Billy Goat Hill

by Mark Stanleigh Morris

But my frustrated demon dies hard. At the far edge of my spiritual clearing, from a thicket of thorny brambles where snakes slither and hiss, he calls out to me one last time. Where is the Sergeant now? Would he come to Miss Cherry if he knew of her plight? Would she want him to come? Are you afraid to try to find him?

  “It won’t work anymore, demon. I have God on my side.”

  I dab Miss Cherry’s mouth with the tissue. I watch her lying here, so frail, so defenseless, so much in need. I will no longer cower before demons—Miss Cherry needs me. I must be patient. I must endure.

  Then, with the innocence of that little boy of so long ago, now a man, but perhaps still just as innocent, I wonder what Duke Snider would do. For one thing, he would have gotten rid of that cursed silver ball bearing a long, long time ago. I think about that one for a while.

  Sitting next to Miss Cherry and holding her hand, I think about calling Luke just to hear his voice and maybe try to make him laugh. He is prematurely balding now and wide open for mockingbird jokes. The thought makes me smile.

  I do not yet fully understand about the strength-giving power of prayer. But I do have faith. Stay with me, God. Speak to me about patience. Please give me a sign. I need You.

  From far away in the back of my memory I hear Luke’s voice. “Be patient. Duke Snider waits for his pitch, you know.”

  I realize the TV is on in Miss Cherry’s room. I look up. On the news is my old hero Duke Snider. After patiently waiting fifteen years for his pitch, he’s being inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame at Cooperstown, New York. I close my eyes. Thank You, God.

  he years have brought a deeper mellowing. Without a conscious awareness of it happening, I began to accept the things that I cannot change. At first, I abstractly gleaned the concept from the Serenity Prayer, an important part of the AA tradition, but with the passing of time I have reached a greater understanding. Ever so gradually, I am accepting the unsolved riddle of my Chinese puzzle youth. If part of my past is to be shrouded in mystery, so be it.

  After an arduous battle with my own ego, I chose to exercise my free will and surrender it all to God. The bad dreams are still with me, though much less frequent and much less disturbing. Brooking the nightmares of darkness no longer entails sleep deprivation. Hallelujah!

  At the age of thirty-eight, I find the road is becoming smoother, though seemingly faster, and I have much for which to be thankful. My marriage to Melissa, who is sweet and beautiful as ever, is more than any man deserves. Luke and I are about to celebrate five years in partnership as proud owners of a thriving travel agency, and with thanks for God’s grace, I am in my twelfth year of sobriety.

  My daughter, Kate, a beauty to rival her mother, has just turned sixteen. Kate is excited about starting her junior year in high school. She carries a 4.0 grade point average, and confident thoughts of college scholarships glimmer in her beautiful blue eyes. She has my eyes and her mother’s hair. She looks like a sixteen-year-old version of the actress Connie Sellecca. And although the brain damage left Miss Cherry permanently disabled and relegated to live out her remaining years in a rest home, she survived her stroke and is doing well. Indeed, I have much for which to be thankful.

  I am lounging on the back patio of our new Upper Bradbury home enjoying the blessings of the summer morning sun as it rides the ridgeline of the steadfast San Gabriel Mountains. Early shadows lean toward the Pacific marking a steady crawl east toward day’s end. My first cup of steaming black coffee warms my insides as I scan a printout of the prior week’s bookings. Luke and I are promoting an Australian vacation package, and sales are brisk thanks to Paul Hogan and Crocodile Dundee.

  As often happens, the coffee stimulates welcome flashes of Rodney Bernanos. Cackle! I hear him laugh, and I quickly skirt around the memory of his heart attack and give some thought to that little puppy—Kirk. What ever became of him? Did he grow up to be the noble protector of a kind and loving owner? I hope so.

  Kate opens the kitchen slider and strolls across the patio to refill my cup. My nostalgic interlude evaporates when she purposefully clears her throat to get my attention. “Daddy, can I use the Chevy this afternoon? Christina and I want to rent a video, probably that Sally Field movie Places in the Heart, and watch it over at her house.”

