Unfolding

by Jonathan Friesen

  But she never showed the slightest interest in even seeing me, so the whole hero narrative never took. I would have liked to meet her.

  “Did she know about my back?” I tapped my spine with the trowel. “Did she know about me?”

  Ma adjusted the hose. “It’s what she knew that kept her away.”

  I stayed awake all night.

  In the dark of early morning, men bustled, and I carefully closed our cabin door. Time to move. “Stormi, Arthur, get up.”

  Minutes later we joined the comatose shuffling toward the dining hall, myself eager for a little coffee. Any adrenaline I had acquired from the day before had long since seeped away, and I blinked hard as I entered the building.

  Arthur pulled me aside, my body offering little resistance. “You look awful. Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “I was doing fine until an hour ago.” Remembering my family made me tired.

  We took our seats at the head table, and neither Q nor any other man questioned us. All present waited in silence and darkness. I heard the prayer, but it did not enter; heard hushed conversation, but did not try to listen. Coffee. I drank coffee until we all rose.

  We followed the group out into the courtyard, beyond the prayer shed, and onto a rough, stone-paved path that exited the ring of cells. It was too early to care where we walked; my body moved on caffeine and autopilot. The path quickly widened to a patio, and pulling up to it was a familiar squeal. A school bus hauling a beat-up trailer.

  I exchanged hopeful glances with Stormi. Maybe we wouldn’t need Arthur’s plan, not if there was a gassed-up bus at the ready.

  I followed Stormi on board and paused. Winston sat behind the wheel. Whatever crime he committed via his “secret” visit could not have been too heinous, and I doubted him all the more. Winston’s hands did not shift on his lap, nor did his gaze stray from straight ahead, and we took the front two seats, Stormi and I backed by Arthur.

  Loaded, the bus hissed and lurched forward.

  An hour later the sun hinted its arrival and still we jarred onward. It felt doubtful that we were on any sanctioned road, given the lilt of our travel. The bounce and the rock grabbed my senses, pulled them back toward slumber, and when we finally stopped, I was barely coherent.

  “Beautiful,” Stormi whispered, divoting my side with her elbow.

  I forced my eyes open. She was right.

  I rose and stepped out into a garden. The sound of rushing water was the first thing I heard, the sudden explosion of trees and flowers the first thing I saw.

  “Walk around, kids. See what old men hath wrought.” Q’s voice was low, but it turned on a dime. “To your stations, men. Tasks are set. Get to!”

  Men scrambled and clumped near the trailer, grabbing hoes and shovels, shears and buckets.

  “We don’t have any clear direction,” Arthur said.

  Stormi took hold of my arm. “Sure we do. Walk around.”

  Here, I can only ask that you believe this account, though I’d understand if your faith is worn thin. Had I not seen it, I would not have believed such a place existed, certainly not in the barren of the panhandle.

  That sound of water began in the garden’s center, where a shallow lake rippled gently in the breeze. Given the hour, it reflected the red of morning. In the middle of that lake grew an island, tiny and perfect, home to nothing but two beautiful fruit trees.

  Streams trickled out from the lake in four directions, and along the banks grew plants and flowers unseen in Gullary. Everywhere, the men tended and pruned, sculpted and watered.

  The younger men worked the practical garden, alive with grains and vegetables. It was perfect. It was beautiful, and Winston’s warnings felt remote.

  Wish I had my camera.

  We wandered the lakeshore. A rowboat waited, and Stormi nodded toward it.

  “You think we can?”

  “Once again, a child is thinking. This lack of certitude among the younger generation is concerning.” Q stepped out of a thicket, pulled the boat into the water, and climbed aboard, beginning a slow row toward the island. “Do you want to join me, yes or no?”

  “Yes,” I said, and began walking toward him.

  “Don’t you think that’s presumptuous? It’s my island.”

  We watched him row clear out to the middle, climb out onto the tiny spit of land, and set up a rotating chair. From there, Q could spin around and see the entire group; he could monitor every move.

  He could eat from the trees.

