Billy Goat Hill

by Mark Stanleigh Morris

  “Oh. Where could I find that in the Bible?”

  “I recommend you read the book of John, first.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’ll learn that God loved the world so much that He sent His only Son, Jesus, to the and be raised again to bring salvation to the world—and that means Jesus died for each and every one of us.”

  “Even me?”

  “Yep. Simply put, the Bible says when a person makes the decision to accept Jesus as his personal Lord and Savior, then the Spirit of Jesus begins to live in him. At that very moment, the person is born again into the Kingdom of God.”

  “Wow, and then what?”

  “That’s another very good question. Accepting Jesus is the beginning of experiencing true peace and happiness right here in this life on earth. I see life as a sort of quest, and quests are a form of a test and often involve surprise and mystery.” She grins. “It has been my experience that God seems to enjoy testing me, and He has definitely thrown a lot of surprise and mystery my way.”

  “Having you here in my kitchen is certainly a surprise and not without some mystery, wouldn’t you say?” She grins again.

  “So you think God brought me here today?”

  “I know He did.”

  “Huh, that’s kind of cool.”

  “That is very cool…if old ladies are allowed to say cool. One more thing about your born again question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Let me get something for you, just a second.” She gets up and shuffles into the adjoining pantry. She returns with a piece of paper. “Here, you keep this. It’s ‘The Sinner’s Prayer.’”

  “Lord Jesus Christ, I come to You now, because I am a sinner….” Hmm… maybe I’ll read the rest later. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You’re welcome. You keep that paper, and I’ll pray for the day when you truly feel it in your heart to pray the prayer out loud for God’s ears to hear. When you do, I promise He will hear you.”

  I feel a warm tingling inside my chest. “Okay.”

  She smiles with great satisfaction. “Would you like to stay here tonight, Wade? I always keep the spare room ready for company, just in case. I don’t have any family of my own, but once in a while I get to host a church visitor. How do a hot bath, a good night’s rest, and a wholesome breakfast in the morning sound to you?”

  How could I possibly say no? It would break her heart. “Yes, ma’am, I would appreciate that.”

  “Praise God. You know, I think you could fit into some of Carl’s old things. I’ve been slowly giving away his clothing, but I still have a trunk full of clean socks, undershirts, and such. You’re welcome to anything you want.”

  “Thank you.”

  She yawns and looks at the clock above the sink. “My goodness, is it ten o’clock already? I’ll have to call it an evening. Your room is to the left there, and the bathroom is at the end of the hall, complete with towels and such. You just make yourself at home, and I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep in if you’d like. I’ll be here whenever you get up, and we’ll have a nice breakfast together. Okay?”

  “Sounds good. Thank you.”

  Esther hugs me and says good night.

  I sit at the kitchen table and try to absorb the contents of the day. Rain. No work at the car wash. Hitchhiking all day. Eight different rides. No Sergeant. No Miss Cherry. An eighty-year-old angel named Esther. Blueberry pie. Carl’s socks and underwear.

  Who would believe? Is the unknown unfolding with certain randomness…or… is all of this part of God’s plan for me?

  A light washes in through Esther’s kitchen window, and I look out to see a car has pulled into our old driveway next door. A man and a woman get out of the car and open the rear doors on either side of the vehicle. They both lean in to the backseat, each coming up with a sleeping child. I watch with fascination as they carry the kids into the house. Do they have a dog?

  From the comfort of Esther’s kitchen, I am able to view the scene with a degree of detachment and objectivity. I see a good house. But a house is not a home. I hope my former house is a better home for them. Perhaps a little prayer couldn’t hurt.

  I enjoy the luxury of nightmare-free sleep until the bacon smell surrounds the bed. For a fleeting moment I think the dead man has managed to set me on fire. Geez. I get up and slip on Carl’s old robe.

  In the hallway the bacon smells wonderful.

  “Good morning, Wade.”

