Journey From Heaven

by Joe Derkacht

  #

  Two new restaurants stuck out like sore thumbs on Driftwood Bay’s Main Street. Actually, neither one looked brand new, a fact I wasn’t about to comment on lest I give myself away to Zell. A facade painted in broad swaths of aqua and red, with yellow cartoon dragons gracing wide picture windows, was obviously Chinese. I assumed EL DIABLO’S, its Mission front an echo of Claude’s Driftwood Drifter directly across the street, must be Mexican. It needed a new coat of paint unless they were going for the shabby look.

  Despite its brick facade the Driftwood Drifter was shabbier than I remembered, mostly due to the cigar store Indian standing forlornly by the tavern door. Someone had regrettably splashed it with fluorescent orange paint, an obvious act of vandalism.

  “Nice Indian,” I muttered.

  “Nice what?” Zell asked, zeroing in on me with her gaze.

  I shrugged, gesturing toward the tavern receding in the rearview mirror. Still looking curiously in my direction, she turned at the intersection leading to our street.

  “Nice Indian,” I repeated.

  “You should know,” she said. “You carved it.”

  I stared at her for a long moment. “Riiiight,” I said, laughing louder than I should. As I was about to discover, the joke was on me. We turned onto Manzanita Avenue and my house came into view, unchanged except for one thing; instead of the expected open gateway in the woven driftwood fence, a set of carved wooden Indians supported a verdigris, spot-welded arch. Attached to the curving arch, a stone and seashell mosaic declared, Raventhorst Kraftwerks.

  Zell parked in the carport and we began unloading groceries from the trunk. Surreptitiously glancing toward my house a few times, I tried to ascertain other differences. If she should quiz me further, I didn’t want to look like a fool.

  The first thing I noticed was that the oyster shell pathways were replaced with paving made of white aggregate. Beyond that, I saw no other differences except for expanded flower beds nibbling away at the space formerly devoted to lawn, undoubtedly Zell’s idea. Overall, an improvement. I was just happy I hadn’t sold or somehow lost my house in these past seven years. It would have been embarrassing to have to ask where I now lived. That was the problem with losing one’s mind; I could never be certain of precisely where I stood.

  I grabbed up the three sacks of groceries Zell pointed out as being mine, and she opened the back gate. Because I gestured for her to take the lead, I was luckily able to hide my astonishment at seeing a sign on my workshop door. It read:

  Summer Hours

  M-F 10 to 6

  Closed Wknds

  Once we reached the kitchen, we dropped the bags onto the counter and then Zell disappeared into the living room without explanation. I began stowing canned goods in the pantry. A minute later she returned with a stack of green spiral notebooks, which she tossed onto the dinette table.

  “Start with the top one,” she said, brushing tears from her eyes. “If you need help reading, you’ll have to tell me.”

  “Aw, Zell,” I said.

  She was already pushing her way through the back door. The screen slammed shut behind her.

  The notebooks could wait. I continued putting groceries away, finishing the work by pouring out a half gallon of syrupy glop that had once been Tillamook Rocky Road ice cream. Feeling thoroughly depressed, I carried the empty carton out to the trash and then came back in and washed my hands.

  Finally, I sat down and stared at the notebooks. Maybe I should walk to the local market for another carton of Rocky Road. Difficult reading always went better with ice cream. Too bad I didn’t use Copenhagen anymore. Maybe if I searched hard enough, I could still find some I’d squirreled away somewhere around the house or in my workshop?

  Somehow, a can of moldering tobacco didn’t seem terribly appealing. I gathered up the notebooks and took them to my office. On the first page, I found block printing done in a shaky hand that was still recognizably my own.

  THE SAYINGS OF AGUR SON OF JAKEH—AN ORACLE:

  THIS MAN DECLARED TO ITHIEL,

  TO ITHIEL AND TO UCAL:

  As to who Agur might be, or Ithiel and Ucal, I didn’t have a clue. Had I fallen into some weird religious cult?

  2 “I AM THE MOST IGNORANT OF MEN;

  I DO NOT HAVE A MAN’S

  UNDERSTANDING.

  Well, that’s for sure, I thought. No matter what cult it might be, this fellow Agur sure had me pegged.

  3 I HAVE NOT LEARNED WISDOM,

  NOR HAVE I KNOWLEDGE OF THE HOLY ONE.

