by David Athey
Sloshing out into the countryside, I should have felt happy to be alive, but everything itched. My T-shirt was stuck to my skin, my jeans clung heavily to my legs, and my feet were in agony. Every so often, a massive blister would burst inside of my shoes.
It was a miserable march, but I just kept limping along, searching for signs of Jack Williams. The wind and moon guided me for several miles, and then disappeared when I came to a mysterious farm. The place was surrounded by an electric fence, and that was strange because there were no livestock. The farm was silent, unblessed by the breath of dreaming animals or the snorting of those awake. And there were no eyes around the yard, peeking out from behind corners or between woodpiles. The farm seemed dead. So why was it surrounded by an electric fence?
Touch it.
What?
Touch it.
Excuse me?
Reach out and touch the fence.
On purpose? Are you crazy?
Nothing will happen if you touch it. You won't die. You won't even get hurt.
"Listen," I said, "all I want is a normal happy life. All I want is a wife and a family and a farm. I never asked for a spiritual charge. I never asked for-"
I reached out and touched the electric fence. My first thought was: this doesn't hurt very much. My second thought was: I've become all fire.
And I was sent flying over the fence.
The fall when Holly was thirteen, she had a bad feeling about visiting the Boundary Waters alone with our father. He'd been depressed and suffering violent nightmares and flashbacks to Vietnam. Holly feared that our father might try to drown himself or lose himself in the woods. My little sister had pleaded with me. "I know it's my turn to make the trip, Danny, but maybe we could break with tradition this year. Maybe two of us kids could go. Will you go with me? Please?"
I was sick in bed. "What about Jon? Did you ask him?"
She shook her head. "Jon is gone. After his chores, he drove the motorcycle into town. He's with those potheads in the trailer park. Oh, Danny, I need you to be healed. I need you to help me watch Dad up there in the woods. Please be healed. Please help me."
I was nauseated and not myself. And in my sickness, I said, "Not every day is Christmas. Tough it out, sis."
Holly put on a brave face and walked out of my room. An hour later, she waved from the Chevy while it slowly pulled out of the yard.
Waving back too late, I shivered at the sight of the upside-down canoe, fastened to the truck's roof, gliding away into the morning sky.
Three days later, after the canoe had killed her, my father packed Holly in the bed of the pickup, covered her with a blue tarp, and drove her down from the Boundary Waters back to the farm.
I was upstairs sweating and shivering under the covers when I heard my mother and Grammy making a commotion on the porch. I rolled over to look out the window, and there between the ripened cornfields was the red truck crawling up the driveway.
I heard my mother say, "Where's the canoe? Where's Holly?"
Grammy prayed, "Lord Jesus, please be with us."
Mother ran to the truck and nearly threw herself into the open window, asking my father what had happened; and then she turned and reached down into the payload and pulled back the blue tarp. "Holly, what are you doing? Sweetie, wake up." She gave my sister a shake. "You're home now, Holly. C'mon, sweetie, wake up."
Father spoke in a faltering voice. "She's not sleeping. She flew away."
There was a thud on the porch. I heard it in my chest. Grammy had fallen, her heart pumping more than she could bear.
Several weeks later, on Thanksgiving morning, I crept into the kitchen and asked my mother, "Is it okay to invite them back?"
Mother stood facing the stove. There was nothing cooking. No turkey. No pumpkin pie. She was barefoot, trembling in her bathrobe. An empty bottle of wine glowed between the burners.
I stepped closer. "Remember how Lazarus got called out of the tomb?"
No answer. She just trembled.
"Mom, I've been praying for Holly and Grammy to be raised from the dead."
Mother whirled around, her face pale and anguished. "Danny. Please don't pray that way. Holly and Grammy are much better off where they are."
I came to consciousness on my knees, my body still tingling with electricity. Floodlights filled my eyes, making them water. A silhouette stood between me and the farmhouse. The silhouette exuded mystery and strength and a sense that something spiritual was afoot on this farm.
The silhouette stepped closer, and snarled, "You're trespassing. You flew onto my side of the fence."
