by David Athey
Midday, the sky filled with clouds. At first they were a welcome relief from the relentless glare, but as the day wore on, the clouds grew thicker and darker, threatening a cold rain. Already I felt half dead. By late afternoon, the wind seemed wicked and I was hardly moving, my blistered feet plodding. I was starving, parched, and trembling. My mind began to wander. I daydreamed that I was back in high school, senior year. It was English class and everyone was yawning and nodding off to sleep, bored to death with Edgar Allan Poe, until our gray and wrinkled teacher grabbed the apple on her desk and rolled it into the center of the room. There it swelled into a giant pumpkin. Carved like a Halloween castle.
"Okay, students," Mrs. Older said. "One at a time. Go see what's inside."
A line formed, and I found myself last. The clock ticked and tolled. The students entered the castle, stayed inside for a while, and then came out glowing like fire. Even Grease and the Samsonov brothers-Mud Eye and Slopper-came out as clean as the sun.
With one minute remaining before the end of school, it was finally my turn. I entered the castle, praising Mrs. Older's name and trembling with excitement. I thought: this is the best assignment any teacher has ever given; this is what literature is all about.
In the flickering light, in a corridor that led to a throne room, stood Plain Jane Jones. She was wearing a wedding dress. "Danny," she said, smiling, "fancy meeting you here."
While I stumbled deeper into the corn stubble, the night crept up behind me and passed through the field and filled it with darkness. Good, I thought. That should reveal a light of some kind. Even if our farm was not nearby, there must be something. A gravel road. A truck driver. Anything.
There was nothing. Limping onward, I began to imagine the aurora borealis swaying above the clouds, dancing colorfully like nobody was watching, and I tripped and fell facedown in the dirt. Suffocation covers the mind so quickly, especially if part of you wants to leave the world, but I rolled onto my back, coughing, and I thought: how could this happen? How could I end up lost in a cornfield? If my body is found, will the people of Iowa laugh or cry when they hear that Danny Gospel died of exposure in his own backyard?
I wondered if my family members in Paradise were allowed to watch this.
"Rise and shine," I imagined them saying.
And down from the sky came a cloud of bright blessings. I jumped to my feet. "The first snowfall!"
The frozen blossoms fluttered to earth, the crystal flowers so extravagantly fragile that even the dumbest tongue, like mine, could melt a heavenly masterpiece in one openmouthed instant.
For several minutes, I feasted upon the snowflakes. I felt childlike and wondrously alive, and I did a little dance.
The wind blew harder and the swirling snow thickened and the scent of Minnesota pine trees began to fill my head. Balsam fir, Christmas trees on Halloween. I wondered: how could I have walked hundreds of miles north, and how could I have crossed the border without anyone seeing me? The farm should be right here. Iowa should be right here.
Limping deliriously deeper into where I was, I became convinced that the blizzard was probably a dream and I would soon wake up at the post office, going about the world's business as if nothing strange had ever happened. And then I heard a rumbling. Was it a freight train? Had I wandered onto the tracks? Or was I hearing thunder in the blizzard?
Neither a train nor thunder, the rumbling became hoofbeats, heavy but quick and coming right at me.
Don't fall, I told myself. Don't fall. You might never get up again. And I struggled to stand firm while the pigs descended upon me. The herd seemed to be coming from all directions, or maybe running in a circle, snorting and squealing, turning me around and around, until they finally disappeared, beyond the swirling curtain of snow.
I took a shaky step forward into a wind that smelled like manure and Christmas trees, and then another step forward, and I was able to limp without falling. My feet could feel nothing, and I had no sense of direction; but at least I was moving. That was my best chance of staying alive.
After a while, the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, and the blizzard became a few harmless flakes. Without the wind, the air felt warmer, and it seemed as if the danger had passed. I sat heavily and massaged my feet for a long while, bringing them back to life. I cried out at the burning, again and again, sentences that only made sense because of the pain.
And then I looked up and saw a shadow, or a person, standing in the field.