  4 WHO HAS GONE UP TO HEAVEN AND

  COME DOWN?

  WHO HAS GATHERED UP THE WIND IN

  THE HOLLOW OF HIS HANDS?

  WHO HAS WRAPPED UP THE WATERS IN

  HIS CLOAK?

  WHO HAS ESTABLISHED ALL THE ENDS

  OF THE EARTH?

  WHAT IS HIS NAME, AND THE NAME OF

  HIS SON?

  TELL ME IF YOU KNOW!

  5 “EVERY WORD OF GOD IS FLAWLESS;

  HE IS A SHIELD TO THOSE WHO TAKE

  REFUGE IN HIM.

  6 DO NOT ADD TO HIS WORDS,

  OR HE WILL REBUKE YOU AND PROVE

  YOU A LIAR.

  7 “TWO THINGS I ASK OF YOU, O LORD;

  DO NOT REFUSE ME BEFORE I DIE:

  8 “KEEP FALSEHOOD AND LIES FAR FROM ME;

  GIVE ME NEITHER POVERTY NOR

  RICHES,

  BUT GIVE ME ONLY MY DAILY BREAD.

  9 OTHERWISE, I MAY HAVE TOO MUCH

  AND DISOWN YOU

  AND SAY, ‘WHO IS THE LORD?’

  OR I MAY BECOME POOR AND STEAL,

  AND SO DISHONOR THE NAME OF MY GOD.

  PROVERBS 30: 1-9

  Agur wasn’t some cult nut, then. Whoever he was, he did seem to have been pretty confused, though, which must have been why I originally wrote down that particular passage from the Old Testament. The words certainly resonated with me now.

  Written in the very middle of the next page was a single word: JOURNAL, with the date 1988 written underneath it. Perhaps I had begun this very journal within days of Claude’s commission to work on his rustic Grandfather clock. A quick look at the rest of the notebooks revealed I’d completed one for each of the last seven years. Anything important I wanted to know about my life, I supposed, was likely contained within the pages before me. Vaguely, I wondered how Zell knew about my journals. Did I begin keeping them at her suggestion, or had I simply asked her to pull them out for me if I lost my memory again? Or maybe if I just started acting weird?

  As tempted as I was to find out what had been happening to me during these last few weeks, if something in particular had led up to a bout with one of my seizures—if that’s what it really was—I nevertheless decided to start with the oldest of the journals first. Life happened chronologically, didn’t it, in an orderly fashion? I needed something orderly or at least sequential, and I figured I may as well get the fullest possible picture I could of my life. I had lost years before, had lost entire memories, but this time I had my journals and I still had the capacity to read, for which I felt immensely grateful. At the back of my mind was some niggling memory of more than one struggle to re-learn reading and writing.

  I returned to the earliest of the journals, the one Zell had placed on top of the stack for me. After Agur’s obviously prefatory remarks (which I subsequently found at least partially repeated in each of the notebooks) and the title came the first entry—February 17. The entire page was filled with repetitions of one short verse from the Bible. You have not been given a spirit of fear, but of love, power, and of a sound mind.

  February 17, 1988 must have been a very bad day, I took it. Each time the words sound mind appeared, they were underlined for emphasis. It was several pages and several entries later, before mention was made of Claude’s Grandfather clock. Beside the brief entry was a neatly drawn depiction of the clock and a few explanatory comments.

  I wondered how long
it would be till I found the date of completion and how much Claude had actually paid me for my work. Or had he compensated me in Baskets O’ World Famous Chicken, instead? Which of these journals would mention the carved wooden Indian in front of Claude’s tavern, or the reason for the carved twins in front of my house?

  The first question was answered by the third week of entries. Fortunately, Claude paid me in cash, which was important because as the first two notebooks revealed, the debts Kit had incurred in my name were still substantial. While I might have entertained the fantasy that she would be responsible for the credit cards and the fraudulent checks, I had co-signed for the cards and no one could prove she ever wrote the checks. The signatures were actually in my name, and while I was sure she stole them on the day of her departure, the fact I was never one to lock my doors let her off the hook; anyone or everyone, in the eyes of the D.A., had access to both my house and my checkbook. The one genuinely criminal misdeed that could be pinned on her was the little matter of neglecting to observe the formality of divorce proceedings before marrying me. Which didn’t seem to be of great urgency to law enforcement, if my journal entries were to be trusted. Besides, nobody knew Kit’s whereabouts.

