Stepping Stones

by Steve Gannon

  “No, Seth,” he said sadly. “I was wrong to do it. I’m not gonna do it any more.”

  “Please, Georgie,” I begged.

  “No.”

  I tried to think of something to convince him. I failed. And then the time for pleading was over. For then the men in the bar, that mob of men—my neighbors, my townsfolk, my friends—dragged my brother outside and threw a rope over the old maple by the bridge and put Georgie on Phil Johnson’s mule and hung him.

  I left Pa in the bar and stood in the woods, deep in the shadows. I saw it happen. All of it. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. I kept praying Georgie would save himself, use his power just one more time. He didn’t, at least not till the very end. And by then it was too late.

  Nineteen men stood in the moonlight around the maple tree that night, laughing, watching Georgie kick. Watching him die.

  Nineteen men.

  Hate grew within me, swelling until it was all I could feel. It flooded through me like a venom, filling me till I thought I would burst. I could taste it. I wanted them to die. And all at once I knew how to do it. I wasn’t able to solve the puzzle of Ma’s cancer. No, I couldn’t do it for love. The hours I’d spent beside her searching for a key to unlock the secret of her disease had been fruitless. But I did it for hate. A few minutes of hate and I had the answer.

  In a dim part of my mind I wondered what sort of person I was. In another, I didn’t care. I hungered for revenge. It drove me down to that circle of men. Unnoticed, I walked among them, pausing beside each. I didn’t have to touch them; I just needed to be close. It didn’t take long. And it was easy.

  I planted the seeds deep, sowing them in their spines, their ribs, the long hollow bones of their legs. I placed the seeds where they would germinate slowly, then grow and mature and blossom into an agonizing death for each.

  Afterward I returned to the woods, hot bitter tears running down my face. I cried for Ma. I cried for Georgie. I guess I cried for myself, too.

  Hours later, after the moon had set and the men were gone, I cut Georgie down. Using a wheelbarrow from the livery stable, I wheeled him up to the north field. Then I returned home, got a shovel, and buried Georgie beside the boulder—figuring that rock he’d moved was better than any headstone I could have placed.

  Afterward I sat under the stars, leaning against Georgie’s boulder and thinking about what had happened. I decided Ma had been telling the truth in that story of hers. The men in the bar had been afraid of Georgie because he was different, and their fear had turned to hate, and their hate had destroyed him. I suspected that Ma had changed the ending of her story, though. I don’t believe there ever was any cleansing rain for that monkey. I think that tribe of his tore apart their furry green brother and left him to die. And as Ma had said, that’s just the way things were.

  But if that was the way of the world, why would God burden my brother with a curse like that? Why would God make Georgie different just so his fellow men would kill him? What had my brother done to deserve such a heartbreaking, lonely end?

  And what about me, and what I had done to the men who hung him? They deserved the fate I had given them, and I was glad I’d done it. But deep down I knew it was wrong. If there is a Creator, what will His judgment be for me? I wondered. Abruptly, I realized that He had already damned me, for I was different, too. I was green, just like that monkey . . . at least on the inside. Or was the color of my soul actually black?

  Absently, I wondered if there were others like me—normal on the outside but different nonetheless. If there were, and they were still alive, I knew they would be hiding. I also knew I would never find them. But for some reason, at that moment, I wanted very much to believe they were there.

  I remained in the north field all that night, sitting beside Georgie’s boulder until the first light of dawn. By then it had turned bitter cold. The freezing air had stiffened my joints. I was sore from the fight as well. It took me a while just to stand.

  The path lay in shadow as I followed it to the river. Standing on the bank in the early morning light, I watched the dark waters flow by. I stripped off my clothes and dived in. The river was icy cold and running fast. I swam out from shore, my arms slashing the surface, feeling the current trying to pull me down. When I began to grow numb, I stopped and let myself sink, descending into the frigid darkness. Shafts of sunlight streamed down from above, eerie fingers fanning through the depths. I hung weightless, wondering how it would feel to simply fill my lungs with one final watery breath.

  Would I find peace? I wondered.

