by David Athey
Sitting in my pickup near a small body of water, not sure if I should go deeper into Minnesota, I wondered if the Atom Smasher was right. Maybe I just needed some medications.
As the day deadened, the lake turned from sky blue to campfire red. A gathering of cumulus clouds formed a fiery crown around the setting sun.
What a failure, I thought. First I lost the farm, and my family, and my fiancee. Now I'm going to lose my job at the post office. And possibly my mind. I can't seem to keep anything.
The sun, crown and all, sank into the earth, leaving me wondering in the twilight: how do other people manage to find love, keep jobs, have children, and live normal happy lives? Couldn't I be normal and happy, as well?
"I awoke to a woman yesterday morning," I whispered, "and she kissed me."
It was only a dream.
"She was the most beautiful woman in the world."
In your dreams.
"She wants to marry me."
Dream on.
Hands cold and trembling, I put the truck into drive and turned around. I abandoned my search and drove back to Iowa City, taking the well-paved roads all the way.
chat two
GRAMMY SANG, "How sweet the sound! " and flung a handful of flour at the dough.
The kitchen table was my favorite place to ask her questions. When I was ten, I snuggled beside her and asked, "Why are Baptists louder than Catholics?"
Grammy grinned. It was the morning after our first Gospel Family concert, and I was referring to the fact that her backup vocals had almost drowned out my father.
"Hmmm," she hummed, rolling out the dough. "Baptists can get a little wild. But what do you expect from a group whose namesake fed on locusts and wild honey?"
I smiled and pointed at the bread-to-be. "Anything wild in there?"
Grammy laughed and ran a floury hand through my hair. "Oops, I made you sparkle."
"Do I look silly?"
"No. Very smart."
I stood quietly for a time, watching her work while she sang again, "How sweet the sound!"
"Grammy," I asked, "do you think John the Baptist was a good gospel singer?"
She pounded the dough and thought for a while. Finally, she said, "He probably chirped."
"Chirped?"
"Yes, like wilderness at sunrise."
"I don't understand."
My grandmother gave me a knowing look. "Danny, you're kind of a chirper yourself."
Two days after the kiss, I shaved and got dressed for work, hoping to salvage whatever normalcy remained in my life. But visions of delivering the mail for the next thirty years overwhelmed me with depression, and I collapsed on the couch, holding my head in my hands. I tried to pray my way out of the depression, but the pain continued to increase, rising to a level that seemed untenable, until I fell, mercifully, into the most wonderful dream-harvest sunshine, followed by a snowfall, and then the exchange of vows in a cathedral lit by the northern lights, and the kiss, and the bride so perfectly lovely.
And then my cat, Doggie, must have swatted or bitten the remote for the TV, and up flashed CNN, awakening me with the news: two mailmen had died of anthrax poisoning.
I rubbed my aching chest and prayed, "God have mercy."
Doggie pounced on the remote again. Up flashed the local news with a story about an Alzheimer's patient who had wandered away from a nursing home. A photograph of the man filled the screen, showing a wrinkled, weatherkissed face with a long white beard.
It was Jack Williams, an old friend of my family.
My father and Jack had shared farm equipment for many years, enabling them to avoid serious debt. They had named their sharing "neighborism" and took turns planting and harvesting. Sometimes whoever harvested second would end up losing some money, but nothing compared to the price of owing everything to the banks. Neighborism was the perfect system. However, the relationship between my father and his friend went sour when Jack began to lose his memory. Several years in a row, Jack harvested first. My father didn't confront him-not until the third time it happened. That year, Christian words became curses. Helping hands became fists.
After the confrontation, my father rushed out and bought expensive new equipment, all on credit, even though a bad fall was predicted.
"It was wise," he said to our family at the dinner table. "Wise and prudent. God helps those who help themselves."
