by Jason Mott
Then the reverend stood and adjusted his suit and flashed a smile that could have stopped the progression of a hurricane. “Now,” he said, “I’m going out to talk to those reporters. We’ll get another chance at this. And it’ll all work out just fine. Go and talk with your daughter.”
“About what?” Macon asked.
“About whatever it is you need to talk with her about,” Reverend Brown said. “There’s a schedule we need to keep. I’ll handle the reporters, Sheriff. And let’s not forget that, regardless of what you think of me and my church, we’re both trying to achieve something.”
“I don’t have anything against you or your church,” Macon said. “I’ve got a family to think about, simple as that.”
“Then do your part,” Reverend Brown said, his voice hard and even. “Your daughter, she has a responsibility. No matter the cost.” He clenched his jaw one final time. “She has a responsibility,” he said once more. “We all do. Every single day.” Then he exited the office toward the waiting reporters. On his way out, he waved at the other police officers as though his conversation with Macon had never happened.
It was then that the weight was lifted from Macon’s shoulders. He relaxed into the chair behind his desk and rubbed the sides of his head. Try as he might, he could not escape the image of Ronald’s parents when their boy was taken to the back of the church and the examination that followed revealed that nothing had changed.
Nor could he drown out the sound of the weeping. The way Ronald’s father moaned like a wounded animal. The way his mother whimpered, over and over again. And the thought that would not leave him: What if it were my child?
Though he did not want to, he heard Reverend Brown’s words: “She has a responsibility. We all do.”
It was then that he heard the explosion.
* * *
He had been in the audience that evening, like so many others. Watching and waiting, trembling with anticipation as the girl that had come to them, to the whole world, would perform the miracle they had all been waiting for. And, this time, it would happen before a congregation, where it was always destined to happen. Wasn’t that what his brother believed?
Sam watched and he was as patient as he could manage as his brother performed an extended sermon on willingness to believe and Sam felt that he understood everything his brother was trying to say—which was not always the case. When Isaiah spoke before the church or in front of cameras, he was a different person than Sam knew. He was harder to understand. His words were like fast-moving rivers, and they cut a path through the air that Sam could not follow, no matter how hard he tried.
Sometimes he wondered if, when he was younger, he would have been able to follow his brother’s words. But those memories of who he once was were more dream than recollections. They were simply feelings that came to him sometimes, like small birds that fluttered into view inside his mind, but darted away before he could ever really take sight of them.
But the news of Ava and her ability had brought a new hope to him. It was a hope that he could not define, and it welled up inside of him.
She could fix things, Sam knew.
She could fix people.
She could even fix him.
There needed to be another air show, Sam decided. Another chance for the girl to do what she had done. Another chance for her to become what she was meant to be. And, maybe then, she would help him. Maybe then she would fix him and he would not be such a burden to his brother. He had been a hardship in his brother’s life for too long, he felt.
Sam was rarely alone anymore after his second incident with Ava. He now had a caregiver named Gary, a tall, white-haired older man who Sam liked because he was kind and understanding and liked to talk about football and took stock in Sam’s opinions as few others did. He never seemed frustrated or irritated when Sam wanted to talk. So when Sam came out of his bedroom in the Andrews House and found Gary sitting alone at a small desk at the end of the hallway reading a newspaper, it was not out of the ordinary when Sam sparked up a conversation.
“Redskins again?” Sam said.
“Always,” Gary replied without looking up from his newspaper. “Though I still don’t get all of the fuss people are making about their name. Maybe I’m just old,” he said, and he seemed to be pleased with himself.
“I don’t want to do this,” Sam said when he was standing close enough to Gary.
“Do what?” Gary replied. “What’s the matter, Sammy? You sound vexed.”
“I just want to help,” Sam said.
“Don’t we all?” Gary replied. He turned to the next page of his newspaper, still not looking up. “Now who do you like for the playoffs?”
Sam did not answer. He tightened his grip on the object in his hand, and he wondered if he would have the courage to do what he believed he needed to do. He liked Gary, and did not want to hurt him, but something had to be done.
“I’m not sure,” Sam said.
“Same here,” Gary said. “Lots of trades in the off-season. I can hardly keep up with who’s playing for what team anymore, you know what I mean?”
“I guess,” Sam replied.
“Ah, well,” Gary said. “It’ll sort out. It’s not like I’m actually playing on the team, is it? I’m just another face in the crowd.” He paused. “Man,” he said, “if only you could have made it out there, Sam. I can only imagine what you would have done if you’d gotten your chance to play in the NFL. You would have been one of the best running backs anybody’s ever seen, wouldn’t you?”
“I...”
“Of course you would have,” Gary said.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, and, finally, Gary looked up from his newspaper. He saw the conflict in Sam’s face, the weight of what was going on inside of him.
“What’s the matter, Sammy?” Gary asked. “What’s wrong?”