  I doubted it.

  When I burst gasping to the surface, I found that the current had carried me a considerable distance downstream. I was shivering when I reached the bank, but by then a morning breeze had come up, and I was dry by the time I found my clothes. I dressed and headed back to the cabin.

  Pa was asleep when I arrived. Quietly, I gathered my things. There wasn’t much—some clothes, a buckskin wallet Georgie had made for me, a locket of Ma’s, my Grandpa’s watch. They hardly filled my duffel bag. When I was done, I stood at the foot of Pa’s bed. It looked half empty without Ma in it. Pa still slept on his side.

  “Pa. Wake up.”

  “Huh?”

  “Wake up, Pa.”

  Pa opened his eyes. I saw them cloud with shame as he remembered what had happened. Slowly, he swung his feet to the floor, rubbing a hand across the rough white stubble covering his chin. He still had on his clothes from the night before. A jar of liquor sat on the night table. He reached for it.

  “Don’t, Pa.”

  He peered over, seeming to notice me for the first time. Again, he ran a hand over his chin, then glanced at the jar.

  “Please don’t, Pa.”

  “No, I don’t guess I will,” he sighed, cradling his head in his hands.

  “I buried Georgie in the north field by that boulder. I figure he’d have liked that.”

  “I think maybe he would,” Pa said softly. Painfully, he rose from the bed. He looked old. Funny, I had never noticed it before. With a start, I realized that my father had grown old.

  He stood unsteadily, trying to straighten. Then he spotted my bag by the door. “You’re leaving?”

  I nodded.

  Pa’s throat started working. I knew he had words to say. “Seth, I need to tell you something,” he said quietly. “Will you listen?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Before your mother died, she made me promise to take care of you and Georgie after she was gone,” he went on. “I told her of course I would; she didn’t need me to promise. But she made me promise anyhow. And she made me promise something else,” he added, his voice breaking. “She made me promise to love you.”

  I could see the torment in his face, but still I said nothing.

  “Seth, I tried to do right by you both,” he continued, fighting for control. “I swear I tried, but after Ma died, I . . . I don’t know what happened. I know I failed you, just like I failed with everything—the plans I had for this farm, and how I was gonna send you and Georgie to school downriver, and . . .”

  Pa’s words trailed off. He swallowed hard, then pushed on. “Seems like only yesterday your mother and I stood before the preacher, with little Georgie already on the way. I was young then, not much older than you, full of plans and dreams. Guess that’s all they were. Dreams. When Ma died, she took ’em with her.”

  He stepped closer, his eyes brimming. “I know you blame me for what happened. I know you hate me, boy. But Seth, I done the best I could.”

  Outside, I could hear the wind moving through the trees. The sun had crested the hill in back and was filtering through the window onto the worn planks at my feet. It was time to go. “I’ll be leaving now,” I said.

  Pa’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t reckon I’ll see you again.”

  “No, Pa. I reckon not.”

  “Well, so long, son,” he said softly.

  “Good-bye, Pa.”

 
I picked up my duffel and left the cabin where I had spent the first fifteen years of my life. I walked down the dirt road to Auger’s Crossing, and when I got to the river, I headed downstream and kept on going.

  I never looked back.

  * * *

  I awoke slowly. Sunlight streamed into the stall, lighting the straw with a warm yellow glow. Breathing in the sweet scent of alfalfa, I lay quietly, listening to the sounds of the waking farm. Sandy’s mare whinnied in the next stall, kicking impatiently for her morning feed. The cows’ lowing told me they needed attention too, and I heard the chickens already scratching in the yard.

  I rubbed my eyes. Sitting up, I spotted Christy Sullivan standing in the doorway. From her expression, I knew she had prepared herself for the worst.

  “Good morning, Mr. Neuman,” she said.

  “Morning, Christy.”

  She took a deep breath. “Mr. Neuman, is Lucky—”

  Before I could answer, Lucky shook off his blanket and let out a big, happy yelp.

  “Mr. Neuman, you fixed her!’ Christy squealed, running to her dog.

