A Thousand Miles from Nowhere

by John Gregory Brown

  Oh God. He got dressed and walked down to the office. Latangi wasn’t there, so he stepped behind the desk and knocked on the door to her apartment. “I’m so sorry,” he said when she opened the door wearing a dark red nightdress, a gold-and-red-striped robe pulled over it, askew. She straightened the robe, pulled its gold belt tighter, pushed her hair away from her face. She smiled.

  “Good morning to you, Mr. Henry.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said again. He hadn’t even looked at the time.

  “Yes, Mr. Henry?”

  “I gave Mohit’s poem to Amy. To read.”

  “Yes,” Latangi said, smiling.

  “I left it with her,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, nodding. “Okay. That is fine.”

  “I just thought I should tell you,” he said. “I was worried. I didn’t know if that was it, if there was another copy, if something happens to this one.”

  “No, no, Mr. Henry. Do not worry. It is all on the computer. One click and”—she made a whirring noise—“each page emerges from the printer. No problem at all.”

  Henry sighed in relief, in exhaustion. Of course it was on the computer. How ridiculous to have not figured this out.

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

  Latangi looked at him a moment, then she stepped forward and spread her arms wide.

  “Oh, Mr. Henry,” she said. “Here, here. So many worries. I wish I could do something for you.”

  He heard the rat-tat-tat of Father Ferguson’s pipe on the desk. Your problem, Garrett.

  He stepped into Latangi’s embrace.

  Your problem, Garrett, is that you can’t think straight.

  He felt like a child, as though she were holding him as she would a child.

  “Please, please, Mr. Henry,” she said. “Inside. I would like my tea. And you—coffee, yes?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” he said, and he felt her let him go.

  He followed her inside.

  “Well, I have news for you, Mr. Henry. But it can wait a few moments—” She drifted off into the kitchen and left Henry in the living room, still crowded with stacks and stacks of import items: leather elephants and camels and giraffes, wicker baskets and wooden spoons and colored glass paperweights, tin cigar boxes painted with Hindu gods: Shiva and Parvati and Ganesh, dozens of others. Latangi had told him stories about so many of these gods that Henry had trouble separating one story from the next. He did remember her telling him that Shiva was the husband of Parvati and father to Ganesh and that he was usually depicted as being blue because in order to save the world from destruction, he had calmly swallowed all of the world’s poisons. Parvati had feared the harm this would cause her husband, so she’d gripped his neck and squeezed his throat. He was saved, but his skin was forever stained.

  “It’s a beautiful color,” Henry had said to Latangi, looking at a painting in her apartment of Shiva holding a trident, a cobra curled around his neck, another wrapped in his hair. “Aquamarine?” he said. “Turquoise?”

  “Beautiful, yes,” Latangi had said, “but only if you are one who is content to live this life with blue skin. I do not think I would be.”

  “Well, at least it’s a great story,” Henry had said.

  “Yes, yes,” Latangi had replied. “‘It is the power of the story, not its truth,’ Mohit would tell me. ‘A story’s greatness,’ he would say—and, you see, he wags his finger like an old schoolteacher—‘is measured by how wide and deep and far the earth shakes when words are spoken.’ Wise, yes, my Mohit?”

  “Yes,” Henry had agreed.

  Now Latangi emerged from the kitchen with a tray—her teapot and cup, his mug of coffee, some thick slices of bread. “So you have visited your Amy?”

  Henry nodded.

  “That is good, yes?”

  “Not so much,” he said.

  “It is only time,” Latangi said. “You will see. She will return to you.” She set her teacup down, sat, and folded her hands in her lap.

  “You have something to tell me,” Henry said.

  Latangi looked down at her hands.

  “Something important,” Henry said. “Yes?”

  Latangi nodded but sat there quietly.