Gary did not see the bedpost descend upon him as Sam hit him with it. He only fell to the floor with a thud.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Sam repeated, even as the bedpost clattered to the floor next to Gary’s body. He reached into the man’s pocket and retrieved a pack of matches—Gary always enjoyed cigars. Then Sam made his way hurriedly through the house and out into the bustle of the city.
The thought raging in his mind was simply that he needed to help. Over and over again, it came to him: help. There were so many people caught up in what was happening within the confines of Stone Temple, so many people around the world, watching and waiting and, in their souls, hoping. Hoping that what they had heard about the girl and her ability to help people was true. Wasn’t there, in a lifetime, a thousand moments that people needed something to believe in?
And Sam knew that he would help them, that he would give them something to believe in.
The town of Stone Temple was up late that night, and buzzing with the news that Ava had failed to help the boy. There were arguments of faith, arguments of responsibility. Answers were all that people wanted.
Sam knew that he was not smart enough to have the answers. No, at best, Isaiah might have them, but Sam was not as smart as his brother, which was one of the reasons he loved him as much as he did. He loved him enough to do whatever it took to compel Ava to help people, even if that meant something unimaginable. It was the only way people would believe again. It was the only way he could help his brother.
He had seen it done in a movie once, and it seemed like something he could manage.
He had trouble finding a metal clothes hanger as he made his way through the town. He would search in garbage cans, but never long enough to draw attention. When he could not find the hanger he ducked into a small alley behind a building and thought. It took a long time but the idea of what to do finally came to him. So he returned to sorting through a small trash can behind the building and he did, in fact, manage to find a small length of wire—roughly the length of his forearm—and he decided that it would be enough.
He could not be sure, but he was co
nfident and proud of himself.
When he came out of the alleyway he was surprised to find that there were even more people in the center of town. They were gathered together, not far from where Isaiah’s church was set up, and they bustled about in a small circle surrounding a person Sam could not make out. Whoever it was, they were important, or famous or both. They were flanked on all sides by photographers. And where they went, the crowd followed, chattering and gawking, holding up phones for photographs.
Sam did not know it, not expressly, anyhow, but he could not have asked for a better distraction as he approached the service truck that was parked at the edge of the town square.
Without pausing to see if he was noticed, Sam opened the gas cap on the truck. He grabbed the bottom of his shirt between his fingers and, after a little effort, managed to rip a sizeable strip out of it. He then tied it to the electrical wire. When he tried feeding the wire into the gas tank of the truck, the wire turned back on him, lacking the stiffness he needed.
But Sam did not panic. He paused and looked around and, after a moment, found a small stick that did the job of helping to feed the wire, and the strip of shirt that was attached to it, into the gas tank. Then he removed the stick and tugged at the wire and, after some effort, it came out of the tank, bringing with it the strip of his shirt, soaked with gasoline. He made sure that the other end of the gasoline-soaked cloth remained inside the tank
Without hesitating, he reached into his pocket, took out the pack of matches, struck one and lit the shirt.
In the movie from which Sam got the idea, the car had taken a few moments to explode. It was enough time for a person to get away. But Sam did not remember that just now, in the milliseconds between the time when the car exploded and the time when his life was snuffed out.
In that final glimmer of time Sam also did not remember the childhood he spent in Georgia chasing after his big brother, Isaiah. He did not remember the nights he and his brother spent lying atop the roof of the barn, dreaming about who they would one day become. Sam was to become a football star. Isaiah was to become a veterinarian. The younger brother and his football career would pay for the slightly older brother and his love of animals. They would be a pair that took pieces of the world and held them in the palms of their hands and crafted them into something they could love.
Sam also did not remember the way their father used to get drunk and yell at them. The way he would hit them and their mother. The way he and Isaiah would take turns defending each other, as well as their mother, on the nights when their father so hated the world that he needed to sink the teeth of his anger into it. Nor did Sam remember the time after their father died, when Isaiah had only just finished high school and, rather than go to college as he had planned, went to work in order to help support his mother. And Sam did not remember the hope that was pinned to his football career, how it would be the way that all three of them would carve their path in the world, how they believed that it was the destiny they had long suffered for.
Sam did not remember the crash.
He did not remember the water rising above his head, taking away his boyhood dreams with it.
He did not remember his brother becoming a minster, his mother’s death in the years later, just as success and wealth came to their family.
The only thing that Sam remembered in that final moment of life, in that instant of time between existence and whatever follows, was the sound of his brother’s voice, a memory of Isaiah, playing in the synapses of his mind, like a lullaby: “I’ll take care of you, Sam.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what little big brothers do.”
“One day I’ll repay you, Isaiah.”
“Love doesn’t ask for repayment.”
“One day,” Sam said. “One day I’ll make it better.”
Over and over he heard the words, until they rose up around him like a tide, washing over him, taking him under, never to let him go.
* * *
There was heat and light and a sudden deafening. And, for some, an ending. For others, there followed a ringing of the ears, a long moment lacking in understanding as they watched the fireball roll upward into the night sky.
