The View from Mount Joy

by Lorna Landvik

  Tears welled up in her green eyes. “Oh, Joe, I was so scared. I didn’t know how. I had lost all belief in myself…. You wouldn’t have recognized me. I felt…well, it got to the point where I didn’t even feel. I couldn’t. It was too painful.”

  She burrowed back into my arms, and soon my thirteen chest hairs were wet with her tears. For the second time since I had known her, I tried to comfort her as she cried, rubbing her back and rocking her until her sobs and the spasms that jumped through her body had stopped. I pressed my face into her hair, intending to kiss her head, but I sneezed from all the hairspray.

  This made Kristi giggle.

  “Sorry,” she said, looking up at me, her eyes swollen. “I do like my Aqua Net.”

  The clock radio read 2:50 A.M., but sleep was the farthest thing from my mind. I hadn’t planned going into the store until midmorning anyway, giving my manager the early morning shift.

  “So how did you finally wind up where you are?” I asked.

  Kristi stifled her yawn against my chest. “The housekeeper, Mercedes. She knew what was going on, even though Per never hit me in front of anyone. The day after I got my stitches in, I was sitting on the patio, just empty, staring out at the gardeners working in the backyard, and Mercedes brought me an iced tea and very softly said, ‘That’s my cousin. The one who’s trimming the hedge.’ I nodded, thinking, What do I care about your cousin? Then she leaned toward me, as if making sure I heard what she was going to say next.

  “‘His van is the green one in the driveway. The one with its door facing the garage. He’s leaving in an hour. No one could see anyone getting in or out of it. If you get into it, he will drive you to Barstow. To someplace safe. I wouldn’t know a thing. No one would.’

  “Joe, I don’t know how fast my heart was beating, but it was faster than I’d ever felt before or since. I didn’t say anything; I just got up, went to my bedroom, and packed a bag. Then I walked past Mercedes in the kitchen, out the side door, and into the back of the van. When the gardener opened the door, he saw me sitting there, terrified, but he didn’t say anything; he just loaded up his equipment and slammed the door. A couple of hours later I was in Barstow, California, in a little house that overlooks a BMX track.”

  “Whose was it?”

  A soft look passed on a face that seldom revealed tenderness.

  “A woman named Marguerite. Mercedes’s sister. She didn’t speak much English and I didn’t speak any Spanish, but she was the best friend I ever had. She fed me and sheltered me and helped me find God again, the God that I’d thought wanted nothing more to do with me.”

  Kristi yawned again.

  “How long did you stay there?”

  “I don’t really remember,” she said. “As long as I needed, which was when Kristi Casey came back.”

  “So how did you get hooked up in this evangelical thing? When did that—”

  Kristi’s yawn was an audible “Uhhhhhh.”

  “Joe, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go to sleep. I am bushed.” She kissed my chest. “I already set the alarm—you will drive me to the airport, won’t you? And return the Caddy to the rental place—it’s right there at the terminal.”

  It seemed she was softly snoring before I could give her answer—but we both already knew it couldn’t be anything but yes.

  Seventeen

  Good evening, caller from Council Bluffs, you’re on the air with God.

  Hi…yeah…

  Go ahead.

  (Sounds of sniffling)

  It’s all right; what’s your name, dear? I…I’d rather be anonymous.

  Hmmm, that’s an unusual name. Is it Greek? (Beat) That was a joke, caller.

  Oh. Listen, Kristi, I…I need help staying on the program.

  I decide whether or not you need…oh, the program. (Laughs) I thought you meant my radio show, but now I assume you’re talking about a drug or alcohol program?

  That’s right.

  Why do you need help, Ann?

  Ann?…Oh, I get it—Ann for anonymous, huh? Um…I just get so depressed. Life seems a little more fun if I’m high.

  A life with God is as high as you can get, Ann.

  I don’t know—yesterday I had some really good dope and—

  Are you on the level, Ann, or is this a prank call?

  Please don’t call me Ann. You can call me…Jean.

