High as the Horses' Bridles: A Novel

by Scott Cheshire

  “You’re not taking a plane.”

  “Shit. Are they even flying planes?” I said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Shit, shit, shit. Can I talk to her?”

  “She doesn’t like the phone anymore. The radio waves, who knows…”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Josiah?”

  “Yeah.” Biting my lip.

  “You feel okay?”

  “It’s a lot at once. Jesus. I can see Mom’s face, I swear, like she’s right here in front of me.”

  “God is Giver of Tests. I’ve been saying this for years. We should not. Be here. I’ve been honing our worship.”

  “I’ll tell Sarah about Mom. I’ll call you back, and see about a plane. The doctors said how bad?”

  “I told Sarah. She thought you should know immediately.”

  I held the phone away from me for a few moments, and then I put it back so I could hear.

  “Josiah?” he said. “Your mother, she wants to go home, and her body knows it. But up here”—I pictured him pointing at his head—“she can’t see it.”

  “Well, I don’t want Mom going home. Or anywhere, but staying right here.”

  “You shouldn’t be way out there,” he said.

  For Dad, the fact that Manifest Destiny had moved westward meant that back east is, was, and forever would be the only real deal, God’s One Manifest American Fingerprint. Everything after was blasphemy, half-ass imitation, poor and poorer servings of our Good Lord’s perfect recipe. And L.A. County was the red swollen cherry on a shameful sinful sundae. He never did visit me.

  “I’ll look into flights,” I said. “And I’ll get there as soon as possible. No matter what it costs.” Money wasn’t a problem then. The paranoiac software bubble around Y2K had been actually good for business. But after the planes, business took an overwhelming nosedive. Plus the Internet. Amad told me we had to start embracing the Internet, and I was stupidly nonplussed. I got more depressed, and I convinced myself—which is not exactly true, is it, because it’s not like we ever formally sit down and convince ourselves of anything, but my behavior certainly did speak of something out loud—I realized something: I felt guilt! Guilty about the planes. Which were in no way my fault, of course, but still I was racked with a personal guilt, like it was me sitting in the cockpit, as if they were only responding to my polite request for Armageddon decades before, and I felt more guilty, cripplingly so, about that brief but utterly corrupt and fleeting sense of satisfaction with regard to their belated-by-a-year but successful arrival. God forgive me. I even felt guilty about Mom, like I was the one who made her sick. Why did it take such a long time for me to see how self-centered all this was? Why was this the kind of lesson I’d always learn and forget, learn and forget? I was also feeling guilty for being so selfish with Sarah, for not being man enough to own my own destiny. Have a child, Josie, and bring some new joy into this world.

  I eventually learned all this, and indeed I took it into my stupid heart, but not before the melodrama totally soured Sarah and me; and not before Sarah got pregnant; and not before we did not keep it; and not before all of this gave way to anger, so much displaced anger. And thus, hence, my “Mad Max” period, so called by Sarah, because I was mad at everything I saw and acted like the world was “nothing but dead bones and dust,” her words (I wasn’t the only one who could be dramatic). We fought fiercely about every fucking thing under the sun, except what mattered.

  We split for good.

  And then we tried again. Split. And tried again. We did this for years. We eventually divorced.

  Then Mom died, a long and slow and eventual demise that felt more like she just went to sleep, and finally she never woke up. What she’d wanted all along. Losing Mom weirdly cushioned the divorce proceedings, probably because, well, the worst possible news certainly lessens the impact of just bad news, and also because I’d somehow gotten it into my head that if Sarah stayed in my life she would almost certainly die.

  There is a sad and ironic sort of symmetry regarding Sarah’s pregnancy, how after years of talking over the idea, it was only later on, after arguments and insults, and at least one assault with a kitchen utensil, that my seed took root in her womb as a result of what felt like goodbye-forever sex, both of us neck deep already in a trial separation, and that we didn’t keep it, and how it was this whole distressing scenario that flung us back and forth at each other, for years afterward, until one day we realized our marriage had actually died long before. I’m told the procedure wasn’t as physically painful or emotionally traumatic as it might have been if she had not decided and acted so quickly. I’m not so sure. I drove her home from the clinic.

