double-shift.
Ben came streaking down the stairs with his baseball glove in hand.
“Headed over to the Johnsons, ma—be back around dark!”
She opened the cupboard with a smile. Young Ben had developed the same love as Ritchie. The two of them were much alike, but Betty intended to keep a tighter reign on the youngest. She feared she had already lost Ritchie. That damned war claimed many a young life, and not just one’s returning in bags, but others just as broken. Borrowed for killing in someone else’s cause; then when their usefulness determined done, turned back from where they came ill-prepared to resume a life put on hold.
A bottle slipped from her tired grip and shattered on the floor.
“Damn—can’t hardly ‘ford groceries as it is, clumsy old fool droppin’ things now.”
On her way to retrieve a towel Betty noticed an envelope on the table. Dish-towels and spills suddenly became unimportant. Betty folded into the easy-chair and opened the envelope addressed to Momma.
Been havin’ an extra bad day, decided to take the ole coon dog for a run. Ben sure loves his baseball. You make sure he practices good, some day he might just find a spot in da majors. Momma, I’m hurtin’ way deep down inside, don’t know how to fix it. I know you hurt too, I hear ya cryin’ at night, and know its cause of me and the way I am now. I feels like that sick old calf we had, couldn’t stand to look at it sufferin’, but can’t put it down neither. Kinda why I’m huntin’ today, don’t wanna be a burden to ya, don’t wanna see ya hurt like that.
That night in my bedroom, didn’t mean ya no harm; thawt the gooks was comin’ after me again. I’m so awful tired, momma, tired of fightin’ things ain’t there.
Ya took good care of me, but I’m grown now, need to fend on my own. Pop’d be proud of what ya done fer us boys. Sure will miss yer cookin’. Don’t hold supper count a me. Figurin’ I’ll be gone a good while. Don’t know ‘xactly where I’m goin’, but ‘spect it’s far, far away. Think I’ll just keep walkin’ til I find somewhere they ain’t!
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Three
As his soon to be former psychiatrist, I continue to stand by my original diagnosis. Charlie Spangenburg teeters on the edge of neurosis. Despite the affliction he is one of the more intelligent patients I’ve encountered. Yet his refusal to cooperate outweighs any intrigue I once held for how uniquely his mind works. At his request I am providing a referral. Please see the enclosed documentation and audio tapes of our previous sessions. Charlie believes he might benefit from a ‘more competent doctor’, and perhaps he will.
Best Regards,
Psy.D. Myron Masters
At the time this letter was penned I truly believed I had seen the last of Charlie Spangenburg, but last week he came crashing back into my life. The patrolman on duty offered security video showing Charlie repeatedly hurling himself against the reinforced glass of my office front. Upon arrival they found a bloody and belligerent man who had taken up residence on my couch and demanded to be seen. I knew something drastic had occurred in his life, such aggressive behavior is virtually non-existent in this type of disorder. I refused to have him arrested, so at 3:53am I agreed to resume our sessions.
His appearance, goals, and future are narrowly defined by obsession. Each facet of his life fits neatly into a slot. Breakfast consists of two Grade ‘A’ brown eggs, never white. Three strips of bacon laid diagonally near the eggs, but not close enough to touch. A saucer, in the three o’clock position, is reserved for toast; stone-ground wheat exclusively, toasted for precisely sixty-three seconds—sixty-three of course being divisible by three. Three is the number that rules Charlie’s life.
The streets of Manhattan are overrun with platoons of business men. They jockey for position at crosswalks, curse into their cell-phones, and traverse the sidewalks with a determined gait. Had our first meeting occurred there, I would have had no reason to assume Charlie was anything more than one of the clones. He arrived in my office stern and white-knuckled, clutching a worn leather planner.
It was my inquiry in regards to the contents of the binder that immediately set us at odds. He likened my request to that of allowing him to rifle through my desk simply to satisfy his own curiosity. Charlie gave me a deeper appreciation for how more patients should view their doctors. Although I must admit, our sessions often left me frustrated and exhausted, feeling as if I had been subjected to a battery of questions designed to determine the purity of my motives.