  Okay, Jean, if you’re serious, I’ll be serious. You need to purge the dope, the liquor, anything that obscures your path to Christ.

  But I’ve…haven’t you ever had a few too many drinks or smoked a little doobie?

  Ann—uh, Jean, I wouldn’t know a marijuana plant from a ficus. And as far as liquor goes…well, yes, back in my college days, I did have the occasional beer or two. But since my sophomore year…well, I just haven’t been interested.

  You’re lucky.

  I’ll tell you what, Ann. You pray extra hard tonight, until you fall asleep from exhaustion, and when you wake up again, start praying. The minute you feel like a drink or a doobie, back on your knees.

  But I—

  Extra hard, Ann. Thanks for calling.

  I don’t exactly know why, but I had kept the particulars of Kristi’s and my high school relationship a secret from everyone, even Darva, and now I was glad, seeing as she howled when I told her Kristi’s tale of redemption.

  “Oh, of course she was with a porn czar named Per!” she said, slapping her knee.

  “Oh, of course she ran drugs for him!” she said, clapping her hands.

  “Oh, of course he beat her up!” she said, holding her stomach as if she feared splitting some internal seams. “And of course she was rescued by a Mexican housekeeper named Mercedes!”

  I know I had promised Kristi to keep whatever she told me secret, but that had been before she told me. Her story was too mind-blowing to keep all to myself, and besides, I knew Darva could keep a secret, even if I couldn’t. But I hadn’t expected her reaction to be so…over the top.

  “Darva, why are you laughing? Kristi went through a lot of shit, and that she survived tells a lot about her character.”

  Shaking her head, Darva held up her hand, a signal for me to please stop; she might laugh so hard she’d hurt herself.

  I was angry and humiliated, not a pleasant combination. How could she be so dismissive of Kristi’s real hardships, and furthermore, how could she be so dismissive of me?

  “I’m glad you’re so amused,” I said hotly, “but she went through hell. And to tell you the truth, I’m a little shocked that you can’t get past all your high school jealousies and have, well, have a little empathy.”

  Darva’s eyes bulged as a paroxysm of laughter overtook her.

  “You disappoint me,” I said, my voice haughty, as if I was a teacher scolding a prize student whom I’d caught drawing an unflattering portrait of me. “I thought if there’s one person who can help me understand the complications of Kristi, it’s you. I thought you had an insight into people. I guess I was wrong.”

  Darva leaned forward, cradling her head in her arms, her shoulders jerking. When she had laughed herself out, she raised her head, wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands.

  “Okay,” she said, a little breathless. “I’m done. I won’t laugh anymore.” Breaking her promise, her face crumpled, but she quickly composed her features and took a deep breath.

  Under her gaze, I sat there, fiddling with the handle of my mug. Flora had just gotten on her school bus and we had been enjoying our coffee before we went to work. When enough time passed without her laughing, I deigned to speak.

  “God knows—no pun intended—I know her ministry thing is weird. I mean, I couldn’t figure it out. But when she told me her story, it made more sense. That’s why I’m so surprised by your reaction.”

  “Do you really think she’s telling the truth?”

  I nodded furiously. “Why would she lie?”

  “I’m sure she thinks she has her reasons,” said Darva. “All I know is I
don’t believe a word of it.”

  “You didn’t hear her,” I said. “Darva, she was sobbing. The only time I’ve ever seen her so shook up is when her grandma died. She wouldn’t—she couldn’t fake it to that degree.”

  With a shrug, Darva gathered our cups and took them to the sink.

  “Pathological liars learn to fake it to any degree that’ll get them believed.”

  “Darva, dramatic things happen to people all the time!” I don’t know why it was so important for me to convince Darva that Kristi was telling the truth, nor did I know why it was so important that I believe Kristi. “Think about it. Why would she drop out like she did? There are all those years when no knew what she was up to—and Kristi loves people knowing what she’s up to.”