  My immediate response to hearing she was pregnant was the last thing she’d (or I’d) expected: “Let’s keep it,” I said. “Please.” I look back at this now and, sure, I see how desperate I was. Maybe a baby would have fixed us. Sarah knew better than I did, so we wound up talking about it for hours and hours. I was also worried it might be my only chance, the Laudermilks’ last chance for survival. I didn’t mention this. The procedure took place inside of the first four weeks. And regardless of what the doctor said, and the pamphlets, and the websites, and what Sarah said, too, who promised it would all be fine, it was an awful morning all around. She spent the remainder of the day in the bathroom. She let me help her in, and prepare the water, get it warm, and hang a bath towel and a robe within reach.

  She asked me to leave.

  I stood there at the door for a long time, listening for signs of anything I could do that might be helpful. I talked to her some, too. But she wouldn’t answer for a long time, and then she said, “I love you, Josie.”

  Stammering, I said it back. “I love you, too.”

  “But you have to leave me alone now. Okay? I’ll know if you’re by the door. Promise you’ll leave for a while. Please.”

  I did. And then the doorbell rang.

  “Go,” she said.

  I went into the bedroom, stepped over the treadmill, and looked out the window.

  At first I didn’t realize what I was seeing, and then I questioned whether or not I was guessing correctly. There were two young men standing at our door.

  I looked at them, sort of in disbelief, at the timing mostly. I waited.

  They rang the bell again.

  They wore dark suits, flat shoulder bags propped between their feet. They didn’t lift their heads. One had a Bible in his hands, the edges of its pages glistening in the afternoon sun. The other had a magazine rolled in his grip. It was clear: two Jehovah’s Witnesses, my father’s former brothers, and my ancestors in a way. I watched them moved on to Bev’s door. They rang her bell, and waited. Knocked. And then they moved on to Charlie’s door. I thought of Sarah who was not but two rooms away, and found myself suddenly offended by the intrusion. I wanted a smoke. But then, unexpectedly, a very small part of me also wanted to open the window and call down to them, ask the young men inside, and offer them water, a chair. It was like my past had come knocking and here I was looking at it.

  I went over to the bathroom door, tapped gently. “I’m gonna step outside.”

  She didn’t answer.

  I went downstairs, opened the door to the courtyard, and said loudly, while lighting a cigarette, nonchalant, “Can I help you?”

  The taller one turned, and said: “Good morning.”

  He walked over to me, and placed his shoulder bag on the ground. He was maybe nineteen, and had the delicate face of an adolescent with allergies. He motioned his partner over, and said, “My friend Gerard and I were in the neighborhood and we’re sharing some good news for a change. Isn’t this a fantastic day? Are you a Bible-reading man?” He opened his and flipped through its pages.

  I turned and blew smoke behind me, but a breeze sent it back over my head like a hood. I started coughing.

  He said, “If you’re in no mood to talk, that’s fine. Just one scripture, and we’ll leave you be on this fine
day.”

  I noticed a spot of unshaved whisker beneath the left side of his jaw. A pimple. The thinner end of his tie was hanging too long from behind, tucked inside his pants. I was still coughing. I cleared my throat. “What’s your name?”

  He closed the book. “Bart. And you, sir?” He put out his hand.

  I took and vigorously shook it. “Josie,” I said and looked up at the bedroom window. He looked up with me, followed my gaze.

  “Forget something?”

  “Bad day,” I said.

  “Even the bad days are a gift.”

  I looked at him. “I suppose.” I looked up at the sky, and then back at him. I was starting to sweat. I wiped my forehead.

  “Can we help at all?” he asked, looking at Gerard, at me.

  This took me aback. “With what?”

  “You tell us,” Bart said. “You’d be surprised how much comfort the scriptures offer.” He was kind of glorious there in the bright wash of morning, palm fronds painting low shadows on his sunlit suit. He said, “There’s always a cause for sadness, right? It’s the nature of an earthly life. But a spiritual life can be joyful, too. Our Heavenly Father loves me. He loves you. I know His love, and this”—he presented the world: trees, sky, and sun—“all of this was made for me.”

