by David Athey
"My neighbors in the jungle, in the rice paddies, in the villages and monasteries, everywhere, they carried their crosses. They carried their crosses through burning bushes, scorched trees, and under smoldering earth. Grandparents, mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, sisters and brothers, they all marched, limped, and crawled with their crosses. And I carried mine. My government said I could love God and neighbor by killing my neighbor. I don't know how much of that is true or false, and I wasn't even a believer, but I carried my cross. I carried a lot of crosses for you."
"Dad," I whispered, "please don't do this."
Sweating and trembling, he shouted, "We killed whole families! Grandparents, mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, sisters and brothers. We piled up the bodies as if Heaven would smile down on the slaughter. We were told that it was possible to love both God and country, and we ended up doing everything that was the opposite of love. Now look at my neck, strangled with all these Christs! Look at what I'm carrying for you."
Someone shouted from the audience, "Shut up and sing!"
"Dad," Jon said, putting his arm around him. "C'mon, let's sing some gospel."
The ex-marine stood tall, on the verge of fainting, and proclaimed to the crowd, "There's no gospel without the cross, no matter how good the music is."
When Father collapsed at the end of the concert, he refused an ambulance. Members of the audience helped carry him to the back of the pickup, and Jon held him for dear life while I drove through the park and up the hill to the hospital.
That night, with the cancer consuming everything in his skull, Father shook in bed so violently that the staff had to strap him down and remove his crosses. In the morning, when he regained a semblance of consciousness and saw that he was alone with his boys, he said, "I can carry more. I'm giving you a direct order. Make a big cross. And put me on it."
"Shush," Jon said, adjusting the blanket. "Get some rest now."
"Boys," Father whispered. "Crucify me. That's an order."
Jon nodded yes but obviously meant no.
I said, "Yes, Father. We'll do it. I promise."
Dad smiled, fell asleep, and began doing battle with someone in his dream. The bed straps strained to keep him in place.
Jon glared at me. "We are not going to crucify him. That's crazy. Do you understand? He needs a higher dose of morphine. He needs to pass on peacefully."
"But I made a promise."
My brother reached out and grabbed me by the throat. "We are not hurting him, Danny! I'm calling a nurse, and I'm getting more morphine."
He loosened his grip. I could smell alcohol and pot on his breath. "Fine," I said, straining to speak. "You make the decision. You're the elder brother."
"That's right," he said. "You won't be making any of the important decisions."
"Fine, ruin everything," I said, abandoning the room.
When I returned a few hours later, Jon was asleep in a chair, his face shadowed with stubble and his eyes darting fitfully under bulging lids.
I'd been to the home-improvement store and party store for supplies. I'd tied the strings of a dozen large balloons around a two-by-four as tall as I was. Multicolored, the balloons were a mix of smiley faces and exclamation points at the end of wishful cliches:
GET WELL SOON!
BETTER DAYS AHEAD!
DON'T WORRY, BE HAPPY!
At my father's bedside, I removed the balloons from the wood and sent them floating to the ceiling. Jon lurched awake in his chair to see me maneuvering the two-by-four under Father's bony shoulders.
"Danny, what are you doing?"
"Help me," I said.
Father's eyelids fluttered open. He focused slowly on my face. "Is it time?"
"Yes. It's time."
Behind my back, I showed Jon that I had a hammer but no nails. And I hoped he could see the plan.
We would pretend to crucify him.
Without a word, Jon helped me untie the restraints. We placed Father's limp arms on the lumber and then retied his wrists.
"Yes, yes," Father said, closing his eyes. "I deserve this."
Tap, tap, tap, I hit the makeshift cross with the hammer, careful to avoid Father's fingers.
He grit his teeth. "Harder! Pound the stake through my palm!"
While I tapped slightly harder, Jon came over to my side of the bed and stuck his finger into Father's hand and pushed down forcefully.
"Good boys," Father said. "I can feel it now. I can feel it. I can feel ..."