  I look up from my printouts into my daughter’s beautiful eyes, and I am struck once again by how much I have to be thankful for. “Thanks for the refill, honey.”

  She leans against the recliner I cozily occupy, bumping it softly with her hip to tease me as I raise the hot, laden cup to my lips. “I’m being extra nice so you’ll let me use the car, Daddy.”

  The ink on Kate’s new driver’s license is still wet, and walking has suddenly gone out of style. My free hand sneaks up and tickles her behind her bare knee. “Creepy mouse.” I recite a piece of the tickle song she loved so much when she was a little girl.

  “Careful, Daddy.” She giggles and backs away, the coffee in the pot sloshing but steady in her hand. She smiles as she always does whenever I give her some attention.

  Kate’s smile is just like her mom’s, and therefore just like Miss Cherry’s before her stroke took it away. Those three heavenly smiles, gifts from the Almighty, are the sustaining blessings in my life.

  The sun backlights Kate’s raven hair, the natural violet highlights shimmering iridescently—the wonder of genetics on display. “Did I ever tell you how pretty you are?”

  Her smile takes on an added glow. “About ten times a day, but I’ll creepy mouse you unless, of course, you say I can use the car.”

  Kate’s mother also contributed a monster gene for relentless persistence. I smile.

  “Uncle Luke and I are going to visit Miss Cherry this afternoon. I’m sure he won’t mind picking me up. I’ll call him in a few minutes just to make sure.”

  Kate takes that as a yes, her eyes glimmering accordingly. With step one successfully completed, she now hits me with step two. “I might want to spend the night at Christina’s.” She tries her best to make it sound like an incidental thought. “Her mother already said it was okay. And Mom says it’s fine with her, as long as you approve.” She giggles surreptitiously and softens her voice. “I think Mom wants to spend a cozy night at home alone with you.”

  Kate is very clever. I already feel for the poor young man who wins her heart. I give her a smile that tells her I am onto her, but that I admire the ruse. Inside me there is a smile bigger than the one I am showing Kate. Having memorized the lunar chart out to the year 2020, I know a big, fat, full one is due in tonight’s sky.

  “If you bring me one more refill in a little while, you can stay over at Christina’s…” My voice drops down to the octave of doting sternness. “With one very important condition.”

  Her dangerously innocent eyes brighten. “A proviso, you mean?”

  “Yes, a proviso, Miss College Bound. You have to stay put at Christina’s. No running around in the car—Okay?”

  “Okay, Daddy. I promise.”

  In the house the phone rings. With an abundance of enthusiasm, Kate scampers to answer it. At her age, a ringing telephone is a thing to behold. She reappears at the door a minute later. “Daddy, it’s for you. It’s Uncle Luke. I already asked him if he could pick you up, and he said ‘fine.’”

  She is an opportunist, just like her mom.

  “Okay, sweetie, please tell him I’ll be right there.”

  A hawk hovering high above the patio appears not to be moving, in total command of the thermal riding up the pocked barren slope that ascends sharply from our rear property line. He is looking for a meal, a mouse maybe, or perhaps a little red-headed boy. As I get up and head into the safe cover of the house, I am glad not to be a creepy mouse with red hair.

  Kate eagerly hands me the phone. I give her a lightning fast tickle, making her squeal and squirm away.

  “Hello.”

  “Yes, hello. Is this Mr. Wade Parker?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Mr. Parker, th
is is Duke Snider calling.”

  Wouldn’t that be something? “Gee, Mr. Snider, you sound more like Charlie Neal.”

  “Ha, ha. How would you know what Charlie Neal sounds like?”

  “Actually, I don’t know, Luke. Could be Charlie’s pushing up daisies by now.”

  “Well, that’s a pleasant thought.”

  “Sorry about that. I’m sure old Charlie is doing fine. I know Duke Snider is doing well. I heard he’s working on his autobiography. It’s supposed to be published sometime next year.”

  “Oh geez,” Luke moans. “The way you’ve lugged around that bat he gave you for the past twenty-five years, you better buy a bunch of copies. Books aren’t as durable as bats, you know.”

  “I’ve already put in an advance order for a dozen copies.” I listen to Luke groan again. “Hey, come on, Red. If it wasn’t for Duke Snider, I probably wouldn’t be here talking to you now.”