  By the middle of the third journal, I was well on the way to paying off my debts and could again breathe freely. At the same time, entries concerning Kit and what might have happened to her were rare. Looming far larger were questions about the red-haired, green-eyed little girl, whose picture had once released a maelstrom in my brain and heart. What had happened to her? Was she with Kit, ever on the lam? Had Kit abandoned her like she abandoned me? Was she even alive?

  Sprinkled throughout my entries were Bible passages like the first one I’d found, sometimes the very same one dealing with a sound mind, although not entire pages filled out in a laborious hand (or a hand any longer jerking with annoying tremors, either). Ostensibly, I wrote and then repeated the passages aloud to myself, since there were instructions attributed to an R. G., whoever that might be, to speak out God’s promises. R. G. appeared in more and more entries, as in, R. G. says to do this, or R. G. says to do that... One entry attributed to R. G. said, He says speaking it out loud is like planting a seed in spiritual soil. Another one said, He says speaking God’s promises seals His covenant with me. In another was written, He says speaking God’s word decreases doubt and increases faith. This last one was double-underlined.

  Continuing to proceed through the journals, I began reading them aloud, especially those entries from either the Bible or perhaps some other inspirational book. Sometimes they were poems, though if I remembered correctly, I never was much of a poetry fan. Most of the Biblical passages said things like, The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?; or, When I am afraid, I will trust in you; or, I will never leave you nor forsake you; or, Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your heart be troubled and do not be afraid; or, But take heart! I have overcome the world.

  A lot of the entries revealed my preoccupation with the weather, especially warm sunshine, probably because on average Driftwood Bay’s days began and ended with rain or fog. Some days were skipped entirely. Many focused on the progress of one of my woodworking or other artistic projects, though these often occupied whole pages and were accompanied by meticulous details in almost microscopic print, as if I was afraid I would again lose my mind; here would be my means of continuing my work if I could cram in as much information as possible! Then another quote from the Bible would appear, suggesting I was struggling again. Once, I included a passage that read, The stone the builders rejected has become the capstone.

  Another quote said, Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in God my Savior. Beside this last one was written: R. G. says if we thank God only during the good times, then we don’t really trust in Him.

  By the end of the fourth notebook, all entries concerning Kit had ceased. I suspected that in spite of three notebooks still to peruse, I had finally outgrown or recovered from the trauma of our relationship, perhaps largely due to R. G.’s assistance. Gradually, throughout the days and the years, I seemed to have been making steady progress to free myself from the morass my life once was. Life might always be a hill, but at least it seemed it was no longer a slippery slope more suited to the likes of Sisyphus.

  Yet, hadn’t I just suffered another of my episodes, somehow relapsed and again lost everything? Wasn’t some traumatic event always the trigger to my seizures? Eyeing the last three notebooks, I felt a sudden chill.

  Perhaps the chill was from a cold ocean breeze. Night had fallen and the window shades were rattling. I rose from my chair and closed the windows before resuming my seat to open the next notebook.

  Agur’s words were the same as always, except that they were reduced to the first two verses, perhaps because I had finally figured out the rest for myself. The title page, excluding the New Year, was like the others. Many of the opening entries were again concerned with the weather or with my woodworking projects, and continued in the same vein until July. It seemed I had at last entered a kind of easy routine never before experienced in my life. Raventhorst Rustic Grandfather Clocks, along with a few like those from earlier in my career, were selling briskly (enough to at last pay off my debts). More detailed discussions followed, especially of personally formulated finishes that might reduce my costs. Among references to old books supposedly containing the secret formulas to varnishes developed by Old World violin makers, notation of a D. Platt of Santa Rosa appeared—someone who could translate various ancient Italian dialects?

  For a few weeks the entries listed results of my tests on various wood veneers. While the local marine humidity was within the proper range, that year’s cool summer temps wreaked havoc with curing. Then came August’s entries. The name Judith appeared, followed by nine other days devoted to that one name—those six letters—sometimes in bold capital letters and always followed by question marks. My heart sank and I felt a flush come over my face.

  Who is Judith, you idiot! Why didn’t you write more?