  “Morning, ma’am.”

  “How did you sleep?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “Have a seat. How do you like your eggs?”

  “Over easy, please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Out Esther’s kitchen window I see a border collie. They do have a dog. Good. “How do you like your neighbors, ma’am?”

  “A very nice young couple, Bert and Marilyn, with two kids, Jared and Melody. Bert works for the gas company, and Marilyn is a full-time mommy. They go to my church.”

  “Really?”

  “The dog never barks. They call him Barney. I don’t suppose you drink coffee, do you?”

  “Yes, I do. Black, please.”

  I notice a Bible and an envelope with my name written on it sitting on the table. “What’s this?”

  “Open it.”

  She sets down a steaming cup of coffee, and I think of Rodney Bernanos. The envelope contains what appears to be a lot of money. I look at her. “What’s this for?”

  “It’s the money I got from selling Carl’s Chevy. I know that old car must have bothered you pretty near every night all those years. You take that money and keep it for an emergency, a little nest egg.”

  “Three hundred dollars? I couldn’t…”

  “You can’t say no to me, young man. But I am willing to make a little deal with you, if you like.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “Well, the way I figure it, it’s a shame that we didn’t get to know each other better while we were neighbors all those years. I would like you to take my phone number so you can stay in touch. Check up on this old lady now and then, maybe come by and see me when you have a chance. I bet we can make up for lost time.”

  Make up for lost time? Is it possible to make up for that much lost time? “You don’t have to give me money to do that. It would be great to stay in touch with you.”

  “Well then, you’ll just have to accept the money as a gift from God. But far more important than the money is the Bible there I’d like you to have. That’s the copy Carl studied for the year or so before he died. You’ll find some of his notations written in the margins. I hope you’ll do some reading and find the same joy and comfort in it that Carl found.”

  “Thank you very much, ma’am.”

  “After breakfast, there is one small favor you could do for me before you go, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure—anything.”

  “Carl used to think he was getting away with something hiding cases of beer behind the old fig tree in the backyard.”

  I laugh. “Luke and I were aware of that.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Alcoholism carries with it a lot of shame, you know. Drinkers often try to fool themselves into believing they can hide the problem. Anyway, these old wobbly legs, even with my cane, can’t get me around in the backyard anymore. I used to love to tend to my flowers and such, but I’ve had to let it all go to seed. The weeds always win in the end, don’t they?

  “Anyway, there are two cases of beer still stowed under the fig tree, and I worry that some rambunctious neighborhood kid will eventually find it.” She hands me a bottle opener. “Would you go out there and pour all the beer onto the ground and bring the empty bottles up to the back porch?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks, honey.”

  The tree is badly overgrown and the weeds so high and thick, I don’t think anyone would ever have found Carl’s hidden beer. I have to push my way in under low-hanging branches and brush away years’ wo
rth of dead leaves to find the beer. The wood crates are rotted, and the labels have long ago peeled loose from the bottles, but sure enough each bottle is full of amber liquid.

  As I pop the bottle caps and start pouring, the chamber created by the surrounding branches fills with the aroma of stale beer. At first the smell is mildly offensive, but soon I find myself enjoying the unique scent. Too much so, as halfway through the dumping project I become tempted to taste the beer.

  Then I hear the muffled laughter of children coming from the other side of the fence, from my old backyard, and the temptation is replaced by a strange feeling of shame.

  I pop the last bottle cap and pour, and as I do, a sudden flutter and flapping of wings is in the branches above my head. I reach back for a slingshot that is not there as feathers float down at my feet, like fake snow in a Sears Christmas window display.

  Walking down the hill of Ruby Place with the Bible under my arm bookmarked at John 3:16 by Esther, her phone number and three hundred dollars in my wallet, I decide to loop back around the block and have a nostalgic look at Billy Goat Hill. The path up the hill, worn smooth by generations of youthful bare feet, is still there, but looking up toward the top of the hill, I see clear indications of construction activity. I stand there at the trailhead halted by doubt. Do I want to satisfy my curiosity and snoop around the construction site? Or do I want to keep the memories of my childhood playground unspoiled? I decide a climb up the hill will only yield sad feelings and regret. Never look back, Wade.