  “Yeah, honey, I did. It’ll be some time before he’s walking again, but he’s gonna be all right.”

  I got a good feeling watching the two of them together—Christy kneeling in the straw talking nonsense to Lucky, Lucky licking any bare skin on his master he could reach. Then, with a puzzled frown, Christy studied her dog for almost a full minute, her eyes fixed on him intently. Then she turned to me.

  Something about her abruptly changed. Curious, I searched her eyes, again noticing that they were a deep, deep blue shot through with tiny flecks of gold. With a shock, I realized I had been right the day before. They were just like Ma’s.

  Though I tried, I couldn’t look away. Time seemed to stop. I felt something shifting inside my head. All at once memories began flashing past my mind’s eye: Ma. The boulder. Georgie’s death. What I had done for Lucky. Everything.

  Christy and I stared at each other, lost in the shock of recognition. A chill ran through me. Christy was different, too. In some strange way she was just as different as I, and she knew about me as well. She knew what I had done, all of it, and what it had cost me.

  Without a word, Christy put her arms around my neck and gave me a hug. Somehow, for me, that hug was like Ma’s cleansing rain. For the first time since Georgie’s death I knew that I wasn’t alone, and that there was someone I could trust. Then I felt something break inside me, shatter like ice on a pond, and with blinding clarity I saw the terrible burden of hate I had given myself to carry, and I realized what it had done to me.

  Shaken, I walked to the window and leaned on the sill. At the foot of the pasture I could see a sliver of river glittering through the cottonwoods. The trees had just begun to show spring’s first promise of green, and the air had a snap to it, crisp and clean. I stood for a long time. Finally I knew what I had to do.

  There were others like Christy and me, and somehow I would find them. But first I had to return to Auger’s Crossing. There were things there to set right. A lot of things. I didn’t know whether I could, but while some of the men I had cursed still lived, I knew I had to try. And there was something else I had to do in Auger’s Crossing as well. There was an old man there who lived in a cabin by the river. I had to see him one more time.

  I stood a few moments longer, gazing across the valley. At last I turned back to Christy. She had rejoined Lucky and was sitting beside him in the straw, cradling his head in her lap. I felt a surge of satisfaction, knowing I had told her the truth. It would take months, but in the end her pup would be all right.

  And with luck, and in time . . . so would I.

  I Can’t Sleep

  Ever think about killing yourself?

  No, of course not. The world’s been good to you. You’re not ready to check out yet. Never even considered it, right?

  Yeah, sure.

  Well, let’s suppose, just for the sake of argument, that you did want to take your own life. You have incurable cancer, say, and you’re in intractable pain. Or you’ve suffered a stroke or been in a car accident and can’t move a muscle, ever again. Or you’re clinically depressed and getting through each and every day is a crushing, hopeless nightmare. Use your imagination and come up with your own scenario; the world has plenty of cruelties to dish out. If you’re truthful, no matter who you are, you’ll admit that there is a point past which life is no longer worth living. Believe me . . . I know.

  So, given the foregoing, here’s question number two: How would you do it?

  Ideally, dying should be quick and painless, right? No argument there. Quick and painless. Unfortunately, those two words cover a lot of ground. For instance, if you do it properly, sucking the end of a twelve-gauge shotgun and thumbing the trigger is probably painless. It’s also quick, although it has the disadvantage of being a bit messy. So is sitting in a tub of warm water and letting your blood slowly seep from a razored artery, but there’s an intrinsic difference (besides the tub cleaning up with the mere pull of the plug) between the two. With the former you’re suddenly . . . gone; with the latter you have time to consider the consequences of your final act, to fully appreciate those penultimate moments of approaching death.

  On our last night together, those were options I gave my friend Holden Carr. Instant death with a bullet to the head, or the delayed experience of a long drop to the pavement.

  His choice.

  I’ll never forget the look on his face. At the time I recall thinking that his nasty attitude about the situation was completely unrealistic. In retrospect I can understand it, but I still don’t think he was being fair. Especially considering what he had planned to do to me.