Grammy Dorrie, on the far end of the table, didn't say a word. That was unusual because most nights she and my father debated all sorts of issues. Freedom of speech and religion were preached in my family because of my father's service in Vietnam. At the age of twenty-two, he'd enlisted in the fight against atheistic communism, even though he himself had no faith. My father had sent many Vietnamese souls to the next life and was almost spirited away himself. However, he survived his wounds and returned to Iowa a Catholic, pious and devout. And he vowed that his family would be allowed to believe anything their hearts desired. The only condition was that everyone must attend Mass together, "to preserve the Union."
"Dad," I asked, hoping that my questions would not be taken as attacks, "what if we have a bad harvest this year? What if we have a bad harvest next year?"
My father was dressed in his singing clothes, all black, his elbows on the table, a large bamboo crucifix hanging low.
"Dad? What if the crops aren't blessed?"
Father said nothing, and the crucifix loomed.
Silence seldom visited our dinner table. That night, it hovered over us with a heaviness that seemed all-powerful. Finally, the lull was lifted by Holly slurp-slurping a glass of milk. Jon and I laughed, thankful for the comic relief, but Father scowled. "Holly. Haven't we taught you proper manners? What's wrong with you?"
Holly flinched. "Sorry. I was just trying to-"
"Shush," my mother said softly.
My father's face reddened. Beads of sweat appeared above his furrowed brow. He scratched his head furiously as if trying to claw into his skull. "Danny," he said, "we will not have a bad fall. Not this year. Not next year. Everything is under control."
"Okay, Dad."
Jon grabbed a knife and sliced open a biscuit and began slathering on the strawberry jam. He raised the delicious mess to his mouth. "If we lose the farm, we lose it. We don't have that many acres. It won't be the end of the world."
Grammy slapped the table. "Put down that biscuit! And bow your head. We forgot to say Grace."
We all bowed and gave thanks. Like so many other families, we spoke to God with tense voices.
A few weeks later, unable to sleep, I heard my parents talking in bed. They were arguing about Jack Williams. My mother said, "You have to forgive him."
"No. Not until he admits that he lied and cheated, and asks for my forgiveness."
"Peter, if everyone waited for someone else to make the first move spiritually, then we'd all be doomed."
"I'm not forgiving him until he acknowledges the truth."
Mother sighed. "Perhaps he knows not what he does."
"Don't twist the Scriptures," my father said. "Don't twist them around my neck!"
I knew that Holly down the hall and Jon in the room beside me were lying awake, eyes wide open.
The tolling grandfather clock, downstairs where Grammy slept, struck its way to midnight.
When the tolling stopped, I was afraid the arguing would begin again, so I cleared my throat and began to sing, "It's me, it's me, it's me, oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer. It's me, it's me, it's me, oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer."
Jon chimed in. "Not my brother or my sister, but it's me, oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer. Not my brother or my sister, but it's me, oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer."
We paused, allowing someone else to pick up the song.
Holly yawned loudly and then sang dreamily, "It's me, it's me, it's me, oh Lord, lying here in my bed. I'd like to sleep, I'd like to sleep, I'd like to sleep in peace, lying here in my bed. I want my brothers to shut up and my dad
to be good, and everyone be nice to Mom-"
Father shouted, "Holly!"
Our golden-haired girl went silent. The whole house seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next harsh word. Before it could be spoken, Holly chirped, "Dad? Can I help you?"
He cleared his throat. It sounded like the beginning of a scold. "Holly! That song you were singing ... it was very interesting."
"Yup. I think it was."
"Hmm. Perhaps we could perform that song at our next gig. Do you have the new lyrics all memorized?"
Holly giggled. "It's you, it's you, it's you, oh Dad, making friends again with Jack. It's you, it's you, it's you, oh Dad, making friends again with Jack."
In the morning, after a pancake and sausage breakfast, Father pushed his chair away from the table. "Well, if nobody needs me here today, I'm thinking about driving over to the Williams place-maybe have some coffee or something. Maybe fix up a few things over there."