  Luke laughs. “Yeah, and if it wasn’t for Duke Snider, Buster wouldn’t have had to replace all of those windows, either.”

  “Aw, heck, those windows were old anyway.”

  “Yeah, right. Old glass, broken or not, needs to be replaced. So tell me, who do you think is better…?”

  “Drysdale.”

  Luke jives, “What are you gonna do, ya big donkey, throw me in the pond again?”

  Luke often jokes about the negative highlights of our past, but even the slightest reference to Three Ponds can still give me a chill, possibly even ruin my day.

  “So, little brother, I understand your niece conned you into picking me up this afternoon.”

  “Sure.” No problem. Trish won’t need the van; she’s going to the mall with the new gal from across the street, the one who came to church with us last Sunday. Remember, she’s the one I was telling you about the other day, the gal who put all the bird feeders in her yard.

  “Geez, I felt like going over there and laying my fear of mockingbirds complex on her, but Trish wouldn’t let me. Oh, and get this. Her seven-year-old son is named Jake. Their last name is not Blume though, it’s Kimball. Of course she calls him Jakey.”

  “What color is his hair?”

  He laughs. “I knew you’d ask. Blonder than yours, but the name Jakey and the obsession with birds is kind of a blast from the past, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah—kind of.” I am annoyed that I still can’t touch on such things with the lighthearted zeal that Luke can.

  “Man, how I love a good blast from the past.”

  “A good blast, yes. Luke, let’s get serious for a minute. I’m glad you’re going with me today. Miss Cherry called me twice to remind me to be sure I brought you with me. I don’t know why today is so important, but it evidently means a lot to her that we’re both coming. She’s been asking why you haven’t been to see her in a while. I know you don’t feel as close to her as I do, but it really means more to her to see you than you think. It’s kind of like the Smothers Brothers. I think she always liked you best.”

  “Well, of course.”

  “No, really, Luke. You were only six years old that first night on Billy Goat Hill. She’s never forgotten that. If she only knew you were actually much tougher than me, even then, maybe she would have liked me best.”

  “You’re full of it, Wade.”

  “Always have been.”

  “I’ll pick you up at three-thirty, big brother.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be ready. See ya.”

  “Wait a second, Wade!”

  He catches me just before I hang up the phone. I put the receiver back to my ear. “Yes, Mr. Snider?”

  “Ha, ha. Listen, I’ve got a crazy question for you.”

  “All of your questions are crazy, Luke.”

  “Well then, here’s another one. How long do you think Mac would have lived, I mean, you know, if he hadn’t got killed?”

  He is famous for his off-the-wall questions, but this one catches me completely off guard. “I guess fifteen, maybe twenty years at the most. Why?” I flash on a picture of Mac climbing all over me as I wake up outside the mouth of Cavendish Caverns.

  Softly, Luke says, “I miss that darn dog sometimes.”

  My heart quavers in-between beats. Hearing him say it just that way pulls at something deep in my buried core, choking me up. My eyes turn glassy, and I have to take a moment and clear my throat. “Yeah, I think about him sometimes, too. I know he probably saved Lucinda’s life, but, well, as terrible as it sounds, for a long time I wished that he’d come with us to Billy Goat Hill that last night.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. Well, the reason I mention Mac is because Trish and I have been thinking about getting a dog. We went to the Glendale Animal Shelter yesterday to look around. There’s a dog there that could pass for Mac, if she was a male and didn’t have any spots, that is.”

  I wonder if…no, it can’t be. I smile to myself and don’t say it. “Luke, I have the strangest feeling that you should go back to the pound and get that dog.”

  “Really? That’s what Trish says.”

  “Yeah. Definitely.”

  “I think you’re right. There was something special about her.”

  “Can I suggest a name?”

  “Sure.”

  “How about—Antoinette? You could call her Andi or Toni, for short.”

  “Yeah, Antoinette. That’s what I was thinking.”

  He does remember. I am pleased.

  “Wade?”

  “Yeah, Red?”

  “I’m glad you’re my big brother. I love you. See you around three-thirty.”