I mumbled, "I'm sorry. I was just searching for somebody."
The silhouette pulled out a shiny pistol and aimed it at my chest. "Trespassing is a sin. Trespassers can be put to death, especially in these days."
"I wasn't trying to trespass," I said, struggling to stand. "Is there a gate to get out?"
The silhouette groaned, "Get on your belly, trespasser, and crawl out the way you came in."
Without a word, I got down on my belly and crawled, very carefully, under the pulsating fence.
"Trespasser, trespasser," the silhouette sang in a mocking voice, "searching for nothing but trouble."
Continuing onward, I walked deep into the night, and I prayed for the silhouette, and I prayed to find Jack Williams, and I prayed for Rachel and everyone in New York, and I prayed with all of my heart for the whole groaning universe, and I prayed for another kiss. And a few miles up the road, a huge dog bounded out of nowhere, put his heavy paws on my shoulders, and licked my face as if he'd been searching for me.
"Okay," I said, pushing the Saint Bernard down. "That's enough. Now find Jack Williams. He needs our help."
Woof!
Away we went. I limped down the middle of the road, holding the scruff of Bernard's neck, hoping this was the will of God and not just craziness. Suddenly, a soulful meowing arose in the distance. The melancholy music called out to us, with each note suggesting a moment of greater urgency. Bernard did his best to guide me toward the kitten, but I was afraid we were too late. The meowing stopped.
Bernard and I stood silent. For several minutes we did not move, waiting for the kitten to regain its strength and send us another signal. Eventually, Bernard began to whine.
A man with a spiritual charge should always be full of faith and hope, but I began to feel a twinge of panic. Having failed so far to locate Jack Williams or the woman who'd kissed me, what if I couldn't even find a little lost kitten? What if I couldn't find anything?
Now the night became full of wings as a prowling owl pounded the darkness, scattering the air in all directions. The wings, serving the terrible claws, dove into the grassy ditch, rose again, and then beat a path back into the sky.
There was no meowing. No melancholy music. Nothing. I fell to my knees and crawled into the ditch, just in case the owl had missed its mark. I searched in small circles, eventually reaching the edge of the cornfield. There my face touched the whiskers of a silver tabby in a basket. Poor thing. She was lifeless.
I whispered, "Why should I even try anymore? I am so sick of death."
The kitten reached her little paw out of the basket and swatted me hard on the face, as if to say: where ya been?
Bernard walked over and snuffled the kitten. The great dog acted like a mother cat, giving the tabby a bath with his tongue. And then it was time to get on with the mission. And so we went, Bernard and I and a kitten in a basket. We searched and shouted, barked and meowed, but nothing stirred in the corn.
"Jack! Jack! Where are you?"
About an hour before sunrise, Bernard began sniffing hard at the gravel road as if he'd found a hopeful scent.
Woof-choo!
I wondered: what kind of a bark is that?
Woof-choo!
It wasn't a scent in Bernard's nose. It was an allergy. Bernard couldn't smell a thing, and the sneezy drooler was leading us like a blind seeing-eye dog.
"We're get
ting nowhere," I said. "My feet are killing me. C'mon, Bernard, let's call it a night. You go to your home, and I'll carry this kitten to the trailer park."
The dog kept plodding forward, dragging me along for at least another mile. He sneezed and drooled, sneezed and drooled, while the kitten meowed and meowed and reached out of her basket and swatted me. And then a small light appeared, hovering in the distance. And the light eventually became a lampstand in front of a familiar farmhouse.
Woof-choo!
The dog announced our presence and then bounded away into the corn. A few seconds later, the door of the farmhouse opened and Melissa appeared. She stood tall and strong in her fuzzy white bathrobe.
"Danny? Was that you barking?"
I explained the whole situation. She listened patiently and then invited me inside to the kitchen. She gave food and water to the kitten. Then she said, "I'll butcher some eggs for us."
"That sounds, um, good."
Melissa fired up the stove. "Danny, that's sweet of you to search for Jack Williams. I saw the story on the news. Very sad, no family in the area. No wife, no kids. Now, put the kitten back in the basket and wash your hands."
