Cross Roads

by William P. Young

  He waited, not even knowing how to ask the next questions.

  She continued, “Cabby, like you, is a spirit interpenetrating a soul interpenetrating a body. But it is not simply interpenetration. It is dance and participation.”

  “Thanks.” He sat back and took another mouthful, swallowing slowly to allow himself to savor the liquid’s descent. “That’s very helpful, Grandmother.”

  “Sarcasm originated in God. Just sayin’!” she enjoined.

  Tony smiled at that while she kept a stony visage, more, he thought, for effect than anything. It worked. “Okay, so try me again. You said he preferred?”

  “Anthony, like you, Cabby’s body is broken and his soul is crushed and bent, yet his spirit is alive and well. But even though alive and well, his spirit is submitted in relationship to the broken and crushed parts of his person, his soul and body. Words are very inadequate to communicate sometimes. When I tell you ‘his body’ or ‘his soul’ or ‘his spirit,’ it sounds like each is some thing or piece that you own. It is more accurate if you comprehend that you ‘are’ your body, and you ‘are’ your soul, and you ‘are’ your spirit. You are an interpenetrated and interpenetrating whole, a unity of diversity but essentially a oneness.”

  “That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. I believe you; I just don’t know what exactly I’m believing. I think I perceive what you are saying more than I am able to understand.” He paused. “I just feel so bad for him.”

  “Cabby? He said the same thing about you.”

  Tony looked up, surprised.

  “Yeah, don’t go feelin’ bad for him. His brokenness is just more obvious than yours. He wears it on the outside for all to see, while you have kept yours all locked away and hidden as best you know how. Cabby has internal sensitivities and receptors that are significantly more developed than yours. He can see things that you are blind to, can pick up on the good and the danger in people quicker than you, and his perception is much keener. It is just housed in an inability to communicate, a broken body and soul reflective of a broken world.

  “Now don’t you go all comparin’ yourself and feelin’ bad,” Grandmother continued. “You and Cabby are on different journeys because you are each uniquely your own person. Life was never meant to be about comparing or competing.”

  Tony took a deep breath. “So, then, what is a soul, exactly?” he queried.

  “Ah, now there is a deep question. To which there is no exact answer. Like I said, it is not a possession, it is a living. It is the Cabby-who-remembers, it is the Cabby-who-imagines, it is the Cabby-who-creates, who dreams, who emotes, who wills, who loves, who thinks. But Cabby as soul is housed inside the dimensions limited by who Cabby is as a damaged body.”

  “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Fair?” Grandmother mumbled, “That’s a good one. Anthony, there is nothin’ fair in a broken world full of broken people. Justice tries to be fair, but fails at every turn. There is never anything fair about grace or forgiveness. Punishment never restores fair. Confession doesn’t make things fair. Life is not about granting the fair reward for the right performance. Contracts, lawyers, disease, power, none of these care about fair. Better to take dead words out of your languages, maybe focus on living words like mercy and kindness and forgiveness and grace. You might stop being so concerned about your rights and what you think is fair.” She looked up from her rant. “Just sayin’…”

  They were silent for a time, again watching the fire burn down.

  “So why don’t you fix him?” Tony asked quietly.

  Grandmother was equally soft in her response. “Anthony, Cabby is not a broken toy, a thing to be fixed. He is not a piece of property to be renovated. He is a human being, a living being who will forever exist. When Molly and Teddy chose to conceive…”

  “Teddy?” he interjected.

  “Yes, Teddy, Ted, Theodore, Molly’s ex-boyfriend, Cabby’s father, and yes, he did abandon Molly and his own son.” Tony looked at Grandmother, tight lips silently communicating his disapproval and verdict.

  “Anthony, you barely know anything about this man, only what you assume from a snippet of a conversation. Where you think scumbag, I think lost sheep, lost coin, lost son, or”—she nodded toward him—“lost grandson.”