My mother said, "That sounds good."
My grandmother said, "Take a plate of pancakes."
Unfortunately, the meeting between Jack and my father didn't go perfectly well. There was a reconciliation of sorts, but not a partnership, and my father decided to keep all of his new equipment. So although our family was on good terms with our neighbor again, we still had enormous debts.
Years later, Jack was moonlighting as a custodian in the university's Newman Center, sweeping dust down in the Catacombs, where I was reading a Valentine's poem to my fiancee.
Rachel was wearing what she called her Manhattan Delight, an all-white blouse, skirt, and knit hat, with long dangling earrings, a Star of David brooch, and a gold necklace cross. Rachel was so moved by the Valentine's poem that she wrapped her arms around me and wept. I felt like the greatest poet ever. And then my beautiful fiancee, very slowly but with complete determination, returned the poem to my hands.
"Everything you write is about life on a farm."
"Well, more like a garden."
"Danny, we've talked and talked about this. You don't have a farm anymore. Or a garden. You live in the trailer park. You work at the post office."
There was a long, familiar, awkward pause.
"Danny. I'm transferring to NYU."
I laughed. "Is that in Des Moines?"
Rachel wept. "Danny. This isn't working. I love you. But I can't stay in Iowa. There's nothing here for us."
"But the farm, our garden. The heirloom wedding dress-"
"It doesn't exist. It's all gone, Danny. You have to stop dreaming."
"I can't."
"You have to."
"I can't."
Rachel stood and walked out of the study room and began climbing the stairs. I let the poem fall to the floor. When it came to rest, Jack Williams appeared with a broom and swept it up.
"Thanks," I said. "Please throw it away."
Jack hovered near the trash can, his whiskery mouth mumbling the words of love. "This is beautiful," he said. "Are you sure you don't want this poem?"
"I'm sure. It's over."
Jack ripped the paper into little shreds and dropped them like confetti into the trash. Then he tapped his temple with a callused finger. "I'm keeping that poem right here. You just find me when you want it back. I'm easy to find."
Now Jack was loose from the nursing home, wandering, shivering, and afraid, maybe in a back alley or out among the cornfields. My old neighbor was lost, but I was going to find him.
Wearing my mailman uniform, I left the trailer and climbed into my pickup and drove over to the nursing home, hoping I could sense which direction Jack had gone. Looking at the rows of unlit windows, I felt guilty for not having visited him during the past year.
"Which way, Lord? Which way?"
The evening was growing dark, dangerous for the vulnerable.
"Lord, there are four directions. Which one should I take?"
There was no answer, but the city lights grew brighter. And that made me think: if Jack is in town, he'll be found very soon. But if he's out among the corn, he could stay out of sight until the harvest, until he's dead.
"Lord, an old lamb is lost. Please tell me where to find him."
A minute passed. And another. The truck hummed and rattled. More minutes passed in the darkness. "Which way? I just want to help."
All I needed was a direction. One of four. It would be so easy. "Lord, you know where Jack Williams is. I'm here. I'm willing. Show me the way."
Silence.
"Please. Show me the way."
Silence.
I sat at the wheel for an hour, waiting, listening, watching.
Eventually, the door of the nursing home opened and two young nurses walked out. One of them lit a cigarette and exhaled a great cloud. My first thought was: nurses shouldn't smoke. And then I noticed that the cloud was taking a strange shape in the air, drifting under the streetlight, riding the wind dead south.
Dead south. That was my direction.
"Thank you, God."
I gave the Chevy a good dose of gas and sped through town. I drove out into the cornfields, hoping for the best. Several times per mile, I stopped and stuck my head out the window and shouted for my old friend. "Jack!"
And I waited for a response.
There was no response.
After midnight, when my tank was nearing empty and my throat was scratched with grief, I gave up the search and drove the pickup back to the trailer park. It made no sense to me that God was allowing Jack Williams to suffer, especially because I was willing to do anything for his rescue. I went to bed angry, pulled the pillow over my face, and then tossed and turned for the next several hours, forced to endure another night of war exploding from the neighbors' TV.