  Gerard said, “I have this knowledge, too.”

  This touched me. It really did, to really know something, to be so sure of something like this. I don’t know what I’d expected from them, but it was nothing like this. Back in my younger and angrier years, whenever I saw the Witnesses, I felt either a great sadness, a pitiful and frustrated sadness for them, but also for myself because I was clearly projecting, or I felt a fast-abating fury, for lots of irrational reasons, one quick blast of invisible anger directed right at them, and also of course directed right at me. We don’t like to see who we were, or who we still are in the places buried deep within us. But here they were at my door, and what did I feel? I was jealous! Jealous for their abiding assurance. Plus I was truly moved, I have to say, because I saw Bart really meant it. He wanted to comfort me. He wanted to help.

  “My wife is ill,” I said. “But thanks. And you guys,” I was looking for the right words. “You’re doing fine work. Just wanted to say hi, I guess.” We were silent for a few awkward moments, our three heads warming in the sun.

  Bart said, “We can just say hi. Like people.” Gerard laughed.

  There was a white dusting of what looked like doughnut powder on Bart’s left lapel, and I saw Gerard was slightly paler than his partner. A thick blue vein ran along the length of his neck like a power cord. I backed up a few steps, and stopped. Stood there. They stood there, too. What was I waiting for? What did I expect? Time bent all around us, and I realized this easily could’ve been me—I could’ve been Bart. I was Bart. And he was me.

  Bart looked at his watch. He said, “Well, we’ll leave you to your wife. I hope she feels better. Maybe we’ll stop by again sometime. And just talk. I might even use my Bible!” He laughed, putting his bag back on his shoulder. He patted Gerard’s arm.

  He said, “Josie, right? You know, the scriptures do make a promise. This life is not all there is. And I promised you a scripture.” Then he recited: “And he will wipe out every tear from their eyes, and death will be no more. There be no more sorrow, and no crying, pain will be no more. The former things have passed away.”

  Memory washed over me like a slow wave. “Revelation,” I said. “Chapter twenty-one.”

  Bart made a face—he was impressed.

  “Your wife,” he said. “I hope she feels better soon. And remember, one day, you won’t have to worry about that anymore. That’s what He says, anyway.” His eyes looked skyward, and he put out his hand again.

  I took it.

  “You’re not afraid of anything, are you?” I said. “Not even death.”

  We were still holding hands.

  He said, “There are plenty of things worse than death.”

  I let go, and I stood there, looking at this young man, at the two of them, and I’m sure they were wondering, What’s wrong with this guy? What’s he standing around for? I thought of Sarah upstairs, all alone, and how I so wanted to be up there with her, right beside her, and I thought of the child, or not the child, exactly, but the idea of the child we might have had, and how it was only just that, an idea, a nothing, and not really here at all, and yet it was all I could think about so, in a way, it was right there in front of me. I actually started to cry. I wiped my face.

  Bart said, “You want us to stay?”

  “Funny,” I said, “the strangest thing I just thought of. My father took me to a funeral, when I was a kid.”

  They were interested.

  I said, “Not really a funeral, more like a wake for one of the neighborhood kids. About my age. He just disappeared one day. A year goes by and they figured we’d better have a service. Cleared the whole living room of furniture. No coffin.”

  Gerard said, “That’s so sad.”

  Bart said, “There’s no guarantee this side of Armageddon. But your little friend, he’ll be on the other side. Waiting, and all made new.”

  I smiled at the thought, but I also realized, if this were in fact true, how strange it would be if he were raised still a child.

  Sun splintered up there on the bedroom window, and I figured there had to be another kind of time, aside from what I imagined eternity is, or infinity is, and aside from our few years here on earth, a kind of time outside us, because I could pull a memory like fruit from a branch. I could reach for little Issy’s face like an apple, and there he was.

  Now Bart was talking about Armageddon, and how it would be good news for some.