  She let him sit inside his own judgment, wrestling with the implications of how he looked at everything, and everyone. It made him feel sick inside. He was internally facing another massive darkness that he had long treasured, and it grew as he rationally scrambled to justify himself. No matter the mental gymnastics or how he tried to mask it, his first inclination to pass judgment emerged more hideous and terrifying, a threat that might destroy anything within him that could ever have been considered good.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and it was enough to snap him out of the dark place. Grandmother’s face was pressed to his, and he felt himself slowly calming.

  “This is not a time for self-loathing, Anthony,” she said gently. “It is important that you realize you needed the skill to judge in order to survive as a child. It helped keep you and your brother safe. You and he are alive today partly because the ability to judge was in your toolbox. However, such tools eventually become debilitating and damaging.”

  “But I saw it. It’s so ugly. How do I stop?” He was almost begging.

  “You will, dearest, when you trust something else more.”

  The dark wave had receded, but he knew it wasn’t gone, just a monster in waiting, lurking for another opportunity. For the moment it was tamed by the presence of this woman. This was no longer only a game or lighthearted adventure. This was war, and it seemed that the battlefield was in his own heart and mind; something old and hurt was in conflict with something that was beginning to emerge.

  Grandmother brought him another drink, this time earthy and hearty. He could feel it tumble down his throat and spread throughout his body, even reaching his fingertips and toes. A prickly sensation went up and down his spine and she smiled, satisfied.

  “Don’t ask, won’t tell, won’t sell,” she grunted.

  He laughed. “Weren’t we in the middle of something, something about Cabby?” he asked.

  “Later,” she replied. “Right now it is time for you to go back.”

  “Back? Like, back into Cabby?” he asked and she nodded.

  “Don’t you need to, you know, do something?” he asked.

  “Quantum fire?” She grinned her big, wide-hearted grin. “That was just child’s play, just a little”—and she shook her hips—“razzle-dazzle! Nope, I don’t need anything. One more thing, Anthony: when you find yourself in a difficult spot, and you will recognize it when it happens, just turn.”

  “Turn?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Yeah, turn, you know…,” and Grandmother hopped off her feet, slightly spinning, just enough to do a quarter turn. “Like one of those line-dance things.”

  “Can you do it one more time, just so I’ll remember it right?” He was teasing her.

  “Nope,” she said and smirked. “Once is more than enough. And don’t expect to see it again either.”

  They both laughed.

  “Now go!” It was almost a command.

  And he was gone.

  9

  A STORM OF CONGREGATION

  A woman is the only thing I am afraid of that will not hurt me.

  —Abraham Lincoln

  Tony arrived just as breakfast was ending, and from the scraps that remained on Cabby’s plate it appeared he had enjoyed a burrito with chicken, beans, and cheese. From the contented feeling of satisfaction that had settled over him, it was obviously a Cabby favorite.

  “Cabby, you have about twenty minutes to play before I take you to school. Maggie is going to pick you up ’cause I have to go up and visit Lindsay, and she is going to take you to church with her tonight, sound good?”

  “ ’Kay.”

  “And guess what? Maggie-buddy is going to make a chicken for supper, and she’s goin
g to let you pick the meat off the bones for her, okay?”

  Cabby was thrilled and held up his hand until his mom stopped long enough to give him a high five. Pleased with the world, he two foot trotted to his bedroom and shut the door. Reaching under his bed he pulled out a guitar case and opened it. Inside were a small red toy guitar and an expensive-looking compact camera. Satisfied that all was well, he closed the case, snapped the clips, and hid it again under his bed. Looking around, he spotted a favorite picture book and began leafing through its pages. Touching under each animal in turn, he grunted something intelligible enough that Tony could tell Cabby knew what each was. But one animal either stumped him or he didn’t know how to pronounce its name, and he sat there tapping under its picture.

  Tony couldn’t help himself. “Wol-ver-ine.” Tony said it without thinking and then froze.

  So, too, did Cabby. He snapped the book shut and sat for almost ten seconds, absolutely still, only his eyes darting around the room in search of the origin of the voice. Finally, he slowly opened the book again and tapped repeatedly under the picture.