The responsibility for our first round of sessions ending badly rests squarely upon my shoulders. I had pressed Charlie too hard, too soon, and had no intention of making the same mistake a second time. Something monumental had taken place. Even before I could extend a greeting, he placed his planner in my hand.
It was a journey of despair; painful, daily musing from a boy who longed to be a part of a world which presently found no use for him. The writing was barely legible, letters overlapping and sporadic spacing between lines. Quite understandably so, when I discovered where Charlie began his journaling. His mother asked him to retrieve something from the back of the woodshed. Afterwards she claimed the wind had blown the door closed. Subsequently, she dropped the pretense of asking him to retrieve things. Charlie maintains that is he unable to recall the frequency or length of such punishments, but I am convinced he is still a young boy attempting to defend his mother’s own dysfunction.
Hidden in the back was a very detailed chart for his life’s course. Charlie explained that all plans begin in pencil, and only when an item is determined as likely can it be traced over in pen. I noticed the entry under the heading ‘girlfriend’. Despite the ink, permanent and irreversible, the name had been marked through completely.
“So Charlie, do you want to tell me about Suzanne?”
“Suzanne and me were both messed up; ‘mind-cripples’ she called us. She heard voices and I counted shit, that’s just how life is.
For a head-case like me, March 3rd was like Christmas. I had reservations at her favorite restaurant and tickets to the opera. She didn’t know it, but I had already traced her name in pen. During intermission I was going to ask her to marry me.”
“She didn’t accept your proposal?”
“I didn’t get the opportunity to ask. When I awoke that morning her side of the bed was cold and empty. She was beautiful, particularly the first thing in the morning. Part of me knew she was too good for me all along, but we’d lived together for almost two years. Her clothes were still in the dresser and her purse was on the table, but I knew she was gone. I went outside for a smoke. She only allowed smoking on the balcony, because she knew heights and the business of the street made me dizzy and nervous. I think she really did love me, Doc.”
“Does that surprise you, Charlie—that someone in this world could find you loveable?”
Charlie stared at the back of his hand that rested on the desk. We both watched the tapping sequence, thumb through pinky, pinky through thumb. He never looked up as he responded.
“Doc, after your own mother locks you out, numbers ain’t a bad place to be.”
“Charlie, neither of us could control what your mother did. I’m sorry for interrupting. Please continue—you were on the balcony.”
“Yeah I was. My head started spinning and I tried to focus on the open sliding glass door. Just as I prepared to lunge for it I heard a faint whimper. She was still in her nightgown, huddled on the ledge. Too far for me to reach, and I don’t think she wanted to be saved. Before I could do anything she looked me straight in the eye, counted to three, and jumped. All I could do is watch her fall. God, I didn’t want to, but I counted the seconds from the ledge to the street. What kind of sorry bastard does something like that?”
Charlie didn’t allow me to respond.
“Anyhow, that fucking number three ain’t so good anymore.”
That was the last thing I ever heard Charlie Spangenburg say. He didn’t show for his next appointment, and wouldn’t answer my calls. His landlord says he still sees him from time to time, but he’s become more of a recluse.
I gave up my practice, not exclusively because of Charlie. Over the years there were others I couldn’t help. I guess Charlie was right, some people hear voices, and others count shit, but that’s just the way life is.
Best Regards,
Psy.D. Myron Masters
At the time this letter was penned I truly believed I had seen the last of Charlie Spangenburg, but last week he came crashing back into my life. The patrolman on duty offered security video showing Charlie repeatedly hurling himself against the reinforced glass of my office front. Upon arrival they found a bloody and belligerent man who had taken up residence on my couch and demanded to be seen. I knew something drastic had occurred in his life, such aggressive behavior is virtually non-existent in this type of disorder. I refused to have him arrested, so at 3:53am I agreed to resume our sessions.
His appearance, goals, and future are narrowly defined by obsession. Each facet of his life fits neatly into a slot. Breakfast consists of two Grade ‘A’ brown eggs, never white. Three strips of bacon laid diagonally near the eggs, but not close enough to touch. A saucer, in the three o’clock position, is reserved for toast; stone-ground wheat exclusively, toasted for precisely sixty-three seconds—sixty-three of course being divisible by three. Three is the number that rules Charlie’s life.