Jon and I exchanged nervous glances. The plan seemed to be working.
"Okay," I whispered, "go poke your finger into his other hand. Make him believe that we're really crucifying him."
Jon obeyed, circling around the bed. However, when he touched the left palm, Father opened his eyes and shouted, "Where's my blood? Am I all out?"
The question caught us off guard. We didn't have any fake blood. Jon said, "Oh, umm, wait a second. Okay, Dad, here comes the blood. Just close your eyes. Please. Close your eyes."
He took out a pocketknife and opened the blade.
I said without saying: don't you dare cut him.
The knife glowed sickly pale while Jon thrust the blade into his own palm. He held the dripping wound over Father's hand and gestured for me to pound the hammer.
"Good, good boys," Father said. "Now it's flowing. And there he is ... there he is ... here they are! Here they are!"
Jon leaned over him and whispered, "Shhh. You need to rest easy now."
Father opened his eyes, grimacing, the morphine wearing thin. "It's time for last rites."
Jon touched Dad's face, very gently, and kissed him on the cheek. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen my brother do.
Father blinked tears. "Jon and Danny. You're the only ones left in the family. Please, always be friends. Always sing together. Be the Gospel Brothers."
In the next moment, Jon and I would have hugged our father, together, and told him that we loved him, but a nurse's aide walked into the room. She saw the blood and the crucifixion board, and she screamed. A mad chaos of nurses, doctors, and security officers appeared. They took Jon and me into the hallway to answer questions while our father was cut loose from the board, cut loose from the world, once and for all.
Father went to be with his loved ones.
And the Gospel Brothers went to jail.
With my one phone call, I dialed Rachel's number. She was living in the dorm and I wondered which roommate might answer. After six rings, I was afraid the answering machine would pick up and leave me speechless, but my fiancee finally answered.
"Hello?"
"Hi. I'm in jail."
"Danny! What did you do?"
"Me and Jon-"
"Did you get into a fight? Are you hurt?"
"Rachel. Listen. My father died today."
"What?"
"He died. And the police think Jon and I killed him. At the hospital, we pretended ..."
"I don't understand. I thought you had a concert last night. I thought your father was feeling stronger."
I explained everything about his death, and broke down several times. Rachel listened and cried with me. After a long while on the phone, the jailer motioned for me to hurry up.
I said to Rachel, "Tell me something good. Please. After everything else that's happened, I can't take another death. I can't take it."
Rachel was silent. It felt like the end of the world. And then she spoke very quietly. "Your father, like everyone else in your family, will always be with you. The memories will give you strength, Danny. Listen. Today I remembered a morning when I was three, somewhere in New York City, near a shimmering fountain. My smiling father, drenched in a cologne that smelled of sky, smiled and lifted me from the ground that was covered by a flock of gray pigeons; and I was soaring above the birds, soaring into the blue. My father showed me the heavens, Danny. That's my favorite memory. And that's what I cling to."
"What about me? What can I cling to?"
The man wearing the cross made me sign the hospital guest book, and then I took the elevator up to the fifth floor and limped out into Intensive Care. I started to look around for Jack Williams' room and was immediately accosted by Mrs. Flynn, the head nurse. Every step she took was a great stride, and when she approached, you became small and obedient. Her eyes said: don't cross me. Her mouth said: don't sass me. And her bosom said: I will defeat you.
"Stop," she said. "Only family members are allowed to visit."
I nodded. "I have a relative up here, Jack Williams."
Mrs. Flynn frowned. "You're not a relative. You're my mailman. So tell me, Danny, what's the problem at the post office? Since the anthrax scare, I've barely received any mail."
"The system is a mess," I said, stepping forward. "I'll try to get it sorted out later."
Mrs. Flynn blocked the hallway. "Danny, stop! You can't go any farther."
I stared down the corridor. "Please. Let me go."
"No. I'm sorry. Family members only."
"But Jack has something I need, buried in his brain, or down in his heart."