  “Wolverine,” said Tony in a resigned fashion, knowing that the beans had been spilled.

  “Kikmahass!” squealed Cabby, rocking back and forth and putting his hand over his mouth.

  “Cabby?!” came his mother’s voice from the other room. “What have I told you about saying that? Don’t say that word, okay?”

  “ ’Kay!” he yelled back, and doubled over, smothering his laughter and delight in his pillow. “Kikmahass!” he whispered.

  Sitting back up, he opened the book again and this time tapped the picture slowly and deliberately. Each time he did, Tony said, “Wolverine!” and Cabby would disappear once again into his pillow in a fit of giggles.

  He rolled off his bed and onto the floor, taking a quick look under it to make sure no one was hiding there. He checked his closet, which besides all his usual stuff was empty. He even peeked hesitantly behind his dresser. Finally, he stood in the middle of the room and said loudly, “Gen.”

  “You need something, Cabby?” came his mother’s voice.

  “Cabby, I’ll do it again, but shhhhh,” said Tony.

  “Nuh!” yelled Cabby to his mom and then whispered, “Kikmahass!” and doubled over again.

  Tony was laughing, too, caught up in the boy’s sheer delight at this unusual adventure.

  Cabby stifled as best he could his giggling and lifted up his shirt in search of the mystery voice. He examined his belly button and was about to lower his pants when Tony spoke.

  “Cabby, stop. I’m not in your pants. I’m in…” He paused, trying to find the words. “I’m in your heart, and I can see through your eyes and I can talk to you in your ears.”

  Cabby covered his eyes. “Okay, now I can’t see,” responded Tony. Again and again, Cabby covered, then uncovered his eyes, Tony reporting each time the current state of visibility. It seemed the game might never end when Cabby stopped and walked over to his dresser mirror. He looked close into his own eyes, as if he might see the voice. Pursing his lips and with a sense of determination he pulled back, looked into the mirror at himself, put both hands on his chest, and announced, “Cnabby.”

  “Cabby,” started Tony, “my name is To-ny! To-ny!”

  “Tah-Ny.” It didn’t come out clear or distinct, but he knew. And then came the unexpected, catching Tony off guard. A brilliant and broad grin erupted on Cabby’s face, and he put both hands over his heart and said softly, “Tah-Ny… frund!”

  “Yes, Cabby,” came the voice, tender and kind. “Tony and Cabby are friends.”

  “Yessss!” announced the boy and put his hand in the air for a high five, but then realizing no one was there, swatted the invisible hand of the invisible voice.

  Then came the next unexpected; looking back into the mirror, Cabby asked in a halting attempt to form the words, “Tah-Ny lob Cnabby?”

  Tony was caught, suddenly trapped by the three-word question. Cabby made the effort and had the will to ask, but Tony didn’t have what it took to answer. Did he love Cabby? He didn’t really know him. Did he know how to love anyone? Had he ever known what love was? And if he didn’t, how would he recognize it if he ever found it?

  The boy was waiting, upturned face, for a response.

  “Yes, I love you, Cabby,” he lied. Immediately Tony could feel Cabby’s disappointment.

  Somehow, Cabby knew. The gaze dropped, but the sadness lasted only a couple of seconds. He looked up again. “Sun-dy,” he said.

  Sun-dy… Sunday? Tony wondered. Was he saying Sunday or… someday? And then it dawned on him. Cabby was saying “someday”… someday Tony would love him. He hoped it might be true. Perhaps Cabby knew things that he didn’t.

  They arrived at the supported academic classroom where Cabby, and therefore Tony, would spend the better part of the day. The learning area for the developmentally delayed, which served about a dozen young adults in all, shared a campus with a local high school full of typically developing peers but was separated from the main building. Activity was constant, and Tony was repeatedly amazed by the skills that Cabby had mastered despite his disabilities. His reading level was only prekindergarten, but he could do simple math. Cabby especially excelled in the use of a calculator, stashing two away in his backpack that he had secretly appropriated during the course of the morning. He also had considerable skill in writing words, almost as if they were drawings, which he adeptly copied from the whiteboard into one of many notebooks already filled with them.

