The Legend of Sander Grant

by Marc Phillips

  Sander was coming out of the kitchen when he heard Roger trotting back down the stairs, mumbling something that seemed to make him chuckle. When he reached the bottom step, he collapsed to his knees on the hardwood and all he carried flew asunder before him. He grabbed his head with both hands. Sander had seen this pose before, like the man was being pressed to the ground by the nape of his neck. Sander rushed over, but knew better than to touch him.

  ‘What’s He saying?’ asked Sander. ‘I’ll leave.’ Roger made no sound, his hands white against his temples. ‘Should I leave?’ Sander whispered.

  Roger struggled to get out one word, ‘Wait.’

  Sander watched Roger lower his forehead back to the floor and breathe deliberately until he could speak again.

  ‘Medicine in the kitchen,’ he managed.

  Sander had noticed it by the coffee maker, a little brown bottle labeled ‘Roxanol Oral’. He fetched it.

  Lips against the plank floor, Roger said, ‘Take the top off.’ Then, very slowly, he raised his head enough to drink.

  ‘Your nose is bleeding,’ said Sander. ‘Pretty bad.’

  ‘It’ll stop.’

  Sander recapped the bottle. Roger clamped his head between his hands again, not as tightly this time. His muscles gradually relaxed. Blood trickled between his wrists. Sander went for a roll of paper towels.

  In a short while, Roger was able to get himself upright and into the lavatory. He cleaned his face and reemerged a few minutes later. Sander had wiped up the blood and stacked Roger’s papers on the pew. They sat on either side of the stack and Sander handed over the medicine bottle. Roger shook it, then slid it into his pocket.

  ‘He’s got all His toys out at your place,’ said Roger. Balled-up toilet tissue corked each nostril, making his voice nasal. ‘Thunder, wind, fire, the whole show. It wouldn’t do for people to see the wrath of God coming down in church, so He hits me quietly. A little tumor to keep me humble.’

  ‘Roger, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He patted his pocket. ‘Morphine. Life’s full of tradeoffs.’

  ‘What’s He pissed at now?’ asked Sander.

  ‘This,’ said Roger, pointing to the stack between them. ‘If you want the knowledge, it’s your right to have it. Your right to understand.’ A shard of pain cut through the dense curtain of narcotic. Roger tensed, then relaxed. ‘Take it with you and read it.’

  ‘You’re saying get out?’

  ‘I’m saying it looks like I have to listen to Him for now. I’m not sorry for what I’ve done, only for what happened because of it. I’ll pray for your mother.’

  Sander wondered how much of it was the drug talking. ‘So, how am I supposed to feel toward God?’

  ‘Honestly, I’ve thought about it a good bit from your perspective. Or I’ve tried.’ Roger closed his eyes to concentrate when his speech started to slur. ‘God didn’t make the Nephilim and for a very long time He’s chosen to have nothing to do with your kind. He can act like a petulant kid sometimes, but His heart is good. He’s my Father, my absolution, my Alpha and Omega. I need to love Him.’ He corrected himself, ‘I need Him and I love Him. I believe He loves me. I don’t know what to tell you to believe, Sander.’ Then, opening his eyes, ‘You don’t smoke, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Crap.’

  Roger made his way up the stairs, stopping to steady himself on each one.

  Surely he’s in a stupor now, thought Sander, as he listened to Roger trail off, ‘... because heaven doesn’t presuppose hell, any more than it means we’ll ever see either place. I so envy your afterlife. So sinfully covet ...’

  Sander turned off the lights and locked the door when he left.

  9

  Sander was in no great hurry to read the pages scattered in the truck seat beside him. He hadn’t really wanted to take them from the church, fearing what might befall Roger – or worse, his mother – if he did. Yet Roger had offered them when it looked reasonably certain he had one foot in the grave and the other on a slick spot. It would’ve been rude to leave them. The damage was done, anyway, and he had already stated he had no intention of helping Roger sift through his ancient writings to reconstruct the gospel. Was reconstruct the word Roger used? Sander told himself he would toss all the pages in the garbage when he got home. After he read them.