  Instead, I turn around and head for Monrovia. It looks like a good day for washing cars. I stick my thumb out and start north up Figueroa Street toward Eagle Rock. In no time, I catch a ride that takes me all the way to the Huntington Car Wash. The driver says he is the pastor of a church in Arcadia and doesn’t mind going the extra two miles to drop me off at my destination. I think he is impressed by the Bible under my arm.

  During the ride I keep thinking about how good the stale beer smelled. One ride, forty minutes…yesterday it took all day. I’ve got to get myself a car… and maybe a cold beer.

  Three nights later, the angry young man in me, the one who was angry enough to leave his only brother behind, decides to accept the first beer he is offered. It tastes nothing like the stale aroma I inhaled under Esther’s fig tree. It is good and smooth and friendly. Three bottles is all it takes for me to sing patriotic songs and warn about the evils of communism. I feel like a jerk when I think of Esther, but my new friend pushes her away with promises of everything I’ve ever wanted. In fact, one more bottle of this delicious stuff, and I believe I’ll be ready to shoot down a cosmonaut.

  ohn Fogerty’s lament floats around the moonlit room evoking my soul, beseeching me like a sportive wraith beckoning from the shadows. Creedence Clearwater Revival mixed with a quart or so of Red Mountain wine, stirred lightly—my recipe for passage into the zone of subconsciousness wherein I’ve been tarrying more and more of late. Rock music and alcohol—in them, their worldly combination, I find a sad but effective form of sympathy. Artificial sympathy, yes, but better than no sympathy at all for a needy twenty-two-year-old man.

  In the dimness, my transistor radio still looks new. So many years have fallen by the wayside, yet every time I look at the radio I think of the Sergeant and Miss Cherry. His claim that the Japanese had achieved an acceptable level of quality was correct after all. But thinking about it only makes me feel sorry for myself. Often, I wonder where they are and hope time is treating them well.

  The wine buzzing just right puts a silly sardonic smile on my face, and I reckon the radio signal is so clear because I rarely used the FM function. Now FM radio is the rage. They call it Underground Radio, a term which seems to speak directly to me. The MADE IN JAPAN sticker is long gone, but I haven’t progressed at all.

  That’s not exactly true. I have been blessed to meet a wonderful woman, fall in love, and get married. Her name is Melissa, and she is half Japanese, half Caucasian, which sheds forever one of Earl’s lousy legacies. Love washed away the imprint of bigotry. What would Earl say about that? Esther always talked about God’s sense of humor.

  My wonderful wife notwithstanding, I have been on a long downhill slide. It began when Esther died. Losing her was a terrible blow that brought back the pain and loss I experienced when Rodney passed away.

  Esther never gave up on me, always glad to hear from me, always giving me encouragement, always gently attempting to talk with me about the Bible and God’s grace. Once after a spirited discussion about forgiveness, I came very close to telling her all about the dead man of Three Ponds. In the end, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I finished off the night getting drunk in a Pasadena bar and sleeping it off in my car behind a Shell gas station.

  The last time I saw Esther, I had stopped by her house to show her my new used wheels, an ivory 1966 Mustang. She was very impressed, and she surprised me when she asked me to take her for a ride. “Let’s go to the beach!”

  We drove down to Malibu and strolled barefoot in the surf. She was a spindly tidal crab hobbling along with her cane scraping the sand. I don’t think she had ever walked on the beach before, and it was such a joy seeing this sweet old lady with a childlike sparkle in her eyes. We even saw a couple of movie stars, an aging one whom she recognized, and a young one whom I had recently seen on the big screen.