I washed while Melissa began cooking. She said, "When I saw the old man's picture on the TV, I felt like searching for him, too, but I didn't quite have the energy."
"You had a good thought," I said, "and that's like a prayer."
Melissa made omelets oozing with cheese and stuffed with sweet onions and green peppers, and she toasted homemade bread and stirred a pan full of hot chocolate. The chocolate was all creamy and frothy with little marshmallows floating on top. I offered to help cook, and she offered to hit me with the spatula. When the feast was ready, we sat at the kitchen table and talked.
"You know, Danny. After you left the other day, I felt inspired to do some writing. It wasn't my best work, but it was something I can build upon. Thank you for that."
I took a bite of buttery toast. "You're welcome."
"I sell farm goods and antiques for the cash," Melissa said, "but my real passion is writing."
I gulped some hot chocolate and gulped some more. "What do you write about?"
She sighed. "Relationships. Love. Breakups. Death. You know, life."
I swallowed hard. "Yeah, I know."
"Danny. I'm really glad you appeared the other day. I hadn't been getting much writing done. Not since September. All I've been doing is watching TV and getting depressed. I don't remember ever crying so much."
My heart pounded and ached. Why hadn't Rachel called? Didn't she know I'd be worried? Didn't she care? "Goodness," Melissa said, looking at the playful kitten.
She reached down and scooped her up. "Are you giving her away? Last month I lost my cat, Musie. I really need another Musie. Look at this little tiger's face. Oh goodness, she's so alive. Are you giving her away? Please, Danny. May I keep her?"
"Sure, I'll trade the kitten for a phone call."
Sitting somewhat tall and especially wide in the cab of his tow truck, Grease glowed in the first rays of sunlight. His unwashed T-shirt was a Rorschach of oil stains and tobacco juice.
"Listen," he said as I climbed into the truck, "I'm not a taxi driver."
"You're a good man, Grease."
He spit a juicy wad of tobacco out the window. "I'm a lady's man. That's the only reason I drove out here. When you called from Melissa's house, early in the morning, I put one and one together and figured you were hanky-pankying all night and would need my advice."
"I wasn't hanky-pankying."
Grease wiped his mouth. "Did you kiss her?"
"We were talking. That's all."
"Yeah, right."
He put the truck into gear and accelerated away from Melissa's house, while she stood shimmering on the porch with her new Musie.
Grease rubbed his dirty face with a grimy hand, pinched his pink nose, and said, "Danny, man alive, you smell like sewer."
"I fell in the river."
"You smell like sewer mixed with dog."
"Yeah, I should probably take a shower, just in case someone wants to kiss me again."
"Melissa?"
"No. She's wonderful but she's not the one. I'm talking about the real her. Understand? HER."
We rode in silence the rest of the way into town. Near the trailer park, Grease pulled into a parking lot. A few cars and trucks were scattered about as if embarrassed to be seen with each other. A neon orb glowed sickly above the strip club.
FULL-MOON-DANCING. 24 HOURS. FULLMOON-DANCING.
"What do you say, Danny? Wanna see some mooning?"
"Grease, you know that's not good for your soul."
"Yeah, I know," he said, "but my flesh is weak. Very, very weak."
"You could try prayer and fasting instead of TV and pork chops."
"Yeah, I know," Grease said, staring longingly at the strip club. "I'm just lonely. And I have some bad news."
I wasn't sure if I could bear any more. "Bad news?"
Grease turned to face me. His eyes were bloodshot and watery. "I was listening to the scanner a few hours ago. The police were searching the reservoir for Jack."
"The reservoir? That's way north of town. How could Jack have walked that far?"
Grease rubbed the tears into his face, making a dirty mess. "The cadaver dogs picked up a scent, Danny. They think the body's in the lake."
I took a long, hot shower, and then put on my blue suit and sat in a chair beside the bed. Outside my window, a congregation of black-capped chickadees twittered and chirped, welcoming the new day and begging me for their daily seeds.