  Henry had never seen her at a loss for words, and he wondered if perhaps she was going to tell him that he must move out, that she could no longer afford to have him occupying a room for no charge, that the little bit of work he was doing for her—making deliveries, going to the grocery, hauling trash and broken furniture to the landfill—wasn’t enough. Or maybe she too had decided that he was crazy—the hours and hours he spent reading in Mohit’s study, the promise he’d made to Mrs. Hughes about the money he’d get her. Or maybe he’d frightened a guest; maybe he’d appeared to be lurking in the parking lot. He thought then, for the first time in weeks, of Clarissa Nash, the girl he’d imagined, the terrible desire he’d felt, the awful dark raging conflagration of desire. Had he made some woman feel as though he were dangerous, as though he might attack her? Who, though, could it be? The guests at the Spotlight—the salesmen and utility workers, the illicit couples, the young families with their little children, the haunted men—there was no one to whom he would have signaled such a thing. Loneliness, maybe. Yes, loneliness. But not desire. He’d felt free of it. He’d wanted only peace; he felt he had been restored to himself, restored to wanting only Amy.

  “So I will be leaving,” he heard Latangi say. “This. The Spotlight. Virginia.”

  He didn’t understand. He hadn’t been listening. He’d been attending to his own thoughts, to the clamor inside his head, the cacophony: Tomas Otxoa through the cracked window; his father playing the bass; the parking lot’s fluorescent light flickering; the carpet’s dark paisley design; Father Ferguson and cherry pipe smoke, the rat-tat-tat on the desk and his mother, in bed, paint-smeared; the scent of liniment, of linseed, of lilac.

  Lilac. In Latin, Syringa vulgaris. Where, from whom, would he have learned such a thing? From Amy? One of her books?

  “What?” he said. “I’m sorry. I was lost. Could you please start again?”

  And so she did start again. She told him everything she’d already said—that Mohit’s brother had followed the path that Mohit had forsaken. Iri was a physician, a neonatologist, one who cared for tiny babies in a Calcutta hospital, and he had a year ago been widowed and they, she and Iri, had seen one another at Mohit’s funeral and then again at his daughter’s wedding in Toronto, just three months ago, and he had made his proposition then and she had considered and considered it, had read and read Mohit’s poem for the wisdom it might offer—Mohit, who had loved and respected his brother Iri, who had of course loved and respected her, who would have told her, she now believed, that it was good and just and proper that she should be cared for by his brother, by blood of his blood, and that this union would be one of mournful joy, for his brother and his wife to share their loss and make this new life together.

  Henry placed his hands over Latangi’s hands.

  “Thank you, Mr. Henry,” she said. “Thank you. You cannot know this, but it is your presence here, your recognition of Mohit’s wisdom in his poems, that has enabled me to feel certain in this decision. Thank you. Yes, thank you.”

  She lowered her head and began weeping, and Henry moved closer so that she could lean forward and place her head on his shoulder, so he might offer to her whatever little comfort he could simply by being there beside her. He continued to hold her hands in his own. He remembered the henna, the faint traces she’d had on her hands when he’d met her. Would they be painted again when she married?

  “When?” he asked her, and she understood.

  “Soon,” she said. “Soon.” And she rested her head against Henry’s, her forehead against his cheek.

  Back in his room he lay down, shut his eyes against the morning light. He must get to New Orleans, try to save Tomas Otxoa. But Latangi was leaving. Soon, she’d said. He would have nowhere to live, nowhere to which he mi
ght return. He had no car, no money. And Amy was certain again that he had lost his mind, and she wasn’t wrong, was she? Soon, soon. How could he save Tomas when he could not save himself, when he could not offer Tomas or Amy or Mrs. Hughes or her grandson Katrell or her grandson with the withered arm—what was his name? He couldn’t remember—he could not offer a single other person a moment’s solace or comfort? Though he had at least offered some small morsel of it to Latangi, her head on his shoulder, weeping for all she had lost though she whispered to him that she was not sorrowful, she was not. This Virginia, she had said, this Ganesha—and she had wept and wept and finally raised her head, dried her eyes, and said, Yes, this Ganesha Motel. What do I know of such things?

  The Ganesha Motel, Henry had said, nodding.

  Let it be so for its final days, she had said, nodding with him.