  Darva rinsed the cups and set them on the drying rack. “I’ve got to go. The Neilson sisters are leaving for Paris next month and they don’t even know their present tense yet, let alone the future.” Turning toward me, she wiped her hands on the dish towel. “Listen, Joe, I really do try to see the best in people, but as far as Kristi goes, there’s a shadow of deceit that sort of obscures my vision.” She waggled her head, as if pleased by her words. “I don’t know if her becoming the Aimee Semple McPherson of the eighties is a total hoax or ninety-five percent hoax or ninety percent hoax, but believe me, hoax is a big part of the equation. You know that yourself—you remember how hard you laughed when we listened to that tape of her show?”

  I tried to shrug away the fact that I really didn’t have any answer.

  “She’s so fake she makes regular fakes look sincere.” Shaking her head, Darva folded the damp towel, draped it over the oven handle, and grabbed her purse off the table. “Listen, I’ll see you tonight—that is, if you don’t buy a tambourine and run off with Shout Hallelujah!”

  She gave me a big smile along with a kiss on the cheek, but I wasn’t about to return either.

  “Shoppers,” I said after ringing the bell, “for those of you who knew Mr. Emmet Nordlund, you probably know he recently died. It was quick and he was ninety-four, so as far as deaths go, his was pretty good.” I noticed a woman I hadn’t previously seen in the store looking around as if trying to find out where this disembodied obituary was coming from. When she saw me in the window, she looked at me as if I was nuts. I waved to her and continued.

  “Mr. Nordlund’s daughter Janine stopped by with a box of his favorite books and instructed me to give them away to a book lover.”

  There were about two dozen shoppers in the store, and except for the new one who thought I was crazy, they all stood at attention, waiting for instructions.

  “I’ve reached into the box and I’ve got a…” I looked to see what I had pulled out. “I’ve got Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. So the contest is, anyone who can recite a Walt Whitman poem—or part of one—gets the entire box of books. Anybody out there interested?”

  Two housewives in the produce aisle looked at each other, shrugged, and got back to their lettuce and green bean selection.

  The new shopper, shaking her head, reached into the ice cream freezer. Two women and a man in the cereal aisle huddled together briefly but separated with no answer.

  Several regulars let me know they were out of the competition by shaking their heads. I continued scanning the aisles for just one Whitman-memorizing customer.

  There! A man was waving at me by the dish detergents, and…Wait a second, wait a second. Another contender had come into view, holding up a finger as if she was bidding at an auction. It was Mrs. Casey.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it looks as if we have two prize contenders! Will those contenders, and anyone interested in a poetry recital, please meet at Banana Square. Thank you.”

  “Hey, Joe,” said Mrs. Casey as I met her and Clarence Selwin by the six-foot inflatable banana hanging in a little niche by the produce section. It had been given to me as a promotional item from the banana company, and it looked so stupid I just had to display it. It hung behind two easy chairs—people liked to sit in them and arrange their coupons or check over their lists before they began shopping—and was at the right height for most people to reach, which meant it had collected a lot of autographs. (I find that people always enjoy putting their name to something, even a six-foot banana.) Now nearly every shopper in the store gathered at Banana Square, as they did whenever a contest was announced.

  “So,” I said, setting down the box of books, “who wants to start?”

  Clarence Selwin swept the air with his hand. “Ladies’ choice.”

  “Go ahead,” said Mrs. Casey.

  Mr. Selwin, the neighborhood barber, stood with his hands on his hips.

  “‘O Captain! O Captain! our fearful trip is done; the ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won.’”

  He scratched the back of his head and moved his lips soundlessly for a moment before continuing.

  “‘The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting. While…while…’”

  He scratched the back of his head with his other hand now, but it didn’t appear any memory was jogged.

  “‘While…’”

  “‘While follow eyes the steady keel,’” prompted Mrs. Casey.

  Nodding, Mr. Selwin repeated the phrase and added, “‘The vessel grim and daring; but—’”

  Mrs. Casey jumped in, and together they recited, “‘But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead.’”

  The shoppers paused before applauding.

  “There’s more,” said Mr. Selwin. “Not that I remember the rest, but I bet you do.”

  “I love Walt Whitman,” said Mrs. Casey demurely.