  Tony stayed quiet, trying not to draw attention to either himself or Cabby. The young man clearly understood the shared secret, but at every opportunity during the day he would find a mirror, lean close to it, and whisper, “Tah-Ny?”

  “Yes, Cabby, I’m still here.”

  Cabby would grin, make one sharp nod, and off they would be running again.

  The kindness and patience of the teachers and staff, along with some of the high school students who dropped in to help, surprised Tony. How many people, he wondered, put time and care into the lives of others every day?

  For lunch, Cabby ate reheated leftover burritos from breakfast, a cheese stick, and some Fig Newtons. Each one seemed his favorite food ever. Gym class was a combination of dance and a comedy of errors, but everyone survived. Tony was unaccustomed and captive to this world, but felt a grounding reality in each experience. This was life, ordinary yet extraordinary and unexpected. Where had he been all these years? Hiding was the answer that came to mind. It might not be the whole truth of it, but it certainly was a part.

  Spending time with these children was both unexpected delight and difficult, his failures as a parent painfully obvious. He had tried diligently for a time, even read books on fathering and given it his best business try, but after Gabriel… he had left such matters to Loree and returned to the safer world of performance and production and property. Any pang of regret that surfaced throughout the day, he would push back into the closets and corners of his soul where they could be better ignored.

  Maggie arrived on time, still dressed in hospital scrubs. When she entered she lit up the room, her carriage professional and her personality gregarious. After she carted them home in her dented car, she busied herself cleaning a chicken, preparing some fixings, and tossing them into the oven to bake. Cabby, a little peeved that neither of his two new calculators had made it through final school checkout, occupied himself with puzzles, some coloring, and an extended battle on Zelda, a video game he had mastered. Every few minutes he would whisper “Tay-Ny?” just to check in, and when Tony responded, he was always rewarded with a grin.

  When the chicken had cooled enough, Cabby washed up and quickly and efficiently removed the meat from the bones. His hands were a greasy mess, as was his chin and his mouth, into which scraps of favorite pieces had mysteriously found their way. Supper was simply the addition of mashed potatoes and a few cooked carrots.

  “Cabby, do you need help picking out some
clothes for church?” asked Maggie.

  “I’ll help you,” whispered Tony, as if Maggie could hear him.

  “Nah,” whispered Cabby, grinning as he headed to his room.

  The two explored Cabby’s closet and drawers until they agreed on just the right outfit: jeans, belt, a long-sleeved shirt that had snaps instead of buttons, and a pair of black Velcro sneakers. It took time dressing and the belt was a particular challenge, but finally finished, Cabby bustled back to the kitchen to present himself to Maggie.

  “Look at you,” exclaimed Maggie. “You are such a handsome young man and you picked out all this by yourself?”

  “Tay…,” Cabby began.

  “Shhhhh!” hushed Tony.

  “Shhhhh!” whispered Cabby, his finger to his lips.

  “What do you mean, ‘Shhhhh!’?” Maggie laughed. “There is no way I am going to shush about how handsome and grown-up my Cabby is. I think I will announce it to the whole world. You go run along and play for a few minutes while I get ready for church.”

  Church, thought Tony. He hadn’t set foot inside one of those since his last foster family had been religious. He and Jake had been required to sit silently for what seemed hours, on hard wooden pews that seemed built to torment. Despite the discomfort they often managed to fall asleep, lulled into unconsciousness by the monotone monologue of the preacher. He smiled to himself, remembering how he and Jake had schemed together and “gone forward” one night at church, thinking it would win them points with the family, which it did. The attention their conversions garnered was initially rewarding, but it soon became clear that “asking Jesus into your heart” dramatically increased expectations for strict obedience to a host of rules they hadn’t anticipated. He soon became a “backslider,” in a category, he discovered, that was profoundly worse than being pagan in the first place. It was difficult enough surviving as a foster child. A foster child who had fallen from grace was magnitudes worse.