  He had comforted her, assured her that he would help however he could help. He did not tell her, though, that he, too, was leaving, that he must leave. He had meant to tell her, to say that he had seen a man who needed rescuing and that he knew no one else who could do it, who would even believe that he had seen what he’d seen and what it might mean: the manuscript, another manuscript perhaps like Mohit’s, there in New Orleans, in all the wreck and ruin. A story’s greatness, Mohit had asserted, was measured by how much the earth shook by its very presence. What did it mean that the earth seemed to shake and shake, to be opening now beneath his feet, as it must have opened beneath Mohit’s as he wrote his great work, as it must have opened beneath Tomas’s, this brave and desperate man clutching those pages to his chest?

  Even if he was wrong, didn’t he need to try to save this one man, though he could not save even himself?

  Didn’t he need to do this, at least this?

  Well?

  Yes.

  Fifteen

  HERE HE was. Let the soft eyes open.

  It had taken nearly a week but here he was, in Marge’s red convertible, her candy-red baby, and Marge there with him, behind the wheel, the two of them flying down Interstate 81, the top down, and with them, in the backseat, wind in his face, eyes wide at the wonder, Katrell Sparrow. Wasn’t that the earth opening now before them? Wasn’t it opening now like the newest flower?

  Here they were.

  Let the soft eyes open, he heard in his head. Were these Mohit’s words? No, from another poet, from a poem he’d taught his students—forever ago. If they have lived in a wood, it is a wood. He let the words come. If they have lived on plains, it is grass rolling under their feet forever.

  And the highway rolled by beneath them.

  He was tired of resisting. Let the words come, the images. Let sound and music, clamor and clatter. Anything. The thump of the bass, his father’s callused fingers; Mary singing to little children, her hips shimmying; Amy, in the kitchen, laughing, stirring, spoons clanging, a dozen different scents: rosemary, basil, garlic, onion, thyme. Sit at His feet and be blessed. Make a way out of no way. He would welcome all of it, see it all as wonder. If he had managed all of this, wasn’t anything possible?

  Ulysses. Ishmael. Don Quixote. Gilgamesh. Lawrence of Arabia. The dogs and cat in that children’s movie, The Incredible Journey. All the same story. There wasn’t any other.

  First had been Marge. She had wanted the chance to see it for herself. She wanted to get the word back to her congregation, see it firsthand and report on what they could do, why their help was so desperately needed, not just for Henry’s sake now, she’d tell them, but for any and all others—any and all others—who found themselves in dire need, who found themselves lost or alone in this world, forlorn or forsaken.

  Charlie had needed some convincing, Marge told Henry. He’d needed assurances she wasn’t running off with a younger man—Oh, how I wish! Marge said she’d told him and then laughed her wicked laugh so Charlie would know she was just teasing—and once he’d given the trip his blessing, which meant rolling his eyes and then shaking his head, she’d started gathering contributions from her congregation lickety-split, ten- and twenty- and fifty-dollar bills, rolls of quarters, personal checks, a dozen Sacagawea coins taped to a piece of cardboard, jars of nickels and dimes. And not just from her church but from across the county. She knew near everybody, she told Henry. Rusty Campbell had made a gift—“a significant one, I’m here to tell you,” she said—and Latangi Chakravarty had as well, and Judge Martin and Sheriff Roland and Wayne and Robert at the Elkwood Salon where she had her hair done every week and each one of the tellers at First Marimore Bank and from plenty of others, regular folks, and she’d given what she could give too.

  She’d told everyone—every last one of them, she said—that she and Mr. Henry Garrett were going to find someone in need, whether near or far, and make this offering in the name of the good Lord’s kindness and generosity and mercy, no matter who it was or where or when, for whoever you feed or clothe or comfort you do as well unto the Lord. So Henry should not have been surprised when, instead of heading straight out of town, she’d driven back to the trailer where Mrs. Hughes and her grandson lived and stopped the car and turned to look at Henry.

  “Don’t you make the same mistake Charlie made when he married me,” she told him.

  “And what was that?” Henry said.

  “Don’t you underestimate me,” she said. She touched a long painted fingernail to her temple. “These wheels just turn and turn and keep on turning.”