  Was she a new girlfriend or someone I hoped would be a new girlfriend? A new wife? What? Was I that stupid? Could I be crazy enough to want to try marriage again? Was I stark raving mad?

  I leafed through several pages, looking for more clues, to no avail. The entries turned back to discussions of formulas (with me, myself, and I) that seemed to reflect intellectual curiosity rather than plans to actually use such finishes in crafting my clocks. What did I think about using wood from old logs dredged up from rivers or lake bottoms to make my best pieces? What about a new line of lower-end clocks that could be produced faster and cheaper?

  August 24th was a single shocking line. Kit dead—Blackie says it was a car wreck.

  Wrack my brain as I might, I couldn’t recall hearing about her death or having felt a twinge of regret or sorrow. Like everything else outside of what I was reading in these notebooks about the last seven years, the moment was a blank. But thinking of her now left me feeling profoundly sad. Regardless of our sham marriage, and the headaches her constant talking sometimes gave me, I had once been in love with her. More than once, really. Day after day after day for nearly a year, I had been in love with her, until the night I came home to an empty house— an empty bed— and empty bank accounts— And even then my love for her had not just ended as if it were a 2x4 to be cut off with the single pass of a circular saw.

  After that entry were days left either blank or filled with question marks. Had I grieved over Kit’s death? Somehow, judging by her disappearance from my journals until then, I doubted it. It seemed unlikely, certainly illogical. But if I remembered anything about the heart (and mine wa
sn’t much different from anyone else’s) it was that it couldn’t care less about logic.

  Either I hadn’t known what to write or I simply found myself at a complete loss for words. Perhaps my mind and heart had become more like my mouth, unable to do more than stutter and stammer.

  Eventually I came to a single entry, the last, I would come to find out later, about Kit in my journals. It read: R.G. asked me if I ever forgave Kit. Had I? I wondered. A pang of genuine regret, the worst I’d felt since opening my journals, struck me. I hoped I’d forgiven her. More than that, I hoped God had forgiven her for what she’d done to me.

  I returned to reading. Judith reappeared in the next entry. For several days, her name and nothing else was recorded. I turned another page. At the top, in bold caps, I’d written, JUDITH DIDN’T DIE IN THE CRASH. WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN.

  Could Judith be my daughter, the little redheaded girl? Was that what all these entries were about? I glanced down at my wristwatch. It was after 11 p.m. Through the kitchen window I saw Zell’s lights were out. She was usually in bed by 9:30, if I remembered correctly. Still, I was tempted to give her a call. She would clear up my confusion in a second or two, I was sure.

  I already knew, though, that I hadn’t recorded any other crash in my journals except the one that killed Kit, with that particular information attributed to Blackie. For a moment, before again buckling down to my reading, I wished the mysterious R. G. would miraculously appear at my desk to explain all. But he did not, and Zell was certainly asleep. I knew I didn’t want to bother Blackie with a phone call, either. Deep down, I already understood all those entries were sheer nonsense, unless Judith was my daughter and Kit’s.

  A page later I found what I was looking for:

  September 18—Blackie says Montana’s child welfare services does not know anything about any Judith Huffy or if Kit even had a daughter. He’s asked the appropriate jurisdictions to make enquiries. Doesn’t know if Kit may have had other aliases besides Sandra K. and Chloe B.

  I leafed ahead in notebook 5. Except for the year’s final entry, no further mention of either Judith or Kit appeared, or Blackie’s enquiries, for that matter. Numerous entries held nothing other than question marks jotted in red ink, all related to Judith, I assumed. Was she really the red-haired, green-eyed little girl in the photograph shown to me by Kit’s lawyer so long ago? How old would she be now? Seven? Maybe even eight? Would I ever see her? Did she stutter like me? Would anyone love her like only I could?

  The year’s final entry was the same as many others: JUDITH???

  In each of those letters and question marks I saw growing frustration. If it wasn’t frustration, it was despair, despair over something I finally did remember, in fact remembered and felt as poignantly as anything in my life: denied marriage (a real one, anyhow) and the love I’d always wanted, I’d nonetheless always wanted a daughter.

  Why? Maybe because I thought even if a woman wouldn’t love me for who I was, a little girl might be able to look up to me, might need my protection, might let me be her hero. But like most things in my life—well, the journals spelled it out pretty well.