I shouted, "Hey! My name is Danny Gospel and I need some help."
The shadow, without speaking, slunk away through the snow. I painstakingly stood and followed, trying to keep up, but soon I was far behind. The shadow paused and waited for me to stagger closer; and the forced march began again. I stumbled and was horrified by the thought that my feet might be frostbitten and have to be amputated. I plopped to the ground and rubbed my left foot; rubbed and cried out until the pain blessed me with the assurance that I could keep it. And then I rubbed the right foot; rubbed until the agony became all fire. "Th-th-thank God," I chattered, while the shadow just stood and breathed, steam rising toward the moon, and then suddenly walked away.
I stood and stumbled forward, and an image immediately came to mind of the next day's news, the TV showing cadaver dogs sniffing the snowdrifts. This was not the way I had planned to spend my last day on earth. I had planned on having my children and grandchildren around my bed, singing.
South of the moon, a light appeared. I stared and thought it could be a planet. Perhaps Venus. And then another light appeared. Maybe Mars. And then another. And I wondered: how many planets can be seen with the cold naked eye?
A fourth light appeared, and now they all grew brighter. The shadow changed directions slightly, moving toward the cluster of lights.
A farm, I thought. A farm!
The shadow quickened his pace, and I tried to keep up, but my numb legs could barely wobble and my head was pounding. My mouth and throat were so dry that every breath choked me. I paused to eat some snow and began to lag far behind while the shadow hurried toward the farm. Soon he reached the house and stomped up the stairs to the porch. The shadow paused for a moment, as if remembering something, and then laughed and opened the door.
A golden glow poured out, and there was a shout of joy, followed by another shout of joy. I wanted to enter that house and its warmth, but instead I slumped to the ground at the edge of the field, unable to move forward. And then I curled painfully into the snow and went to sleep, and dreamed. Dreamed of Genesis ... farm ... festival ... music ... ocean ... wedding ... funeral ...
I awoke facing a fire. Someone had wrapped a red blanket around me and I was pleasantly hot, sitting in a rocking chair. At my feet, which were covered with wool slippers, sat an empty water glass and a dinner plate that had remnants of mashed potatoes and gravy. My stomach was full and I felt perfectly comfortable. My toes were alive and wiggling.
On the mantel above the fireplace was a framed photograph of two brothers with their arms around each other. One of them had a smooth face and fancy clothes and the other had a beard and wore overalls. The bearded one was Jack Williams.
A voice whispered, "Are you awake?"
I looked up, hoping to see Jack, and there was Shelby Williams, appearing beside the fireplace. He wore a dark shirt and a red tie and was holding a bottle of beer. His deep-set eyes blinked and flickered.
"Son," he said, with a hint of a drawl, "you wanna beer?"
"No thanks."
"Hot brandy?"
"No thanks."
Shelby nodded. His face was like hardened clay, ruddy and square, strong but capable of kindness. "You feeling better?"
"I feel fine."
"How are your feet? I washed them and bandaged the blisters."
"My feet feel good. Thanks."
"You enjoyed the baked ham and mashed potatoes and corn?"
"Yeah. I must have."
Shelby grinned. "After flying into Cedar Rapids, I
drove the rental car straight to the nearest grocery store and picked up several deli lunches. Five pounds for six dollars. Gotta love Iowa."
"You flew in to search for your brother?"
"No," he said, and then paused, and swallowed hard. "I'm here to identify the body."
Shelby Williams, whom I barely remembered but had often heard stories about, had left Iowa long ago to seek fame and fortune and apparently some trouble in New Orleans. He had kept the broad shoulders he'd earned as a boy on the farm, and now he'd added a broad belly after years of booze and gumbo. However, his most prominent feature was his hair, a thick black mass combed upward and curved back in the style of an old-time Hollywood actor or TV preacher.
Shelby took a long drink of beer and said, "I almost fainted when my brother came bursting into the house in his pajamas and slippers."
