Spirit Pouch

by Vaterlaus, Stanford

  As I clean the table and tuck the dirty dishes into the dishwasher I ponder the events of the last few days. I actually went back in time to 1866. I roll the thought over in my mind. And not only that, but I was physically transported to Dogtown Colorado and worked in the brickyard with William Cottle. How cool is that? Way cool! In fact, too cool … to be true, I catch myself doubting. Here I am, home in Tucson, Arizona, in my own home, on Wednesday night, doing the dishes from the dinner that I ate, but yet I spent five days in Colorado. That doesn’t make much sense.

  I remember watching a show on the Science channel a few months ago about the human brain. They said that the brain will fight for sanity by sorting through the facts looking for truth, and throwing out the fantasy. It isn’t very logical to hold onto an idea that is impossible, and so the brain will introduce an alternative thought as an explanation. I probably fell asleep on my bed and dreamt the whole thing. I find it strange how you wake up and your dream seems so real that you can touch it, but the more you try to tell someone, or even think about it, the more ridiculous it gets. I chuckle out loud. “I was actually believing it, myself.”

  As I close the dishwasher a thought occurs to me. I thrust my hand into my left pocket. Where is it? It’s got to be here! I pull my pocket inside out to reveal only an old pair of fingernail clippers. My heart sinks. I wipe off the counter and a sadness floods over me as if I have lost a good friend. Geometry test, I think. No wonder I feel gloomy. I wipe my wet hands on my pants. They are dirty any way and are going into my laundry basket. My hand brushes against a lump. A bulge in my pants right where my pocket would be.

  What is that? I push on the lump and it feels hard against my leg. I immediately stick my almost dry hand into my right pocket and retrieve the lump. It is the bumblebee!

  “Yes! I knew it was true,” I half whisper and half yell, shooting both hands gleefully into the air. “It is all true!”

  Tomorrow is going to be a good day, I muse, as I pad back to my own bedroom in my dirty-brown and much worn out socks. I think about Lyn, and about Ty and then about seminary. Oh! I need to take a copy of my four-generation fan chart! I rummage around in my closet until I find my genealogy book. I locate a copy of my fan chart

  [75] and slip it from between the pages. Folding it with care, I tuck it into my shirt pocket for tomorrow.

  When I arrive at my English Literature class Thursday morning, Ty Smith is already there. He catches my eye as soon as I enter the door and I can tell that he wants to talk. Jeff is there, too, slouched back in his chair, bored and definitely not anticipating the inevitable suffering that can only be inflicted by one more hour in Ol’ Mrs. Harris’ class studying Shakespeare.

  I place a hand on Jeff’s shoulder as I pass his desk and land my books on the desk right behind his with a solid thump. “Couldn’t wait to get more English Lit, huh?” I smirk, trying to razz Jeff a little.

  “Yeah, like bamboo under your fingernail or a hot stick in the eye,” he grumbles. “And you know who was here before me, don’t you? Dumbbell, behind you.”

  I turn in my seat. “Good morning, Ty,” I say smiling. I want to tell him all about the spirit pouch and that he is right about the contents representing faith, repentance, baptism and the Holy Ghost. I want to tell him how I had gone back to 1866 and stayed with William Cottle and how we made bricks in Colorado. But I know he will not believe it. Who am I kidding? I think. I hardly believe it.

  “Jared,” Ty explodes with exceptional exuberance. “You will never believe what I found!”

  “Try me,” I smile. “I’m pretty open to unbelievable stories right now.” I can not imagine anything that would be more unbelievable than my own adventure in Colorado.

  “Listen,” Ty says with a hint of urgency. “I was just doing my seminary homework, and …”

  “You’re right! That is unbelievable!” Jeff mocks from his chair where he has been eavesdropping.

  Ty rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath in a show of irritation and annoyance, and also a supreme effort on his part to ignore the insult. His eyes lock back onto mine, “You know, our assignment that is due today. The four generation …”

  The bell rings for class to start and I immediately turn around in my seat. I know that Mrs. Harris will first scan the room for absent students, and then she will demand each student’s full attention to the lesson topic. I have seen Mrs. Harris lavishly dole out additional essay assignments to those who dare to not comply. Those essay assignments are always due in two days and are harshly graded. Not even ten unbelievable stories from Ty are worth doing an extra essay.