  “This whole place is so bizarre.” A hundred feet to our left, four men of near eighty fought with a huge tree, dragging it with fits and gasps toward a pre-dug hole. I started toward them to help, but Stormi grabbed my shoulder.

  “I have to,” I said. “They’re not going to make it. They’re busting in the heat, and Q’s got it easy. It’s not right.” I turned to Stormi, who bit her lip.

  “We need to get out of here,” she said gently.

  I broke free, jogged toward the men, and returned five minutes later, back on fire but staring at a vertical oak.

  “We will. We will leave,” I said while clapping the dirt off my hands, though I lacked conviction. “Of course, bizarre as it is, this garden is beautiful. If there weren’t maybe murderers everywhere, I mean, we could live here. Right here.”

  Stormi sighed. “Describe what you see.”

  “Well, trees, water, pretty much an oasis. Four rivers, two trees.”

  “Garden of Eden.”

  “A bit over the top, Stormi.”

  “Maybe. Do you believe in the story? The Adam and Eve thing?”

  “Ma does, Dad doesn’t, so I’ll go in fifty-fifty.”

  Stormi quieted. “Two trees were there. The tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and the tree of life. They ate from the knowledge tree—”

  “And figured out they were nude. I remember that part.”

  Stormi nodded. “At that moment, sin entered this world. At that moment. What do you think would have happened if they ate from the tree of life after that? I’ll tell you. They would have lived forever. Horrors committed in secret would have lived forever.”

  And here, I cannot tell you what came over her. She eased down to her knees, closed her eyes, and a wash of peace fell over her face. She was transfigured, to use the biggest Bible word I know.

  She opened her eyes, stood, and breathed deep. I maintain that though she didn’t tell me, it was at this moment that she figured it out. She knew what she would one day do.

  “Secret horrors can’t be allowed to live forever,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know about all that God stuff.”

  Stormi winked, returning in all her glory. “How about us? Do you know anything about us stuff?” She paused. “Say that we were alone. No Arthur, no Tres following, and no Gullary looking . . . If you and I were really a you and me, what would you do first?”

  I thought a moment. Maybe it was the scenery, or Stormi’s full attention. Maybe it was the urging of Genesis to be fruitful and multiply. “I’d, uh, I’d try, well, after asking, of course, to maybe kiss you. Maybe?”

  “And second?”

  “It would kind of depend on how the first thing went.”

  “Let’s assume it went well. Very well.”

  “Huh.” I puffed out air. “I don’t let myself dwell on those type of moments. I’m not Connor, you know.”

  Moment lost. As I look back, this may be the most painful of them all.

  Stormi bristled. It wasn’t until twenty long paces stretched between us that I realized what I had done.

  “Stormi, I, I didn’t mean to say that. I mean, I shouldn’t have brought him up, or to make you think about all that. Crap.”

  She was gone, gone from sight, and gone from hope.

  “Kid, here’s your shovel.”

  Don’t need one. I’m digging deep on my own.

  I turned, and a bald, fifty-something held out the tool. “Lots of work today. Good that you’re
here.”

  “Yeah, well, right now, I need to talk to Stormi before I can do anything else.”

  “Love waits. Q don’t.” He grabbed my arm and hauled me into the nearby field. Rich, black dirt gave easily beneath my feet, and I glanced over my shoulder in time to see Stormi reappear behind a clump of trees. She stopped and held my gaze.

  “Move, kid. Planters are comin’. We got a hole to dig.”

  He plunged his shovel into the dirt, and straightened, leaning on the handle. “Your turn.”

  “So I dig anywhere?”

  “No, fool, right there.” He nodded downward, and I positioned my feet, bent, and dug out a scoop. My back throbbed.

  I was too far away to flash Stormi an I’m-just-a-stupid-guy look, so I set my mind to digging. “What number do I call you?”

  He glanced around. “No number while we’re in a hole. Saul will do.”

  Another thrust, and another. Together we dug one foot. Three feet, widening as we dug. Sweat poured down, but I did not stop: Stormi was still watching. Half a day passed and the hole neared five feet deep, and a similar distance around.