  He hangs up before I can respond. I love you, too, Luke.

  Kate comes in from the patio carrying the coffeepot. “I warmed your coffee for you, Daddy.” She notices the moisture in my eyes. “What’s the matter? Did Uncle Luke tell you another one of his funny stories?”

  “Yes he did, but I think I just got something in my eyes, honey.”

  “Yeah,” she says beginning to tear up. “I have that problem, too. I must get it from you.” Kate puts her face to my chest and gives me a hug worth millions.

  Across the room, Melissa watches with great satisfaction.

  One of the many reasons the Parker Travel Agency is a success is Luke’s willingness to work on Saturdays. The office is in Covina, I live in Bradbury, and Luke lives in Glendale, not far from where Rodney Bernanos lived all those years ago. Lorrie, our senior travel agent, and another important reason for our success, agrees to cover things so Luke can leave early to pick me up by three-thirty. Bradbury is roughly halfway between the office and Rosewood Manor of Altadena, the retirement home where Miss Cherry has been living since being released from the hospital after her stroke. I know the place well.

  Before we even make it down the hill from my house to the 210 Freeway, we have a brotherly spat over what music we are going to listen to on the way. I have become a fan of contemporary Christian music with a strong preference for Phil Keaggy’s recordings. Luke has yet to discover the incredible new talent emerging in contemporary Christian rock. Lately he’s developed a taste for what I regard as ethereal jazz.

  I smuggled a Phil Keaggy tape into the van, but he catches me before I can slip it into the player. “Uh, uh. I’m providing the transportation so we listen to my music. Here—” he hands me a cassette—“put this in. You might even like it.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Humor me.”

  I wanly insert the tape in the slot and take a look at the cassette jacket. Andreas Vollenweider, Down to the Moon.

  “What in the heck is a Vollenweider?”

  “Just listen, you big donkey.”

  The music starts and Luke turns up the volume. The van fills with hip harp music. I give it a fair listen for a few minutes and decide it can’t hurt me.

  When the first song finishes, Luke asks, “What do you think? Kind of nice, isn’t it? Light, unobtrusive, soothing.”

  “Probably what they play in elevators in heaven.”

&nb
sp; “Elevators in heaven? I haven’t thought about that. I’ll take that as a compliment, though.” He grins and changes lanes to let someone in more of a hurry than us pass by.

  If my options ever narrow down to living in a rest home, I’d pick Rosewood Manor. At fifteen hundred dollars a month, it is a great deal. Fifty-two very fortunate seniors live in idyllic surroundings under the care of a well-trained and compassionate staff. Family and friends are encouraged to come at mealtimes and are welcome to eat with the residents at no charge. The food is varied and quite good. After a couple of years, I found myself arranging my visits with Miss Cherry to straddle the lunch or dinner hour.

  The cook is Marge McZilkie. She likes me and makes a point of saving me servings of her specialty: a raspberry cobbler so good that thoughts of visiting Miss Cherry release a Pavlovian dribble. Miss Cherry and Marge have been at Rosewood Manor longer than any of the current employees and residents. They are the same age and have become best of friends. I can count on Marge to let me know if Miss Cherry is having any problems or if she needs anything. Marge knows that Luke and I pay the resident fees in excess of that covered by Miss Cherry’s monthly social security payment.

  Marge called me the day before to make sure I was coming. She is concerned about Miss Cherry’s spirits of late. She believes Miss Cherry is feeling down about something, just what, she really couldn’t say for sure. All she knows is, Miss Cherry received a letter recently. The letter came by special courier, which gives me some concern. Marge suspects something in the letter upset Miss Cherry.

  I spot Miss Cherry sitting in her wheelchair in the sunny west garden of the rest home. Parked next to her is a tiny black woman who appears to be no less than a hundred years young. They look like salt and pepper figurines, frail breakables cushioned by profuse clusters of jasmine and bougainvillea.

  From the distance, I can tell they are engaged in serious discourse, the old lady seemingly dispensing some worldly advice. Miss Cherry is nodding, one half of her face expressing agreement, or perhaps acceptance, the other half incapable of concurring. She holds her shriveled hand in her good one.