  “Recite your poem,” said a customer through cupped hands.

  “Well, all right,” said Kristi’s mother, and with a little toss of her head, she began. “‘It is time to explain myself—let us stand up. What is known I strip away, I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown.’”

  You could have heard a grapefruit drop—which I did, when someone leaned against the citrus display. Still, the thud on the floor didn’t distract everyone from listening closely as Mrs. Casey recited the poem, applauding wildly after she spoke the line “‘Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul.’”

  “Wow,” I said, impressed. “That was quite a treat. But I admit, I’m in a bit of a conundrum. I promised the box of books to anyone who could recite a Walt Whitman poem, and we seem to have two winners.”

  “Oh, give it to her,” said Mr. Selwin. “She helped me remember my poem plus she recited her own.” He turned to her. “Flawlessly I might add.”

  “Well, thank you,” said Mrs. Casey, “but how about we split the box? Does that sound fair, Joe?”

  “Sounds fair to me. I’ll go get an empty box and you two can decide who gets what.”

  The other customers turned their carts around to get back to the business of shopping, and when I returned to my prize winners with another box, they were seated in the two chairs, spreading the books out on the floor in front of them and taking turns choosing which ones they wanted.

  “Look at this, Joe, we’ll each get a dozen books!” said Mr. Selwin, paging through a collection by Theodore Roethke.

  I squatted next to them. “Say,” I said to Mrs. Casey as I watched her choose The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, “what’d you think of Kristi? I thought she looked just like she did in high school—except with more hair, of course.”

  “You saw Kristi?” said Mrs. Casey, her voice rushed.

  “Yes,” I said, and realizing my gaffe, I clumsily tried to change the subject. “So, you’re more partial to modern poets, eh, Mr. Selwin?”

  “I knew she was in town,” said Mrs. Casey, beginning to pack up her books, “but after the fact. I can’t tell you how many people called me after that newspaper article came out!” She struggled to her feet. “But she didn’t call me and she didn’t stop by to see me, which makes
me—” She quickly swiped away a tear with her pointer finger. “Well, it doesn’t make me feel so hot, as you can imagine.”

  Mr. Selwin had been making a big production of piling his books in the box but finally, unable to keep it to himself, muttered, “Kids.”

  “Exactly,” said Mrs. Casey with a laugh.

  I offered to carry her books out to her car, but she said she still had shopping to do and thought she could manage.

  “Come over sometime and tell me about Kristi,” she said. “But for now…now I’m in the mood for poetry. So maybe my opponent…,” she said, nodding toward the former barber.

  “Clarence,” he offered. “Clarence Selwin.”

  “Maybe Clarence and I will recite some more Whitman,” she said.

  “That’ll be easy,” said Mr. Selwin, holding up the copy of Leaves of Grass. “Now that I have my cheat sheet with me.”

  I stood under the banana listening to them take turns reading poems, until a new cashier signaled me that her register was out of tape.

  Good evening, Pat from Ann Arbor. You’re on the air with God.

  Hi, Kristi. Hi, God.

  God says hi back.

  I sure hope so—in fact, that’s sorta why I’m calling. (Long pause)

  Go ahead, Pat, this is radio. We leave the deep silences to philosophy class.

  Oh, okay. (Nervous laugh) Anyways, Kristi, I was wondering, when God answers your prayers, what does He sound like?

  Hmmm. That’s a good question, Pat. What does He sound like to you?

  Well, that’s just it. I’m not sure I hear Him. Every time I try to talk to Him, it’s a pretty one-sided conversation.

  God’s language is beyond words, Pat. When I’m “in conference” with God, I don’t hear Him, but I sense Him. And not the usual sense organs, but with my heart. When you listen to God with your heart, you hear what He’s saying loud and clear.

  Oh. Okay…so I shouldn’t worry that I don’t hear a big booming voice?

  (Chuckles) There isn’t a voice big enough or booming enough to speak for all that God is, Pat. Now find yourself a quiet place, pray, and listen for God’s answer in your heart.