Shortly after falling asleep, I was awakened by the moon. There are nights, especially in autumn when the weather is turning, that the moon is not so much a reflection of the sun but a burning white flame. I rubbed my eyes and thought about the ancient hermits in the woods, monks in the cliffs, and warriors of prayer in the desert. Sometimes they must have been so overcome by the fire in the night sky that they couldn't help but wander away from their dreams.
I arose from the bed, put on jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers, and went outside. The moon led me down a glowing path. Dead leaves crackled and crunched with every step. An owl somewhere on a branch in the air wanted to know who, who, who I was while I crept toward the river. Although the river was brown during the day, the water was a glittering blue in the middle of the night. It may have been an optical illusion, but what a lovely one.
"Goodness gracious," my father exclaimed on our way to the Boundary Waters. "Look at that lake! Just look at it."
Lake Superior. The coldest, deadliest body of fresh water in the world.
Father drove slowly down the hill, allowing us to have a good long view of the harbor and what seemed to be an ocean beyond.
"It's not possible," my father said. "It's just not possible for anything to be that blue and that deep."
But it was possible, because my father was that blue and that deep.
After passing through the great harbor town of Duluth, we turned away from Lake Superior and journeyed into the Iron Range, a strange land of deep scars and blood-red mounds of ore. We stopped for lunch in a small town called Tower, filled our bellies with fresh fish, and then we drove into the deep woods, venturing further into the wilderness until my father found a small meadow. "Let's stretch our legs," he said.
"Okay. But let's not stretch too long. I wanna get on the water."
We jumped out of the truck and waded through the long grass that turned into a brown carpet of needles under a stand of evergreens. The smell of balsam fir made me think about Christmas and my sister. At the age of six, Holly had chosen Christmas for her personal religion. She celebrated the birth of Jesus every day and we began to call her a Christmasist. Holly kept a plastic tree in her room, decorated with lights and colorful ornaments. Every morning at breakfast she handed out presents-small thin
gs like pheasant feathers she'd found in the cornfields.
Father and I lingered for a long while among the whispering evergreens.
"This is the place to live," my father finally said. "Up here in God's country."
"What about Iowa?"
My father plucked a pine needle and snapped it in half. He breathed deeply and said, "I feel more alive in this forest than on our farm."
"Then let's grow some trees," I said. "Let's turn our farm into a forest."
Father rubbed his chin and smiled. "A forest in the corn? That's not a bad idea."
We walked over to a grove of sugar maples. Their sweet leaves were buzzing with bees and hummingbirds.
"How strange," my father said. "They think the autumn colors are spring flowers. The bees and hummingbirds have gone crazy."
"They've gone beautiful," I said.
Father laughed and put his arm around me. "C'mon. Let's get on the water."
With that memory of my father, I braved the dark edge of the Iowa River, singing, "Oh, we are pilgrims here below. Down by the river. Oh, soon to glory we will go. Down by the riverside."
I took a step forward. The reflected stars scattered as if swimming away. I took another step, trying to walk on the water. Other people had done this. I wouldn't be the first. Or the last. Who knows, I thought. Maybe some day it will be normal for people to walk on lakes and rivers.
And down I sank, off the deep end of the sandbar, way down into the murk. The river rolled into my lungs, and I rolled downstream. While drowning, my mind wandered from psalms to fireflies to flickering images of grandchildren playing on the farm. And then a white-bearded face appeared. Jack Williams. His gentle eyes made me panic. How can I find him, I thought, if I'm dead?
I kicked and thrashed and reached out of the water and caught the branches of a weeping willow hunched over the river. I pulled myself ashore and coughed and spluttered and lay in the grass for several minutes, shivering. Eventually, the wind whispered me to my feet. And the moon lit a path away from the water.