  We talked a lot about suffering that day, how some of us experience so much of it in this life, and the unfairness of it all. Matthew and Mac came up at one point, and I tried to steer the conversation in a happier direction. But she worked hard to get me to grasp the notion that people who suffer more than their fair share of pain and heartache can receive a great blessing, the realization that more important than our need for answers is our need for God Himself. She told me the story of Job from the Bible.

  At one point, she picked up a surf-worn shell and held it up to the sun. She looked at the shell with a kind of wonderment mixed with knowing recognition, as if it contained some powerful message that God had planned to wash up on the shore at the precise moment of our passing. “You know,” she said. “Most of the time we are blinded by our own wants and desires, and we can’t see beyond our immediate suffering or troubles. But God has a plan for each and every one of us. And if we believe in Him and trust Him, and if we can manage to be patient and wait for His perfect timing, He allows us to appreciate and understand the fullness of His plan for us.”

  That’s the thing about Esther that will stay with me as long as I live. She suffered, she trusted, she believed, like Job. We had a good time at Malibu, cherished moments that I keep folded and tucked close to my heart. I wish I had visited Esther more, listened to her more, trusted her more. Maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t be on the slippery slope that I am on now.

  My wife loves to use my arm as a pillow. Not wanting to wake her, I resist moving as long as I can; slowly my hand goes numb, like my mind on the wine, and it is time to turn over.

  “Ouch!” My shoulder-length blond locks are always getting caught in the wickerwork headboard.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep, babe.”

  Melissa turns over, mumbles femininely, and snuggles closer. Ten thousand pins slowly leave my arm in search of another cushion.

  Moonlight sifts in through the window bathing our bed in a soft lambent glow, tantalizing and energizing the natural violet highlights in Melissa’s herbal-scented raven hair. The strands shimmer iridescently against the whiteness of her pillow, beguiling me, deluding me in the most pleasing sense. It was her long beautiful hair that sparked my initial attraction to her, though her physical beauty cannot be broken down into individual attributes. When combined with her transcendent personality, she is the sum total of any man’s notion of a beautiful woman.

  The sheer curtains in the bedroom had not been my choice. Melissa insisted that she be in full charge of decorating the bedroom, and I soon found out why. Melissa’s passions escalate in the moonlig
ht. She says the moon is a romantic and mysterious orb. She has a way with words—colorful, precise, and direct. Full moons at our house are welcomed, indeed. Now I love the curtains.

  Enchanted by her warmth, her scent, the soothing rhythm of her breathing, often I lie awake at night and watch her sleep. With tender fascination, I observe the beat of her gentle, loving heart, pulsing quivers that ebb in the delicate dip between her collarbones.

  I have been crazy about Melissa since the day we first met. She thought I was crazy, but I sensed in her an interest that she wished to explore. Before Melissa came along, I had become a shameful purloiner of female affection. I was love starved and love shy at the same time, which I’m sure had everything to do with Lucinda’s treason, the trauma of suddenly losing contact with Miss Cherry, and the loss of my dear friend Esther—the only three women I had ever been close to. Consequently, my romantic relationships had been episodic and compulsive, and in hindsight—unhealthy.

  Melissa suspected much about my prior escapades, which made it tough for me in the beginning. But as time went by, she began to see through the case-hardened exterior that I lugged around like a full suit of armor.

  One night early in our courtship, she discovered a small chink in my breastplate. We were sitting in a pizza parlor, both feeling uneasy, self-conscious, not chewing our pizza the way pizza was meant to be chewed. Conversation had been strained, a little too forced, superficial at best. We tentatively probed for themes of common ground. She flirted with her eyes and I with my voice as we plowed over some of the same ground covered during our previous date.

  I was beginning to slip into self-defeating doubt that she would ever decide she liked me, and then she asked what would turn out to be the perfect question—the needed nudge to start the wheel of conversation turning. “What’s your favorite movie?”