"It'll have to stay there. We have rules."
Because a rule is different from a law, I scurried around Mrs. Flynn, saying, "You have to let me visit Jack. If he can miraculously remember a poem, then maybe I can get married to the woman who kissed me. And we can have children and live on the farm. And that's how the world begins again, with one normal happy family."
"I can't help you," she said, pursuing. "Danny, you have to stop."
I kept on walking.
"Listen," she said, grabbing the back of my overalls. "You're not allowed in this hospital. You're going to be arrested. Again."
A man stepped out of a room. It was Shelby Williams, dressed in a black suit fit for a funeral. His hand seemed to be strangling his cell phone. He hissed, "Considerations ... cash flow ... city administrators ..."
"Hello, Shelby," I said, trying to squirm out of the nurse's grip.
Ignoring us and finishing his conversation, Shelby said, "Get it done, you worthless-" And then he was all smiles and manners. "Good morning, Mrs. Flynn." He bowed and kissed her free hand. "Thank you ever so much for escorting Danny. He's the one who found my brother last night. He's the one, bless his soul, who saved Jack's life."
Mrs. Flynn was charmed by Shelby's style. "Good morning, Mr. Williams," she said, blushing. And she released me into his care.
"Myrtle, you're a doll," Shelby said, winking. And when she turned away, he whispered into my ear, "A voodoo doll."
"No, she's a good nurse," I said.
Shelby nodded, and I noticed his eyes were full of fear. He gestured for me to enter the room. And there on the bed was poor Jack Williams, motionless.
"He hasn't spoken for several hours," Shelby said. "The doctors say he's slipping away. He seemed fine last night. Maybe we should have kept him at the farm. He was so energized to be home. We should have kept him there."
Shelby sniffed angrily, the way strong men do when they are about to cry. "Excuse me," he said, "I need to use the rest room."
He stomped into the rest room, and I stepped closer to the bed and remembered how much I'd always loved my next-farm neighbor. He was truly salt of the earth, a preserver of plain old goodness.
Heal him.
What?
Heal him.
I want to. But I'm not sure how.
You know how.
I do?
Heal him.
As if I'd done this sort of thing a thousand times, I leaned over the bed, placed my hands over Jack's forehead, and whispered, "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day-"
A doctor walked into the room, looking puzzled. "What are you doing?"
"I'm trying to heal him."
"Who are you?"
"Danny Gospel."
"Security!" the doctor shouted, pushing the emergency button. "Security!"
Shelby burst out of the bathroom. "What's going on?"
"I'm trying to heal your brother."
"How dare you," the doctor said. "How dare you touch a patient! The contagions on your hands could kill him."
"God can heal him," I said, "no matter how dirty my hands are."
The doctor ignored me and asked Shelby, "Did you invite Danny into the room, against hospital policy?"
Shelby's eyes narrowed as if trying to figure out possible lawsuits, counter suits, and insurance claims; and then he shrugged. "No. I didn't invite Danny Gospel, nor do I know why he assaulted my brother."
Jack's eyes opened slightly, full of light. His lips moved, trying to form a word; and a security guard ran into the room. The guard grabbed my arms, twisting them behind my back, and yanked me away from the bed.
My muscles were ready to spring with whatever force was needed to break free. Jack had responded to my prayer of healing, and now I wanted to finish God's work.
Shelby helped the security guard wrestle me into the hallway.
I shouted, "Don't you want your brother to be healed?"
Shelby's face was red and contorted. "The doctors will heal Jack, or else he'll die, and that's it."
"No! That's not it! Why not let God be involved?"
Shelby gave me a final shove. "Leave us be. I'm not explaining nothing to you. Just go away."
Not sure if I should fight harder for Jack's healing, I allowed the security guard to drag me down the corridor. It felt like my heart was not merely pumping blood but actually bleeding. At the nurses' station, Mrs. Flynn showed no mercy. "Danny, don't ever come back here, not even if you're dying."