  “We planting another tree?” I paused, and crumpled, leaning down against the inside of the hole. Saul peeked over the edge and did the same.

  “Ain’t for us to know.” He scratched in the dirt with his fingers, crusted red with Oklahoma earth. “Nothing asked, nothing required, exceptin’ to dig.” He stared up at the blue sky and sighed.

  I leaned forward, silencing the scream of my vertebrae, searching for any question that’d buy me an extra minute before my next scoop. “How long you been here?”

  “Long? Since the start. Some days, seems too long. Others, not long enough.”

  “Do you ever think of leaving?”

  Saul’s gaze searched me. He was looking for something; I felt it. But he didn’t find it, and let his head fall back against the inside of the pit. “Every day, but there’s nothing for me out there. Here, I got work to do.”

  “These holes?”

  He scoffed. “Prayer work. Don’t expect you to make sense of it.”

  “In the prayer shed.”

  Saul rubbed his face, gave the ground some light jabs with his shovel. “Some memories you don’t dig up ‘lessen you have to.” He shifted, his face aging before my eyes. “I was so young, you know, the youngest. A dumb kid like you—no offense. Didn’t know it would go down as it did. I don’t think anyone really knew.” He paused and looked off. “Maybe Q. Maybe Q knew.”

  “What went down? What happened? Was it in Gullary?”

  He waggled his finger, and then gently backhanded my chest. “Sneaky, you are. Get an old man tired and unhinged in the heat.” He slowly rose.

  “Do you know Tres?”

  Saul dropped down quickly to a knee. “Some names you best not say in the Hive. Come on, orders are to go down another foot.”

  Together we deepened and widened the hole. Moments later, a rope ladder was lowered and we climbed out. Dirty, smelly, but worked. And the work felt good. I felt good.

  I followed Saul to the lake, took off my outer clothes and climbed in along with all the others. Arthur was washing some distance away; I didn’t see Stormi, but believe me, I looked.

  “What happened to you?”

  Old fingers reached out and touched my spine. I recoiled. “That’s not really your business.” He nodded, offered a sympathetic smile and I softened.

  “It’s, uh, scoliosis. Bad case.”

  “Sorry, kid. Gotta be a painful way to live.”

  My eyes burned, and not from sweat. I plunged down beneath the surface. There, tears did come, and in a strange baptism, they were washed away. Some ancient hand had touched me, had compassion on me, and emotion overwhelmed. It came in splashes and waves unrecognizable. Sure, Stormi’s hand brought comfort, but I tell you I’d never felt her fingers reach in that deep.

  Ma would later say that I felt the touch of God. I don’t know about that. I do know these old guys saw me, uncovered, and what they saw caused them to reach out, not run away.

  When I finally brought myself to emerge, my wrinkled god was once again scrubbing, while a few nearby men offered sharp nods and safe glances. Yeah, I could live here with Stormi, surrounded by this new mercy. They may have been murderers and rapists, but they didn’t violate my condition.

  They left my heart intact.

  A sudden splash of water struck my eyes, and when I opened them, the lake was spinning.

  Not in water. Not . . . here.

  I sloshed toward shore, but made it only two steps before Old Rick took me. Bubbles and gasping on the heels of a miracle. Then no more.

  I came to in the cabin, dressed in oversized jeans and an undersized T-shirt. Stormi gently stroked my head, her words calming despite her message.

  “Your seizures are stronger than they were. They take you longer and more often.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You could go . . . you could go back if you wanted to. Your seizures would improve if you did.” Her voice quieted. “You belong there. You don’t need to stay with me. I’m so sorry I dragged you into this.”

  “But it was Tres—”

  “I don’t think Tres cares much about you.”

  I slipped in and out of consciousness, but when next I woke, Old Rickety had released me. Stormi hadn’t.

  “I’m not going back. Not now.” I winced my back into a different position. “I just got good at diggin’ a hole. What’d you do today?”

  “Nothing. But I stayed near you.” She lowered her voice. “There’s something disturbing here, even more than we were told. We shouldn’t separate.”

  I thought about the hole, the kindness shown me in the lake. “Friendliest place I’ve ever been.” I propped myself on an elbow. “Arthur, what’d they have you do?”