  After what seems like three grueling hours of English Literature, the passing bell finally rings. I slam my book closed and stand up, dragging my backpack to my desktop.

  “Jared,” Ty says.

  But I am looking out the door. I just saw Lyn walk past the door in the hall and she had stolen a glance inside. On Thursdays she has an art class just up the hall, and this is my chance to walk with her.

  “There’s Lyn,” I say quickly, shouldering my bag. “I’ve got to go. See you in seminary.” I make tracks out of the English Literature classroom, which all by itself brings joy and happiness to my soul, but on top of that, I am soon strolling along side of Lyn. She is chatting with Becky about her four-generation fan chart

  [76] that is due today.

  “Some of my ancestors have strange names, like Christoff, or Cornelius,” Lyn laughs. “How about you, Jared? Do your ancestors have funny names?”

  “Not as bad as some of the Sioux Indian’s names. How would you like a name like Crazy-Horse, or Fool-Hawk?”

  Lyn and Becky laugh. “I wouldn’t like those. My name would be more like Beautiful-As-The-Morning-Dawn, or Butterfly-On-A-Flower.”

  “Butterfly-On-A-Flower is nice,” I agree, smiling at the thought of Lyn being a butterfly. “It sounds like springtime, and soft, and … and pretty. Of course my name would be Fast-Like-A-Deer, or Running-Deer. My Sioux Indian friends would just call me Running,” I smile.

  “Or they would call you Fast-Like-A,” Lyn laughs and pushes me a little.

  We reach the seminary building and take our usual seats, followed closely by Ty. Ty sits up front in his new-image seat and Brother Franklin starts the class.

  “We want to talk about the Spirit of Elijah today,” Brother Franklin says. “Who can tell me a little about the Spirit of Elijah?”

  Becky’s hand shoots into the air, and Brother Franklin nods toward her.

  “Okay,” she starts. “It’s a feeling you get when you do family history.”

  “We have heard people say that they feel the Spirit of Elijah

  [77] while doing genealogy,” Brother Franklin agrees. “So who is this Elijah person?”

  Several hands shoot upward, including Ty’s hand.”

  “Brian.”

  “Didn’t he do a lot of miracles, or something?” Brian states hesitantly.

  “Yes, he did. Can anyone name one of the miracles?” Brother Franklin points to Doug.

  “He made a barrel of wheat never run out,” Doug answers.

  “Okay,” Brother Franklin agrees. “Let’s read about that. Turn to 1st Kings in your Old Testament.”

  I open my Bible to 1st Kings, but my thoughts are pulled to the four generation fan chart I had stuffed into my shirt pocket. I pull it out and open it up. I don’t feel too guilty, either, since I already know the story of Elijah and the barrel of meal that would not run out until the rains came.

  [78]

  I stare at my paper. Four generations only go back to my great grandfather. William Cottle has to be two more generations back in order to reach 1866. I wonder how our family line connects to his? This morning Mother told me that William Cottle is my great great great grandfather. William must have had children. I wonder who they were?

  I hear Brother Franklin ask another question about Elijah and several hands shoot up, including Ty Smith’s hand. Ty surely got excited about this fam
ily history stuff, I think.

  Like water down a sluice, my thoughts slip back to 1866. I wonder what William Cottle is doing today? How are their loaded wagons and oxen doing on their trip to Denver? Three days by wagon to get down out of the mountains! What an adventure! Of course being a pioneer and walking next to a wagon is not really for me. I’m not into that sore feet stuff. I had my fill of that the last few days. It seemed forever before I got my boots. No. I will just have to deal with driving in rush hour traffic. Three days by wagon to get from Dogtown to Denver. I think I would die.

  “Jared?” Brother Franklin calls.