When I returned to my trailer, there were several messages on the answering machine. One from Plain Jane. One from Grease. And one from my supervisor at the post office.
"Danny," she said, "you've been let go. But I wouldn't go anywhere. You're under investigation for mail tampering."
Not sure how much I was guilty and how much I was innocent, I went into my closet to pray. I lit a candle, brightening the eyes of the icons of my loved ones. For the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, I prayed and sang while the candle melted down to a little flicker and eventually went out. And I continued to pray and sing in the dark.
Doggie scratched at the door and yowled, and then my neighbors turned up the volume on their TV. The McCus- keys were watching Saving Private Ryan, bullets ricocheting over screams. I filled the chapel-closet with my best attempt at a baritone, like my father's voice: "Swing low, sweet chariot! Coming for to carry me home... " when suddenly a soldier cried out for his mother, cried out and died inside of the McCuskeys' TV. And that made Doggie get the crazies. I could hear the cat flying around the bedroom, banking off the walls and leaping from my dresser to the lamp to the table, and then he knocked over my bedside radio.
Music began to play with angelic voices ascending into and beyond the mural of the Garden of Eden on the ceiling. I don't know what radio station Doggie had found with his crazies, but it sounded heavenly.
And then static cracked and crackled out of the radio, drowning the angelic voices. I stumbled out of the closet, turned on the light, and tried to fine-tune the station, but nothing came in for several minutes. Finally, a deep and troubled voice tried to make itself clear. "We apologize for the interruption in the music. We are experiencing problems due to the solar flares that have been so active lately."
Solar flares? Was that the strangeness in the air? Was that why so many weird things had been happening?
Someone knocked on my front door. I turned off the radio and went to the living room to answer.
McCuskey burst into my trailer in all of his glory, wearing a pea-green shirt and red polyester pants. In his hand was a twenty-two pistol that he often used to kill gophers, crows, squirrels, and other creatures that
called the trailer park home.
Back when he farmed, McCuskey never killed anything. He didn't even butcher for meat. He was known to be a friend of animals, and his farm was famous throughout the county for being a good home for abandoned cats. After the foreclosure, the bank listed "good pets" as an item to be auctioned, but McCuskey drowned all but one of the cats in his bathtub the night before the sale.
Doggie hissed, and I stared into the murderous man's eyes. McCuskey cursed and pointed the gun at my chest. Emotions that I thought were under control suddenly welled up into adrenaline, the combustible that so easily sparks into violence. I, a Gospel, felt like stealing his weapon and shooting him. The law might not even consider that a crime, much less a sin, considering the circumstances. But I imagined the headline: "Gospel Kills Neighbor." And I began to laugh. I laughed and pointed. "Hey, McCuskey. Look behind you."
"What are you pointing at, you freak?"
"There's a herd of swine on your property."
"Ha-ha. Nice try." McCuskey pulled back the hammer on his gun.
I kept pointing. "Look behind you. I'm serious."
"You're seriously disturbed, you-"
Snort! Snort!
Squeal! Squeal!
There really was a herd of swine rooting around his house. McCuskey turned, incredulous at the sight, and I reached out and took his gun. He ran into his yard, yelling and cursing, causing the hogs to stampede. One of the pigs pounded up the steps of his trailer and crashed through the door. Mrs. McCuskey shouted, "No! Not on my good rug!"
I shoved the pistol into my jeans, scooped up Doggie, and carried him to the truck. Then I sped away to the Newman Center.
There is an underground parking area beneath the church, with a large door that can be activated by pressing a button on the wall of the entrance; and with that knowledge I descended into the Catacombs. That's what Rachel always called the subterranean enclave of study rooms. Down there was a scattered congregation of artists, homeless people, couples making out, and graduate students studying, sleeping, or muttering to themselves.
I entered the hallway and began walking through the dim light. Doggie yowled, scaring a young couple that was making out in a study room. The girl said, "Did you hear that?"