Twitter, twitter. Chirp, chirp. Twitter, twitter. Chirp, chirp.
"Okay, birds," I said. "I hear you. But I'm waiting for someone."
Twitter, twitter. Chirp, chirp. Twitter, twitter. Chirp, chirp.
"Birds, don't you care about my love life?"
Twitter, twitter, twitter!
I arose from the chair and went into the kitchen, where I kept a sack of sunflower seeds under the counter. I plunged a plastic scoop into the bag, lifted a mound of seeds, and shuffled outside.
"Here, little birdies. Get your yum-yums for your turnturns."
Instead of rushing to the feast, the chickadees flung their plump bodies away from the house and flapped out of my yard. They flew above the neighboring rooftops and then paused at the edge of the trailer park. The flock of birds hovered in the blue as if inviting me to follow.
I didn't want to be superstitious or deceived in any way, but I also didn't want to consider myself above and beyond the wisdom of the One who chose to speak through the donkey-brained ass of Balaam. Perhaps the chickadees were speaking to me with their chirps and twitters and wings.
I filled the feeder with seeds, dropped the scoop in the grass, and then jumped in my truck and followed the birds.
Why not? It was a warm-cool day with a crisp wind that made me shiver with hope. Leaves of orange turned in the wind as the October sun baked everything gold. Why not follow birds on a day like that?
We didn't get far out of the city before we came to a farm that was so abandoned it had only one remaining building. It was like a black-and-white photograph that seems lifeless but makes you imagine more life. The birds hovered for a few moments and then hurried back toward the trailer park, hungry for the seeds. I climbed out of the truck and walked up to the cracked and rotting building. Once upon a better time for farming, it might have been a small barn. Or a large chicken coop. Now it was leaning ever closer to the earth.
And it was padlocked.
"A brand-new lock," I whispered. "This is very mysterious."
At the sound of my voice, the ruin came alive with rustling noises.
I squinted into a crack in the door and called out, "Hello? Is somebody in there? Do you need help?"
The rustling noises got louder.
"Don't be afraid. I'll get you out of there."
I yanked on the padlock but it would not give. So I focused on the r
usty hinges. I worked my fingers into the gaps, ignoring the slivers that needled under my nails, and I was able to rip the hinges from the rotted wood and fling the door open.
"Come on out," I said, "you're free!"
The rustling became a stampede, and I had to leap away from the door. A great cloud of dust and a herd of swine billowed into the sunlight. The pigs pounded the earth, snorting and squealing into the corn.
Maybe I should chase them into the field, I thought.
No, just let those pigs fly.
Caw! Caw-aww! A musical crow appeared from behind the ruin and floated with the wind like a beckoning prayer; and I got into the truck and followed. Why not? If God wanted to use a musical crow to serve His purposes, then who was I to argue? I followed the bird for several miles, even though she didn't fly as a crow is supposed to flystraight-but kept going this way and that way, and I began to worry about that creature's ability to serve its Creator.
A few minutes later, the crow led me to a brick building rising out of the corn. It was the Rural Mental Health Clinic.
The bird whirled in midair and landed on top of the flagpole. Caw-aww! she sang over the stars and stripes. Caw-aww! Caw-aww!
The clinic looked more like a veterinarian hospital. Something told me that I'd been there before. Something told me not to go inside. But I slowly climbed out of the truck and walked toward the one-way glass entrance.
"Come in," a man said, opening the door. He was short and round and his jowls wiggled when he spoke.
I felt uneasy and thought about running away.
"Come in, Daniel," Dr. Parsons said. "I haven't seen you for a while. But I knew you'd want to talk with me today."
It was the anniversary of my mother's death.
chapt three
THERE IS A moment in late autumn in Iowa when it seems the sun so adores the earth that the cornstalk leaves go all a-swirl and leap like love-struck flames. When I was a teenager in love, I was caught up in one of those moments when everything that could be seen was nothing but fiery, golden grace; and then my mother's voice fluttered out of the sky. "This little light ... this little light ... my little light. . ."