  She reached into her purse and pulled out a cloth wallet and handed it to Henry. The wallet had a Japanese painting printed on it: a waterfall and rolling hills lined with flowering trees. Inside was all the money she’d raised, converted to hundred-dollar bills.

  “There are those, I guess,” she said, looking up at herself in the rearview mirror, “who’d say I deceived them, and I’m prepared to let the Lord be my judge and jury, but I did more than a little thinking since we last came here.” She turned to Henry. “I decided you were right and I was wrong. It’s the ones among us, no matter the cause of their suffering, who it’s our business to look after first. I know folks meant this money to go to someone in New Orleans, someone hurt from this storm, but I know who I meant it for all along and I said as much, if not directly. It breaks my heart we’ve got this family—and who knows how many others—living right here in this county in such poverty and despair. And if this has the added bonus of releasing you from one of your own burdens, well, then, that’s fine by me. You with me, Mr. Garrett?”

  “I am,” Henry said. “I’m with you.” He handed the wallet back to Marge. “Thank you. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Let me tell you this just to be sure you understand,” Marge said, putting the wallet in her purse. “I’m having fun, Henry Garrett. There’s no two ways about it. I am. This is the mission I feel called to.”

  And when they stepped inside the trailer and Marge gave the cloth wallet to Mrs. Hughes, she leaned over and said straight into the old woman’s ear to make sure she heard every word of it, “This is from Mr. Garrett, yes. It’s about everything he promised. But I want you to know it’s from folks across this county as well. We’re all sorry for your loss. We are. It’s not enough, I know. It can’t ever be. But we’d like to offer this as a small comfort.”

  Henry watched Mrs. Hughes raise her splotched and skeletal hand and touch Marge’s cheek. Her fingers trembled. “Bring the full tithe into the storehouse,” she said. She lowered her hand, let it rest against her sunken chest. “You know that verse?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t recall it just this moment, Mrs. Hughes,” Marge said, and she looked over at Henry.

  “I can’t remember the whole of it myself,” she said. She raised her hand and reached toward Marge. “But I’m full grateful. May the Lord bless you.”

  Marge took the outstretched hand in her own and said, “Now, Mr. Garrett and I are headed to New Orleans, Mrs. Hughes. We’re going to look around.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Hughes said, nodding.

  “And there
’s a man there Mr. Garrett hopes to help in his suffering just as he’s tried to help you. I’m going to accompany him. And I’m going to keep you and your family in mind and ask the Lord for His blessings upon you. We’ll be back, though, and I’ll check in on you. You hear me?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Hughes said, nodding again. She pulled at the blanket covering her lap and her missing legs, the cloth wallet resting there. At that moment, Katrell Sparrow stepped into the trailer holding two plastic Food Lion grocery bags. He set them on the folding table, the bags collapsing, items spilling out: milk, apples, a pack of gauze bandages, a loaf of bread, a soda bottle, a frozen pizza. Henry watched as the boy walked over to his grandmother and stood behind her, taking hold of the handles on her wheelchair as though she might want him to steer her somewhere.

  “These folks have kindly provided for us,” she said quietly, picking up the cloth wallet, then holding it to her chest.

  The boy nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “They’re headed down to where that storm hit, where so many folks lost their homes.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the boy said again.

  “If they’ll have you,” she said, “I’d like you to go with them.”

  The boy looked at Marge and then at Henry. Bring the full tithe into the storehouse. The verse slipped into Henry’s head, joined others there: Except the Lord build the house. They tell me that city is made four-square.

  “You hear me?” Mrs. Hughes said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the boy said.

  “No, Mrs. Hughes,” Marge said. “We couldn’t.”

  I’m going to a city that’s not made by hand.

  “He’s had some trouble in school,” Mrs. Hughes said. “I don’t believe it’s his doing. He says it isn’t. But he’s had a suspension.”

  “We just can’t,” Marge said. “We don’t even know if they’ll allow us into the city. We might drive down and then have to turn right back around.”

  Marge again looked over at Henry, cocked her head to signal that he should say something. Why had the clatter started up now, here? Wouldn’t it be fine for this boy to go with them?