  My thoughts come whirling back to seminary class with a jolt as if I have been suspended weightless above my chair and unexpectedly the gravity comes back on. I guess I look a bit surprised, too, because there is a general chuckle throughout the room.

  “Do you want to share how you felt as you researched your four generations?” Brother Franklin continues, not seeming to notice my rapid re-entry into reality, although I am sure that is the purpose of the question.

  “Yes …, sir,” I stammer. “It was actually quite awesome. I really got to know my ancestors. It was like I was there with them. Like they were my friends … actually like they were my family. I even got to do a little research past my four generations. I learned that my great, great, great grandfather, William Cottle, lived in a log cabin in a town in Colorado called Dogtown.” There is a giggle from the back row and a little chatter throughout the classroom. It’s not the Spirit of Elijah, I think. But at least they think I’m awesome because I know stuff about my great, great, great grandfather. And just so they know exactly how totally awesome I really am, I say, “William worked in a brickyard and the bricks he made were actually used to build the first brick buildings in Central City. The brickyard owner, Mr. Roworth, said the bricks would make the buildings fire proof. William’s father worked in a gold mine. We … I mean … they, had a cow and sold the milk. Anyway, I learned lots of cool stuff. It made me feel connected. I feel like my family is important and I want to be with them after the resurrection.”

  I glance at Ty. He is genuinely interested in the class today, and is literally sitting on the edge of his chair. He wants to comment on the lesson and tell his story. I can see it in his eyes.

  Brother Franklin ends the seminary class and after the closing prayer Lyn comes straight over to my desk.

  “I have something for you,” Lyn says quietly.

  “For me?”

  She nods.

  “What is it?” I ask. My thoughts race trying to figure it out. A missed homework assignment? Maybe I dropped something? Is it school picture time? Maybe it is a prom invitation … no …that’s not until March. Okay, I give up.

  “Come on,” Lyn motions with her hand. “Walk with me so we are not late for class and I will show you.”

  I get up to follow Lyn, and Ty catches my arm. “Jet, I really need to talk with you,” he says, barely in a whisper. He sounds almost desperate, like something bad is about to happen and only I can save him.

  “I have to go with Lyn right now,” I explain. I can see the hurt look in his eyes, kind of like I have betrayed him. Like I am no longer worthy to be his friend. Guilt sweeps over me like a cold wind, and I know I have to fix things right now. “Ty,” I say quickly, “I want to talk to you, too.” And that is no lie, either, because I want to tell him about my adventures in Colorado with William Cottle. “Meet me after school … better yet, after Cross Country practice, in the parking lot near the activity bus.”

  Ty nods and I turn quickly to follow Lyn. I do not look back. I do not want to hurt Ty’s feelings, but if I have, I do not want to know about it, either. It only takes about five seconds to catch up with Lyn.

  “Now, don’t laugh, Jared,” she admonishes sternly, “because I made this myself.”

  “Okay,” I promise.

  “Hold out your hand.”

  I do and Lyn retrieves the gift from her purse, stretches it, and slides it over my wrist. “It’s a friendship bracelet,” she says, seeing my perplexed face. “Do you like it?”

  “Of course I like it,” I say without hesitation. I lift my wrist and examine it closely. Small beads. Red, black and green spiraling around the central band. “It’s great,” I say taking her hand. I keep her hand in mine as we walk. It is warm and soft and nice. When the hallway splits and I have to go to Spanish class my hand slips out of hers. I remember the soft touch of her hand all through Spanish. I learn that ‘te quiero’ means ‘I love you’. I silently practice saying ‘te quiero’ several times until it just flows off my tongue.

  The rest of the day goes great, too, even though geometry class is as confusing as ever. Mr. Hewitt hands out a list of vocabulary words and says, “You need to understand each term on this page or you will not understand the questions on the test.”

  “Whoo,” I breathe as I lean over to pick up my book bag after cross country practice. I guess I’m tired. Ten miles today is a long run. I ought to be tired. Oh, yeah. Ty’s probably waiting for me.