"Your brother? Jack? He's alive?"
Shelby nodded. "Yes. The first thing he said to me was, `Gospel brought me home."'
I should have known. "Jack was the shadow I'd been following. Did he say anything else?"
"Something about some pigs and a big dog. It didn't make any sense."
"It makes sense to me," I said, looking around the room. "Where is Jack now?"
Shelby gulped his beer. "I took him to the hospital." "Oh, good," I said, and wondered: why aren't you with him?
Shelby smiled warmly. "So. You're a Gospel."
"I'm Danny."
"My brother wrote letters telling me about your family, how you formed a band and stirred up quite a following, had a harp and everything. You know, Danny, it's been twenty years since I've seen you. You were just a little kid, racing around your farm with your brother."
"Jonathan."
"Yes, I remember he had a blue bicycle and you had a red tricycle. And bless your heart, you covered more ground. You were quite the traveler. In fact, one day you rode all the way down to our farm. I don't know how you escaped from that grandmother of yours. But somehow you showed up at our house, and I remember how you tugged on Jack's beard and asked, `Are you real? Are you Santa in summertime?"'
I rocked slowly in the chair, smiling, my heart aching, remembering.
Shelby peeled the label from his beer bottle. "Not long after your visit, I flew to New Orleans and left my brother alone on the farm. He was seven years older, set in his ways, satisfied with going to his grave in familiar ground. And I was so restless. I would have killed to have gotten out of here."
Not wanting to address any rumors, I asked innocently, "What did you end up doing down south?"
"Oh, a little bit of everything. Maybe too much of some things."
"But you like it down there?"
Shelby became solemn. "New Orleans is an angel. It's an angel that rebelled against God but didn't give up its faith. I've traveled the world, and the Big Easy is the most tangibly evil and good place on earth. You can feel Hell and Heaven on every street corner."
He paused, his eyes glinting. "Hey, Danny, wanna hear about the ladies?"
"Only if they're dressed in white."
"Well, most of mine wear black. Silk lingerie and-"
"So," I said, changing the subject, "Jack was doing okay at the hospital?"
"A doctor checked him over and said he was healthy as a horse. And then a nurse's aide, a cutie pie named Abigail, helped him wash and doted on him."
Shelby winked. "She was dressed in white, Danny, if that makes you feel better."
"I feel good," I said, rocking at a quicker pace.
"Dixie" began playing on Shelby's cell phone. He stood and took the call. "Yes, it's about time. Hold on." He patted me on the shoulder. "Excuse me, Danny." And he walked into the kitchen.
I tried not to listen, but some of Shelby's words were too loud. "Future considerations ... outright lies ... unwilling to compromise ... vendetta ... unusual cash flow ... devil to pay ... history of bad business ... necessary precautions ... don't wait and see ... someone has to suffer ... that's life ... I understand ... be careful."
Shelby returned from the kitchen with another beer for himself and a glass of water for me.
"Drink," he said, sitting next to me. "You're still dehydrated."
"I feel fine."
He thrust the glass into my hand. "Drink. Or else I'll have to drive you to the hospital. I'm sorry about offering alcohol to you. That was unwise. Now help me make amends. Drink the water."
"Okay," I said, and raised the glass.
Shelby raised his bottle. "Cheers." He took a long swig. "Son, I'm still shaky from seeing you at the edge of the cornfield. I thought you were dead."
"Yeah. I seemed dead to me, too."
"When I drove back from the hospital and caught a glimpse of your body in the headlights, I was sure you were a corpse. I was sure you were gone. But when I got out of the car and investigated, I saw that the snow was melted in a circle around you. And you were just sleeping peacefully, covered with blotches of hair."
"The hair must have been from a sneezy drooler. Bernard."
"A dog?"
"Yup. And a Saint. He must have kept me warm."
Shelby seemed confused. He swigged his beer and still seemed confused. "Well, anyway, Danny, I want to thank you for finding my brother and bringing him home."