  Once on his way, he realized home seemed less like a haven and more like a battleground now. Sander first wondered whose fault that was, then asked himself whether blame made any difference. He had always revered the truth of things and summarily concluded that he would rather not feel safe if safety was an illusion. Which thought led him to another, regarding knowledge in general.

  Surely, in thirty years, Roger had tracked down every scrap of information on Nephilim. Sander was momentarily distracted, trying to get used to that word, as applied to himself, his kin. It felt more natural each time he heard it in his head. He said it aloud a couple of times. Yes, better than when Roger said it. When Sander snapped out of his digression, he returned to the subject of Roger’s purpose. If the man had compiled all the available literature on giants, and if he believed what he read, what use was a live one, other than a curious talking exhibit?

  Roger wasn’t like that. He had nothing to prove and nobody to impress and – Sander stopped, mid-thought – and he didn’t want a live one. He wanted to talk to the dead ones. That’s the point they hadn’t reached. Roger was a historian. He wanted Sander to help him fill in the holes in his research by talking to Will. Sander was convinced. More specifically, Roger wanted to hear, through Will, what the older ones might have to say.

  Sander could’ve kicked himself. Of course God wouldn’t get so worked up over stuff virtually anybody could find in the dusty stacks of some university library. If it was archived, it was available. Because He knew Roger’s mind, God was several steps ahead of that. If Roger was right, God adamantly objected to Sander resurrecting things that were no longer written record; things, if he went back far enough, his ancestors would doubtless remember firsthand. His grandfather had told him that other clans, distant ancestors, were ‘hard to find’. Hard. Not impossible.

  It was going on seventy-two hours now since Sander had slept, but the need to talk trumped his body’s call for rest. His mother would be asleep. If she wasn’t, she should be, and Sander was not inclined to revisit the subject with her until he’d had time to work it out a bit further for himself. Moreover, he determined that if his dad lived out the rest of his days and never had to deal with this colossal bullshit, that would suit him fine. Dalton had enough on his mind.

  Sander stopped at the next gas station to use the payphone.

  ‘¡Hola!’ said Clarita.

  ‘Mrs Sandoval, can I speak to Allie?’

  ‘It’s late, Sander.’

  ‘I know, ma’am.’

  ‘And it’s a school night.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, but it’s very important.’

  Sander heard the receiver hit the counter, then voices in the background.

  ‘Hello?’ Allie said.

  ‘I’m coming over. I need to talk.’

  ‘Hurry,’ she said. ‘Papa’s at the store. He’ll be back any minute.’

  Allie was standing out in the drive when he pulled up. She jumped into the truck and said, ‘Let’s take a drive.’ He shifted into reverse. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, pulling the papers from under her.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Sander. He stuffed them behind the seat.

  ‘How’s your mom?’

  ‘You heard?’

  ‘Somebody said something at the store. It’s the only reason mamma let me out this late.’

  ‘She’s fine. A pinched nerve, they think. Can you ride with me to pick up some burgers for dad?’

  ‘Sure. I’ve got about an hour.’

  ‘I don’t. He’ll start eating raw meat if I’m not back soon.’ Allie laughed. He asked her, ‘Do you love me?’

  ‘You know I do.’ />
  Sander turned onto the highway, headed toward town. ‘Then marry me.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I think the courthouse closes at five, but we might could squeeze it in between school and work tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m serious. Not this week, but maybe this coming summer.’

  She turned in her seat to face him. ‘You’re crazy. I’m sixteen!’

  ‘But you’ll be seventeen in July.’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘People talk about my family, and I’m sure you’ve heard it. I’ve got forty-five good years and I don’t feel like waiting for some arbitrary age to get married when I know what I want right now. I can explain this to Jaime where he’ll understand.’

  ‘Can you? Then explain it to me. Tell me how you’ve thought about what I want. How it affects me.’

  ‘I’m asking you now what you want, Allie. Do you want to marry me?’