  In the sixth year’s journal, I returned to more discussions of Grandfather clocks and other projects I was taking on. From the very first entry after Agur’s words, the handwriting turned minuscule, if not microscopic, and recorded each of my days in great detail, evidence to me of determination to forget the past and to forge a new life that might never include a daughter.

  February 14, Valentine’s Day, returned to a brief entry written in my regular hand. Ferdinand run over. Buried him in back yard. Said a prayer.

  Ferd. No wonder I hadn’t seen him tonight. To be truthful, reading of his death hit me harder than Kit’s. Why shouldn’t it? I was pretty sure he had never betrayed me. He was certainly a giver and not a taker. It was a safe bet he couldn’t have cared less about my speech impediment.

  One thing I realized, as I kept reading: the higher the emotional content, the less I wrote in an entry. The restraint I showed in those particular entries was a reflection of the way I had expressed myself verbally throughout my entire life.

  I found myself choking up. Poor Ferd.

  A week later, an entry remarked: R. D. says animals don’t go to heaven.

  R. D.? Who was R. D.? Did I mean R. G., instead? The following day was blank. Then another entry: Tyrollia says how would R. D. know? Has he ever been to heaven? In smaller handwriting was written, Tyrollia talks like she’s not sure R. D. ever will see the inside of heaven, either.

  Two days later, I wrote: R. D. says animals don’t have souls.

  The next day: R. G. says Hebrew word for soul, nephesh, is same for animals as word used for soul in humans.

  R. G. was back! I began to smile. The discussion over Ferd had taken on a life of its own, and continued the next day: R. D. says Jesus didn’t die for animals.

  Again: Z. wonders what redemption of the fallen universe means if animals aren’t redeemed as well.

  Yet again: R. D. points out that the Bible says Heaven is for God and man, certainly not to be wasted on cats and dogs! In my smaller hand, I wondered, Is R. D. arguing because he’s worried about stepping on dog or cat poop in heaven?

  Good old R. G. returned again in the next entry: R. G. says the redeemed universe will be a big place. Plenty of room outside of the Heavenly City’s gates for cats, dogs, and brontosauruses, if you like.

  At that point the journal faded before my eyes. Squinting, I looked hard and saw what appeared to be a memo of some sort. In fact, MEMO was written in fancy calligraphy at the top of the page. The page itself was completely unlike anything I’d ever seen before, parchment that shimmered with the iridescence of pearl and was edged in purest gold. The words that followed were in the same calligraphy and sparkled like ink made of finely crushed rubies. In full, it read:

  MEMO

  from

  Shen Li, Associate Chief Historian

  Order of the Overcomers

  Member, Smyrna Branch

  Jerusalem

  to

  John Raventhorst, Steward of Ranar, etc.

  Subject

  Re: Your inquiry about participation in the Annals. It is the function of historians to edit where we see fit. While the redeemed share a common experience of the New Earth and the New Jerusalem, your views as a Planetary Steward in a distant galaxy are unique, individual, and valuable to our understanding of the fuller and ever unfolding revelation: members of our six other branches of the Order of the Overcomers will find your perspective especially interesting, so please freely supply what narrative you wish to and rely upon us to edit those things irrelevant to our mission. As always, if you have further questions, please contact my office. I look forward to hearing from you.

  I woke with a start and found I was still at my desk and had been sleeping with my face in my journal. A car alarm sounded annoyingly from somewhere nearby. The page was wet with slobber, which I wiped away with a tissue.

  More annoying than car alarms or slobber was the fading of a strange dream. A glance at my wristwatch told me it was 4:31 a.m. I buried my face in my hands. I had a distinct feeling I’d been dreaming about heaven, and now trying to hold onto the memory was like grasping water in my fists. It was fading so fast!

  Why shouldn’t I dream about heaven? Hadn’t I been reading about it, even if in petty arguments over Ferd’s death?

  Ferd is dead, I told myself. And Kit. They both have been for a long time. More importantly, what about Judith? Is she still alive?

  Crazy dream, I thought. Time to go to bed.

  By the time my head hit the pillow, the dream had faded totally. If I remembered anything about it, it was that it really wasn’t about heaven at all—just something about a shimmering page that came to me straight from an infinitely better world than this one.