Inside Dr. Arnold’s house, it sounded like fireworks. Just a thunder in the distance. But there came with it a rattling of the house, like the shock wave from when the dynamite exploded in the old mine a few years back. Carmen’s head was buried in the toilet—yet another bout of vomiting, but worse than the others—when the sound of the explosion swept through the house. “What was that?” she called out.
“Hell if I know,” Brenda said, standing in the doorway. “Sounded like the damned Soviets attacking.” She looked at the vomit in the toilet.
“I’m fine,” Carmen said, even though she knew that was not the truth. She thought she felt a contraction. Whatever it was that was going on with her body just now was not normal. “There’s something wrong,” she said. “It sounded like an explosion.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Brenda asked. She had her hand on Carmen’s back. “Dear Lord, girl,” she said. “You’re anything but okay. Just look at you.” Carmen was pale and trembling. She swayed back and forth above the toilet. “Call Doc Arnold!” Brenda yelled.
Ava and Wash raced into the bathroom. They’d come to ask about the sound of the explosion, and instead they’d come upon Carmen kneeling on the floor in heap of sweat, tears and vomit, repeating, over and over again, “I’m fine...I’m fine....”
Ava ran upstairs to get Dr. Arnold while Wash stayed in the room with his grandmother, watching.
“It’s going to be okay,” Brenda said to both Wash and Carmen.
“You think it was some kind of car crash?” Carmen asked. “Do you think Macon’s okay?”
“I’m sure he is,” Brenda said. “Now you just hush up and let me help you get into the bed. Wash, come help me.” Together the two of them helped Carmen up off the floor. She held her stomach and trembled when they got her to her feet. They looked down to find a puddle at her feet.
“No,” Carmen said. “It can’t happen now. Not yet. It’s too soon. Just like last time, it’s too soon.”
“Hush,” Brenda said, and she and Wash forced Carmen down onto the bed. She pushed against them, resisting them as though it meant resisting the fate that she most feared. “Doc Arnold’s going to come in here and he’s going to make it all okay,” she said. She sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked Carmen’s hair just as another contraction came. “I promise you that it’s going to be okay,” Brenda said. “I promise.”
Wash stepped back from the bed. He stood and watched, understanding, but afraid. “I’m going to find Ava and Dr. Arnold.”
“Okay,” Brenda said, not looking back.
“Where’s Ava?” Carmen asked. “She can help, can’t she?”
Wash left the room and met Dr. Arnold and his wife in the hallway. The doctor moved briskly, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt as he walked. His wife was at his heels, her face full of worry. Dr. Arnold patted Wash on the shoulder as he passed wordlessly and, in the same motion, indicated that the boy should leave the room.
“Where’s Ava?” Wash asked. He had expected to find her behind the doctor and his wife, but she was not there. He moved off into the house, stepping faster and faster as he did. Outside, in the street, he could hear the sound of people yelling and screaming. Far inside the house the phone began to ring. Dr. Arnold was the only person Wash knew who still owned a landline phone, and a part of him sometimes enjoyed hearing the heavy, dense sound it made when a call came in. But just now, at this moment, he knew that the ringing of the phone was something to be dreaded.
As he passed the window before the stairs he saw a glow swelling up from the center of town, almost like a sunrise. It looked like it was only a few streets over. The reporters that had been parked outside of Dr. Arnold’s were gone. Whatever was happening was enough to draw them away, which made a knot form in the pit of
Wash’s stomach. Whatever it was, it was terrible.
“Ava?” Wash called as he reached the top of the stairs. He could hear her in a bedroom—her footsteps moving back and forth hurriedly. “Ava?”
When he entered the bedroom, he found her loading a small satchel with clothes. “I’m leaving,” she said. “I’m leaving and I want you to come with me. Right now.”
* * *
On the floor below, in the bed Dr. Arnold had given her for the night, Carmen’s pain had not lessened. “Just let me get through this,” she said to Dr. Arnold as he examined her. “Just promise me the baby and I will be okay.”
She rolled onto her side and held her stomach and closed her eyes as Dr. Arnold said the same thing that Brenda had said, over and over again: “It’ll be okay.”
Her imagination got the better of her as she lay there in bed praying that her child would live through the night. She saw herself standing next to the grave of two dead children. It was a bright and sunny day, and there was no one there with her. Not Macon. Not her first husband. No one.
There was only her and the two children she had failed to give life to.
The image hung before her like a ghost, as she imagined herself sitting on the end of the bed with Macon’s gun in her hand. She imagined the heft of it in her fingers. She had always been fascinated by just how heavy guns really were, their density made greater by the weight of what they could do to the world. She imagined turning the muzzle toward herself. She imagined trying to look down the black pit of the barrel. She wondered if she might actually be able to see a glimmer of the bullet just before it exited the chamber and entered her skull, taking away all of her pain, all of her memories, all of the hopes that life had taken away from her. It would be quick and painless, she knew that. Not even a flash. Not even a pinprick. Just a sudden nothingness—a place without fear or pain or memory. And then she imagined Ava standing near the headstones of Carmen’s two dead children and she looked at her with accusing eyes and said, “You could have saved him.”