  I listened and was all of a sudden filled up with love for them both. I wanted to take them by the shoulders and shake them. I wanted to promise them a day would come when they would see the hard ground for the first time, really see it, and the sky, and the water, and if they were lucky, it would break their hearts. I wanted to promise them that on that day, your heads would fill up with fear, and with love, and that one day you’ll get married, and you’ll never guess how vicious things get in love, and if you’re not careful, your wife will rightfully brain you with a pasta spoon, and talk of possible futures without you, and you will eventually come around, but it’ll be way too late, and the floor will fall away from your feet. But who was I to promise such a thing? We were standing there, all quiet, and then I saw something: I saw fear in their eyes, I knew it, a natural human fear. I turned away from them. And looked up again. I faced the bedroom window, and closed my eyes, and I thought of Sarah and her claustrophobia, and I hoped she felt secure and safe and warm in her bath, but if someone ever asked if she was afraid of confined spaces, she would always answer, Absolutely not. This was a fear so ingrained, so embedded in her cells, that it only simply existed, was taken for granted, like the blood in her veins or the flesh on the soles of her feet. A fear like this is a hole, a blind spot, a negative space, and it makes itself knowable only by implication, by habit, by her choosing stairwells over elevators, by her avoidance of underwater tunnels whenever possible, and by her long lone runs into infinite space, no walls or ceilings anywhere. I opened my eyes, and saw her up there, my sweet wife, it was Sarah; how easy it is to forget how much and why we love who we love. She was standing at the bedroom window. A faint trace of a smile. She waved, just the barest suggestion of a wave, a slow and tired show of her palm, like she was saying goodbye. I turned, and the young men were gone.

  Three hours I stayed in that storeroom. Three hours before coming out for air, and for lunch, and for something to drink because I was thirsty—and what did I find? Cold coffee, a crumpled brown paper bag, and a burrito half-congealed with cheese, poking out its head from a foil sleeping bag. All of this looking lonely on a cardboard box outside the storeroom door.

  “What’s this?”

  “What?” Amad was plugging in the vacuum.

  “This. Cold.
” I was sipping the coffee. “Totally cold. You couldn’t tell me it was here? Where’s Teri?”

  “You missed her. Running errands.” The vacuum turned on, vrooming loud like a go-cart, and he pressed the thing with his foot so the top part with the bag unlocked from the sucking part and he pushed it around in front of him. “And you said to leave you alone!”

  I shook my head. “I win fair and square. And cold.”

  He wasn’t listening or couldn’t hear me, just kept pushing the vacuum. Something small, hard, and metallic rattled up inside it.

  I’d made some progress, planned an order, and filled a garbage bag with what we should have realized was garbage long ago. The floor was now showing through. I took a bite of the burrito. Delicious. And so I was a little annoyed that I could no longer be as annoyed as I had been with Amad for letting it get cold. What is it about California burritos? Why can’t the other forty-nine states get it right? Or even close? Why can’t they master a tortilla so it doesn’t fall apart in your hands like a hot wet salad? And avocado everywhere. If you don’t love avocado, then I pity your soul, and your soul’s lack of green supple goodness. On every California plate like how New York puts parsley. It’s generous. No pale ribbing of kale for a garnish. I mean, even the garnish was gorgeous, and it waited in a small plastic-covered cup at the bottom of the bag. But bring me hot sauce. Always hot sauce.

  “No hot sauce?” I shouted over the vroom.

  “What?” Amad shouted back, didn’t turn around, and kept pushing.

  I couldn’t think straight it was so loud, so I grabbed the coffee and took my lunch outside, figuring I should try Dad again. I waved to Amad, pointing at my ears, “I can’t hear you,” and then to the door, “Be outside.” I set the bag and burrito on the bench, sipped my coffee.

  It was a lovely day, and the sky seemed a bit dark for so early. I called him. No answer. I called him again. No answer. It wasn’t like he had a message service or a machine because God knows the man would never use one because he didn’t care to, or he refused to learn how, or for some other irrational reason, and he’d say something like If I can talk, we’ll talk. If I’m there, we’ll talk. How can we talk if I’m not even there? This literalism always drove me nuts.