The streets of Manhattan are overrun with platoons of business men. They jockey for position at crosswalks, curse into their cell-phones, and traverse the sidewalks with a determined gait. Had our first meeting occurred there, I would have had no reason to assume Charlie was anything more than one of the clones. He arrived in my office stern and white-knuckled, clutching a worn leather planner.
It was my inquiry in regards to the contents of the binder that immediately set us at odds. He likened my request to that of allowing him to rifle through my desk simply to satisfy his own curiosity. Charlie gave me a deeper appreciation for how more patients should view their doctors. Although I must admit, our sessions often left me frustrated and exhausted, feeling as if I had been subjected to a battery of questions designed to determine the purity of my motives.
The responsibility for our first round of sessions ending badly rests squarely upon my shoulders. I had pressed Charlie too hard, too soon, and had no intention of making the same mistake a second time. Something monumental had taken place. Even before I could extend a greeting, he placed his planner in my hand.
It was a journey of despair; painful, daily musing from a boy who longed to be a part of a world which presently found no use for him. The writing was barely legible, letters overlapping and sporadic spacing between lines. Quite understandably so, when I discovered where Charlie began his journaling. His mother asked him to retrieve something from the back of the woodshed. Afterwards she claimed the wind had blown the door closed. Subsequently, she dropped the pretense of asking him to retrieve things. Charlie maintains that is he unable to recall the frequency or length of such punishments, but I am convinced he is still a young boy attempting to defend his mother’s own dysfunction.
Hidden in the back was a very detailed chart for his life’s course. Charlie explained that all plans begin in pencil, and only when an item is determined as likely can it be traced over in pen. I noticed the entry under the heading ‘girlfriend’. Despite the ink, permanent and irreversible, the name had been marked through completely.
“So Charlie, do you want to tell me about Suzanne?”
“Suzanne and me were both messed up; ‘mind-cripples’ she called us. She heard voices and I counted shit, that’s just how life is.
For a head-case like me, March 3rd was like Christmas. I had reservations at her favorite restaurant and tickets to the opera. She didn’t know it, but I had already traced her name in pen. During intermission I was going to ask her to marry me.”
“She didn’t accept your proposal?”
“I didn’t get the opportunity to ask. When I awoke that morning her side of the bed was cold and empty. She was beautiful, particularly the first thing in the morning. Part of me knew she was too good for me all along, but we’d lived together for almost two years. Her clothes were still in the dresser and her purse was on the table, but I knew she was gone. I went outside for a smoke. She only allowed smoking on the balcony, because she knew heights and the business of the street made me dizzy and nervous. I think she really did love me, Doc.”
“Does that surprise you, Charlie—that someone in this world could find you loveable?”
Charlie stared at the back of his hand that rested on the desk. We both watched the tapping sequence, thumb through pinky, pinky through thumb. He never looked up as he responded.
“Doc, after your own mother locks you out, numbers ain’t a bad place to be.”
“Charlie, neither of us could control what your mother did. I’m sorry for interrupting. Please continue—you were on the balcony.”
“Yeah I was. My head started spinning and I tried to focus on the open sliding glass door. Just as I prepared to lunge for it I heard a faint whimper. She was still in her nightgown, huddled on the ledge. Too far for me to reach, and I don’t think she wanted to be saved. Before I could do anything she looked me straight in the eye, counted to three, and jumped. All I could do is watch her fall. God, I didn’t want to, but I counted the seconds from the ledge to the street. What kind of sorry bastard does something like that?”
Charlie didn’t allow me to respond.
“Anyhow, that fucking number three ain’t so good anymore.”
That was the last thing I ever heard Charlie Spangenburg say. He didn’t show for his next appointment, and wouldn’t answer my calls. His landlord says he still sees him from time to time, but he’s become more of a recluse.
I gave up my practice, not exclusively because of Charlie. Over the years there were others I couldn’t help. I guess Charlie was right, some people hear voices, and others count shit, but that’s just the way life is.
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