  “Builder. They called me a builder.” He raised his hand and showed off his callous. “It was basic, simple assembly-line organization. Choppers, planers, followed by builders. Guys chopped down a few trees. Others planed them into rough boards. Builders assembled and nailed the boards together into a crate.”

  Stormi bit her lip. “How big was your crate?”

  “Big enough to lie down in.”

  “You built a coffin, Arthur.” Stormi rubbed her forearms. “And Jonah, you dug the hole. What did you think was going to be planted there, a twenty-foot turnip?”

  “I’m no gravedigger.” I shook my head. “If that’s what we were doing, Saul would have told me.”

  “If he knew,” said Stormi.

  Right. If he knew.

  “Let’s assume Stormi’s right.” Arthur scratched his head. “It would be logical that someone is going in the crate. Someone’s going in the ground. It could be me. I pried information from Michael Queene.”

  “Or me.” Stormi folded her hands. “It’s me Tres is after.”

  “Or me.”

  I didn’t really think it would be me. There was no reason to stick me in the hole, but it seemed the right thing to say.

  We sat and thought in silence, until Stormi and I exchanged glances, and spoke in unison. “Winston.”

  “They have no need to get rid of us.” Stormi stood. “We’re the bait for Tres.”

  “Tres doesn’t know if we’re dead or not,” I offered.

  Stormi raised her eyebrows. “Doesn’t he? He’s coming. We need to leave. Tonight. Jonah, while you slept off your seizure, Arthur went to dinner. He knows which cell holds the keys. He knows where the gas is. We leave tonight.”

  Plans were changing so quickly. Besides, they didn’t have all my information.

  “Wait. There’s another old guy here who touched my back, and I’m telling you neither Saul or him or the others at the lake would, well, they wouldn’t hurt anyone!” I was suddenly furious, and took a deep breath. “The wrinkled one he . . . sort of changed me.”

  Stormi took my hand. “You’re doing it again. You believe everything you hear or experience. You thi
nk the best of everyone. Snap out of it and assume the worst, please, for us.”

  “Don’t fight. Let me collect what we need,” Arthur said. “Jonah, upon further thought, it’s my fault we’re out here. I let Tres out of SMX. He’s the one causing you all this trouble. I did that.”

  I shook my head, still stinging from Stormi.

  “I’ll see you soon with what we need.” Arthur slowly slipped from the room.

  “Where are you?” Stormi looked betrayed, her eyes holding less for me. “Still with me?”

  “I’m sure I’m too naïve to answer that.”

  I, too, slipped out, powered by anger. So I trusted people. What was wrong with that? I paced a bit, slowing at the sight of the prayer shed. It had been taunting me since our arrival, since Q had denied me entrance.

  For the first time, I moved through the compound without fear. Purpose gives a guy courage, and I reached the door and ducked inside.

  Candlelight lit the room, a space large, simple, and without focus. The room presented no front or back. Church pews filled the shed, facing outward, worshiping each of the four walls. And on those walls, displayed in poster-sized frames, were photos. Pictures of teens. My-aged teens. Guys and girls.

  Beneath each photo was a table, on which lay one knife, one bowl, and a towel. I marched right, and stopped in front of an especially beautiful girl, one I swore I’d seen before.

  “You almost look Stormi-ish.”

  Behind me, the door creaked, and I dropped to the floor, crawling awkwardly beneath a pew. There I tried to straighten—to become parallel with the bench—as they provided little cover, but my hunch prevented me. Footsteps, slow and heavy, moved toward the far end of the room. Oak creaked, and I rolled over and sat up, my sight line skimming the top of the backrests. Even from behind, I knew the shape well.

  I’d spent the day with him in a hole.

  I relaxed. Saul was a friend. All day he showed kindness, certainly contrition. I thought to stand and join him. Then the sound started. Deep and sorrowful and filled with pain. A sob; he was sobbing. It wasn’t a sob I had entertained in my life. This one came from a place I didn’t know, and never wanted to visit. It was a sob from hell.