  She turned forward again and latched her seatbelt. ‘Next time, save me some booze. I thought we were supposed to go to a movie the other night.’ They rode in silence for a mile. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘here’s what I want. Onions. Lots of em. Two slices of cheese and no tomatoes. I hate tomatoes.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Sander. ‘You think your mom and dad would like a burger too?’

  ‘Thanks, but they’re having menudo. Tripe is something else I can’t stand. Think you can remember that? Tomatoes and tripe?’

  Sander was parking in front of the Dairy Queen. ‘Back in a second,’ he said.

  She grabbed his arm. ‘Because, if you can, and if you can convince papa, I’ll marry you whenever you want, babe.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. I wouldn’t suggest you mention dying at forty-five. Tell him how good the ranch is doing.’ With a grand gesture, she added, ‘His daughter’s life will be free of worry and his grandson will be raised a Catholic. That’s a good start.’

  She was genuine in her sentiment, thought Sander – only, she reckoned stars would dance while the moon played a jig before her father would agree to any wedding. Sander was glad, in a way, that she used Jaime as such a device, forestalling her own commitment until it comfortably fit her, as it might have done immediately if he had been capable of making more clear the love behind his offer, instead of relying on the logic of it. Ten percent laziness, he decided, and ninety percent his own ineptitude at things like this.

  Dalton was asleep in his chair in front of the television when Sander walked in. He put the sacks of food on the table and gently shook his dad’s shoulder.

  ‘Food,’ he said.

  They discussed the next day’s work in choppy sentences while they ate. Neither had their usual appetite.

  Jo stopped taking her pills the next day. She was back to her chores long before the hospital called that afternoon. The blood work was normal, they said, and she was to return to the ER immediately if the pain recurred. She didn’t make it three steps toward the laundry room before the phone was ringing again. This time it was Jason.

  ‘Mrs Grant,’ he said, ‘you’re up and around?’

  ‘I’m fine, Jason. Seems the whole town was worried and it was just a little catch in my back. Nothing, really. You want to talk to Sander?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, if he’s nearby.’

  ‘He’s out at the barn. I’ll holler for him.’

  Jo wasn’t there to tell Sander who was on the other end of the line when he walked in.

  ‘Sander Grant,’ he said into the receiver.

  ‘Did you hear from Roger?’

  Damn, thought Sander, his mom could’ve guessed this call wasn’t worth interrupting his afternoon. ‘Not lately,’ Sander lied. ‘Why?’

  ‘He called everybody in the congregation. Cancelled this Sunday’s service. Said he wasn’t feeling well, that’s it. I came home to the message on my machine.’

  ‘The flu. It’s going around.’

  ‘Kinda odd,’ Jason ventured, ‘that he didn’t call you too.’

  There might have been a touch of suspicion in his voice, and it might have been Sander’s imagination. Whatever the case, he had diesel fuel all over him, he was running behind, and in no mood to chitchat. He was seeing Allie again early this evening, and the evening after that, and the evening after that, until they agreed upon a game plan for approaching Jaime about getting hitched. He bore no ill will toward Roger, but already knew what was ailing him and Sander wanted the man out of his mind for a while.

  ‘I reckon he figured you would tell me. Is that all you called for, Jason? I’m pretty busy.’

  ‘Well, no, actually. I spoke with Scott Jacob yesterday. He’s awfully anxious for another piece from you.’

  ‘He didn’t call me either. Doesn’t matter, though. I don’t have anything for him. I was meaning to talk to you before next week anyhow. I’m not painting at all these days so we need to hold off on the lessons.’

  ‘For how long?’ asked Jason.

  ‘Until further notice.’

  ‘Not the lessons. Screw the lessons. How long do you intend to let your talent lie dormant? It won’t wait on you forever. Neither will your patrons.’

  ‘Until further notice,’ Sander repeated. ‘When you see Roger, tell him I hope he gets to feeling better.’

  ‘You’re quitting the church, too?’

  ‘I was never a member of your church. Thanks for having me out to visit, but I don’t think I’ll be coming around anymore. Take it easy.’