  In a hurry I leave the locker room and in just a few minutes I am plodding across the student parking lot headed toward the activity bus. Ty is there already. His eyes lock with mine and he comes running toward me.

  I guess he wants to talk before I get distracted away by someone else, I muse. That’s good though, because my own adventures in Colorado are not for just anyone’s ears, either. I wonder what Ty thinks is of such earth shaking importance?

  “Jet,” Ty blurts as he comes to an abrupt stop along side of me.

  “Hi, Ty,” I say, smiling at his enthusiasm.

  “Jet,” he almost interrupts. Ty looks to see if I am really listening and I guess he decides that I am.

  “You know the seminary assignment that Brother Franklin gave us?”

  “Yeah …” I say hesitantly. I am starting to wonder if I have missed an assignment because I can not think of anything that would generate this much excitement.

  “The four generation sheet,” Ty continues, “where you list yourself, and then your parents, and then your grandparents, and …”

  “Ty. I know what a four generation sheet is,” I say, looking at him and smiling. “I had mine already done. I just stuck a copy into my pocket last night.”

  Ty looks frustrated and just a little impatient. After all, he has been waiting all day to talk to me and I am interrupting his unbelievable story. Actually, I want to hear what has sparked such enthusiasm. The Spirit of Elijah tugs on people pretty hard to do family history, I think. But I have never heard of a person being so completely smitten by it. I just nod so he can continue.

  “So … I was reading the names off my father’s pedigree chart and filling out my four generation form, but the names were really confusing.” He pauses and drops his book bag to the pavement. I do the same because Ty pulls a sheet of folded paper from his pocket and I can tell this conversation is going to take more than just a few seconds.

  “How confusing can it get?” I say. “I mean, if you have the correct information, you just plug it into the form.” I want to say, You waited all day to tell me that your four generation sheet is confusing?, but I do not say all that. It is just great to see him excited about something church related.

  “It’s not that the sheet is so hard to fill out,” he explains, “but it’s the names. They just don’t line up. I mean, they don’t match.”

  “They don’t match?” I ask. Now I am confused. “What do you mean they don’t match?” Ty does not answer and I see his eyes disengage and drift past me, while his jaw sets firmly and locks.

  “Ty …?” His gaze does not return to me, so I turn to see what the attraction is.

  We are standing between two cars. At the other end of the two cars stands Franky Barata. I was so busy talking with Ty that I hadn’t seen Franky come up behind me.

  Ty speaks first. “Hello, Franky.”

  I recover from my own little world in which I am having a priv
ate conversation with Ty and have blocked out the fact that there actually are other students around. Franky is one of them. I scowl, “What do you want, Franky?”

  “Oh, it just looked like a good time for me to wrap up a little business with Ty’s daddy,” he sneers through a sinister grin.

  “Are you brain dead, Franky,” I say in a nasty tone that even I am surprised at. “Last time we spoke Ty made it pretty clear that his father does not deal drugs. So take your drug business somewhere else.”

  “And last time we spoke, Franky says with a touch of anger, “I promised that you would pay for sticking your nose in other people’s business, namely mine. And right now looks like a good time for you to pay.”

  Forgetting about the switchblades that appeared last time in the men’s restroom, I tense my fists and am ready to throw a few punches into Franky’s nose if he tries to make anyone pay. You’ll see who will pay! I think, as my heart pounds.

  Ty pushes past me and faces Franky. “My father does not deal drugs,” he says sharply. “And you are not making anyone pay today. The fact that I do not lay you out flat on the asphalt should be payment enough.”

  “You talk big, Samuel T. Smith,” Franky grins. He slides his hand from behind his back producing a blackened-steel handgun. Actually, most guys my age can probably rattle off the name of the gun, what it is made out of and who makes it, what caliber it shoots and how many rounds it holds. But I can not. All I know is that the gun looks black, and it looks real to me, and the fact that Franky kind of swings it around loosely strikes fear into my soul. He has no respect for guns. And if Franky has no respect for guns, then he has no respect for life, either. No respect for my life.

  Ty stops cold, and then slowly begins to back up. I do, too.