I laughed. "I didn't find Jack. He found me. I was the one who was lost."
More beer flowed down Shelby's throat, and his eyes narrowed as he tried to think. He wiped his mouth and sighed. "So, anyway." He stood and stretched. "We'll figure this out in the morning."
"Aren't you going back to the hospital tonight? To make sure Jack's okay?"
"No. They told me to stay here so I wouldn't distract him. They said I could return in the morning."
"I want to go to the hospital with you."
Shelby nodded, grateful. "Yes, Danny. We'll go bright and early."
"Be sure to wake me."
He yawned. "Good night, Danny. Feel free to use the spare bedroom. It's just up the stairs and to the right. And the bathroom is across the hall. Make yourself at home."
"Thanks. I'll probably just stay where I am. I like this chair."
"You want some pajamas?"
"No, I'm comfortable."
"All right then," Shelby said with a fatherly voice. "Let me know if you need anything."
"I'll be fine."
He turned toward the mantel and stared at the photograph. "You know, Danny, I'm something of a legend in New Orleans, but in reality, my brother is all that I have. I can't imagine going on without hearing his voice again."
"At the hospital, we can ask him to recite a poem."
"A poem?"
"Six years ago, when I was nineteen, Jack memorized a Valentine's poem that I wrote for my fiancee."
"Well," Shelby said, turning to face me, "I wouldn't count on him remembering it now."
"I'm not counting on it. But I'm hoping."
"Good night, Danny."
Late in the morning, I wandered into the kitchen and found a ham and cheese sandwich and a tall glass of water waiting for me on the table. On the chair was a pair of socks, a flannel shirt, underwear, overalls, and boots. "These are my brother's," a note said. "They're nice and clean and I think they'll fit you. I'll be at the hospital all day. Help yourself to anything in the house. We'll talk tonight."
I was upset that Shelby had failed to awaken me, but it was good that he wanted to spend time alone with his brother.
I gathered up Jack's clothes and went upstairs and took a bath, scrubbing with a good soapy brush. Then I put on Jack's clothes, went downstairs, and ate the sandwich, drank the water, felt my strength increasing, and called Grease to see if he could drive out with his wrecker and help me find my pickup.
"Find it yourself," Grease said. "I spent the whole night searching for you. I'm always hauling you out of trouble, and you always get into more. Now I'm hauling myself to church."
Click.
"Yeah, go to church," I said to the dial tone. "Go to church a
nd leave me stranded."
I hung up and walked over to the window and glared at the frost-covered pane. I scratched angrily at the frost, making blue-gray lines that crossed and little circles that joined until a viewing hole appeared.
In the melting driveway, shining as bright as rust can shine, was the old red truck.
"How on earth. .."
In a flash, I was behind the wheel and turning the key. The Chevy fired up like it was hot off the assembly line.
"Grease," I said in amazement, "you're the greatest!"
chapt five
DRIVING AWAY FROM the Williams farm, I was tempted to peek over at our old farm. There was a strange blurriness in the fields, but I didn't take a good look because I knew the blur would distract me from my mission.
I drove through the slush into town, over to the university hospital, and circled up into the ramp. It seemed completely full, but the Chevy eventually found a parking place up on the roof. I limped down the stairs, praying out loud, "God, please heal Jack Williams. Please take away the Alzheimer's and let him be himself again."
I passed through the glass doors into the hospital lobby. A barrel-chested man at the welcome desk smiled warmly. "Hello, son. How can we help you?"
A large cross hung from the man's neck. I stared, and the gentleman repeated, "Son, how can we help you? Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," I said. "It's just that ... you reminded me of someone."
The desire to be crucified had obsessed my father in the months after losing his wife. He began to wear a dozen crosses, day and night and even in the shower-rosaries, crucifixes, and crosses made of various plastics, woods, and metals. At our final concert, in the spring of 1994, when Father and Jon and I performed as The Gospel Trio, Dad stood wild-eyed in a circle of fire near the Iowa River and ranted about Vietnam.