  ‘Can I–’

  Sander hung the receiver back on the wall. He liked the way he had stumbled onto a sort of Dalton-esque method of handling his affairs. He managed to dismiss Jason in under a minute, while simultaneously sending his farewell, via the grapevine, to Dixon’s religious community. The approach worked – to get things started, anyway – when he proposed to Allie last night, too. Straightforward, well considered, and absent varnish. He recalled how he’d convinced Dalton himself to buy feed from the Sandovals and he realized his dad’s modus operandi had served him for some time now, when he let it. Stop juggling decisions like some masochistic circus clown, he told himself. Vital or trivial, confront the thing and act.

  ‘You gonna stare out that window all day or get back to work?’ Jo asked, as she dumped the laundry basket onto the table and began folding.

  Sander blurted, ‘I’m done with church, mamma, but I’m tired of pussyfooting around the subject of God, me and you. We both know He struck you down in the yard with some affliction even the doctors can’t find, and for reasons unclear to me, we’re keeping that from dad. I wanna know what God said to you. His words.’

  ‘Do you?’ The expression on her face when she whirled on him caused Sander to reconsider this tack when it came to his mother. She was no stranger to it and responded in kind. ‘Alright, let’s see.’ Jo glanced up, as though the words hung in the air above her. ‘“For the sake of My name I delay My wrath, and for My praise I restrain it for you, in order not to cut you off.”’

  ‘Mom, that’s the Bible. I don’t know which verse, but He’s quoting the book of Isaiah. Are you sure He said that?’ Didn’t appear to Sander at the time that any wrath was delayed. Then again, she wasn’t bleeding from the face and swilling morphine yet, either.

  ‘I know where it comes from.’

  ‘Seems like he could get some new material, is all.’

  ‘He also said that I would suffer only until you witnessed it, then it would go away. That’s the part He wanted me to tell you, and I did. You know, it felt like hours until you drove up. Dalton said it was just a few minutes.’ She waited for the memory of the pain and fear to release her, then said flatly, ‘I will not forgive you if you tell your father it was your fault.’ Then, indicating the unfinished chore behind her, ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Yeah. Do you know what it was all about?’

  ‘I’m not stupid, son. And I’m not saying it’s right, or that it’s fair. I’ve learned to let fairness work itself out in the bigger picture. You
keep doing what you feel like you need to do. I mean that. I couldn’t tolerate it any other way. Only, now you know the consequences. I reckon that was God’s point,’ she said, ‘but I could be wrong. Nothing’s stopping you from talking to Him about it.’

  ‘I don’t have one-sided conversations. It’s pointless.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Jo grunted, barely audible. She returned to her laundry, leaving her son standing there with his stony mask. She would not debate with him the legitimacy of prayer. That argument was for children and philosophers.

  Sander had long considered ‘fairness in the big picture’ and many another grand-scheme-of-things viewpoint as the strategy of an ostrich. If there was an equitable grand scheme, then somewhere down the line there must be a reconciliation. The books should balance. Therefore, when innocent people are beleaguered and the weaker man takes one on the chin for the sake of the stronger, it must mean that elsewhere a fool is rewarded for the work of wise men and the like. He was old enough to know that occasionally this happened, but should it be accepted as ordained? Should it be ignored at the highest level, he wondered.

  Indeed, his mother was not stupid. Nor was Roger. Both, in distinct ways, were the smartest people he had come across; both confident in what they knew. They had something else in common. They shared a voluntary selectiveness of sight that allowed for a level of conviction beyond faith – which was a term, through his experience in the town’s churches, Sander had learned to translate as hope. All hope is subject at some point to validation. Not so with Jo and Roger. Theirs was a strength insusceptible to trial. Sander recalled Roger’s drug-induced mumbling and now found it difficult to control his own envy. Maybe, if he could have a single exchange with God, no matter how cryptic, he could find such powerful belief and manage to hang onto it.

  ‘How come you can hear Him and I can’t?’ he asked, ‘that’s what bugs me.’

  Over her shoulder, Jo said, ‘Maybe for the same reason He can hurt me, but can’t lay a hand on you.’

  ‘How did you–’