  My name is John Starling, and I’m an insomniac. Sounds like something you’d hear at an AA meeting, right? Okay, alcoholism is a serious problem, but in my book it doesn’t come close to insomnia. For me there is no support group, no meetings, no sponsor to help me through the rough spots, no twelve-step, one-day-at-a-time approach to recovery. There is a bright side, though. Because of my affliction I’ve become an extremely wealthy man. But sometimes, in the early hours of morning, I can’t help but think that if I had been able to sleep, perhaps Holden would still be alive.

  It started about five months ago. I’m a swimming-pool contractor. Maybe you’ve heard of me. Starling Pools, Inc. I work the Las Vegas/Clark County area—mostly residential, but I’ve done some big jobs for the hotels as well. I like my work. Nonetheless, as with any occupation, there’s stress. Goes with the territory. So when I began having trouble sleeping, I figured that’s what it was. Stress.

  I was wrong.

  Missing a little sleep doesn’t sound like much, does it? Well, at first it wasn’t. I’ve always been able to get at least seven or eight hours of shuteye every night. It was something I took for granted—like the sun coming up in the morning or subcontractors trying to screw me—so when I unexpectedly found that all I could manage was two or three hours a night, I told myself it was temporary. Stress-related. Whatever.

  I cut down on coffee. Then I stopped drinking caffeine entirely. At night I tried warm milk, sleeping pills, exercise, hot baths, pot, even reading Scientific American. Things got worse. Soon it wasn’t just a little sleep I was missing. It was all of it.

  In time I didn’t even bother going to bed. Instead I stayed up watching late-night TV, hoping I would get bored enough to nod off for a few hours on the couch. We have a big ranch-style home (patio and pool out back, of course) just off Washington Street, and the TV in the den was far enough from our bedroom that I didn’t have to worry about disturbing my wife, Sarah, who has no trouble sleeping. After a while I didn’t care what I watched—old movies, CNN news, The Weather Channel, talk shows—not to mention the mind-numbing commercials for hits-from-the-sixties records (not available in any store!), fast-food, Ginsu knives. Sometimes after the sign-off I would just sit and stare at the snow on the screen. I read once that the “snow” you get on
a dead TV channel is actually the visual signature of the cosmic background radiation, an electromagnetic remnant of the Big Bang. People the world over have been gazing at TV snow for years, thinking nothing of it. Then in the sixties two guys do a simple experiment and figure out what it is. Voilà! Nobel Prize. But that’s the way life is. You can look at something all your life and never see it for what it really is.

  One morning Sarah padded into the den, her auburn hair fetchingly disheveled from sleep. “John, you look awful,” she said, leaning down to kiss me. “You can’t go on like this, honey. You’re seeing Dr. O’Brien today,” she added, her voice slipping into its no-nonsense mode.

  I flipped off the TV. “Can’t. Got meetings this morning and a full afternoon.” Wearily, I ground my fists into my eyes. “I’ll be okay.”

  “Absolutely not. Call your office and have someone else take care of things,” she said, her partially open terrycloth robe revealing her long dancer’s legs. Even first thing in the morning she looked great.

  “But—”

  “No buts. You’re going to see Dr. O’Brien today, and that’s that. I’ll have the girls work you into the schedule.”

  When I first met Sarah she was a featured dancer in a feather show at the Tropicana. I noticed her right off. Aside from being the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen, she could dance. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She has a distinctive way of carrying herself, a physical presence I can spot across a room—the way she stands, the set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head. We started going out. Six months later we were married. Sarah quit the show, got a job as a medical assistant, and before long she moved up to the front office. She has a knack for computers and a flair for organization, and within a year she had become the office manager for the medical corporation of Jenkins, Gilbert, and O’Brien. Beauty and brains. I was a lucky guy, and I knew it.

  Sitting in the den, I knew from Sarah’s expression that there was no use arguing. Anyway, she was right. My office runs just fine without me. Besides, I hadn’t been worth a damn at work since I stopped sleeping. Sometimes I would be sitting at my desk and realize I had no recollection of what had happened for the past thirty minutes. It was time to get help.