by David Athey
"I did you a favor."
Will shifted his weight slightly away and then smirked the same smirk I'd seen at the reservoir after he'd kissed Rachel. "Listen, Danny Boy. I'll make you a deal. You and me sign up for the marines tomorrow, and I won't kick your butt tonight."
I laughed. "Me? A marine?"
"Join up with me. C'mon, Gospel Boy. Let's go to the Middle East and make them pay for what they've done."
"I'm not gonna fight," I said. "Not with you or anybody else."
Will exploded. "What kind of a freaking coward are you?"
I shook my head. "It's not about fear."
He inched toward me, seething with rage.
Melissa stood and shouted, "Catch!"
She tossed her Swiss army knife, and I managed to catch the handle.
"Butcher him," she said.
In a flash I brought the knife to Will's throat. The temptation was exhilarating, and everyone in the Foxhead reacted in wildly different ways-gasping, cheering, cursing, clapping, threatening, and I heard animal noises from human mouths, or noises that were not even animal-and I dropped Melissa's knife to the floor.
Will didn't hesitate. He lowered his center of gravity and grabbed my waist and hoisted me up, knocking my head into the ceiling, and then he shoved off from the table. We flew for a moment, my back vulnerable to the ground with Will's entire weight upon me. He grabbed my chin and arched my neck to make my head hit the floor, but something turned us around in the air. Will hit hard, and the sound of his skull breaking was horrific. Blood poured from him.
There were cries for an ambulance, and the blonde told everyone to stand back because she was a nurse and the entire bar broke into chaos and I stood near the growing pool of blood, and one of Will's friends called me a murderer and tried to punch me in the face but accidentally hit the blonde's muscular boyfriend, and then everyone began fighting, and I was shoved into the jukebox and it shattered and some coins tumbled out and Jane and Melissa were helping the blonde save Will's life, wrapping his head with somebody's scarf, and suddenly my attention was drawn to a figure in the doorway, shimmering. Shimmering like an angel.
Could it be? Was it her? The one who had kissed me? No. It was Grease. With his filthy hands, he plucked me out of the crowd and threw me over his shoulder. And the two of us disappeared out the door.
chapt seven
GREASE DROVE MY truck across the university bridge. "You're in a heap of trouble, Danny. The police will be looking for you."
"Well, if they catch me, it's probably for the best."
Grease ran a red light. "For the best? Are you crazy? They'll throw you in a clinic and ask you personal questions. They'll peek into your head and push drugs up your-"
I sat up suddenly, feeling clear-minded and strong. "Let me get this straight. They're gonna throw me in a loony bin, while guys like you run free."
Grease ran another red light. "Yep."
He drove us over to Coralville, a small but growing town named in memory of the ocean that once ruled Iowa, the thought of which always set my mind to swimming. In the genesis of Genesis, the world was one shimmering circular sea. Bright leviathans schooled and lolled for the playful Lord. The liquid flames in the center of the earth leapt and gurgled at the chance to help build mountains, deserts, fields, forests, and cities....
We descended into the heart of the warehouse district, a place that was relatively unknown to me.
Grease said, "This is where I work on my top-secret projects."
His workshop was tucked between a self-storage building and a strip club. Grease drove down a dark alley that opened into a vacant lot behind a large anonymous garage. He rolled down the window, stuck out his arms, and clapped loudly. The huge door slowly opened. Grease grinned. "My invention is called the Applauder. It's like the Clapper, only for stronger hands. I'm gonna make a billion dollars from this one, Danny. And I'll retire to Palm Beach and live with Donald Trump. We'll swap business wisdom, and I'll probably marry some of his ex-wives."
"What?"
Grease drove my pickup into the garage and stuck his hands out the window and gave himself another round of applause. Lights erupted in all directions, revealing junk and a dozen cars in various stages of repair. Grease climbed out of the Chevy, came around to my door, and tugged my arm. "Danny, we need to get you out of Iowa. I'm afraid you started a war tonight."
"All I did was make up a poem."
Grease led me to the far side of the garage, where a large white sheet covered a hulking vehicle.
"What's under the sheet? An army tank?"
"No, just you wait and see."
Like a magician, Grease ceremoniously yanked the cloth. "Behold! The car of my dreams!"
"A pink Cadillac," I said. "Hmm."
"From Key West, Florida. I've been restoring her for a couple of years now. Is she a vision or what?"
I circled the Cadillac, bewildered by its classy trashiness. Grease had converted the convertible into a high-rider. With oversized wheels and flamingo mud flaps. "This car," I said, taking a step back, "does not belong on this planet."
He grinned and then bent down and hugged a headlight. "I love her. And she loves me."
"Grease, this is a pink monstrosity."
He stood and opened the door and shoved me inside. "Fly away, Danny! Here are the keys. Just go."
"What?"
"Don't even tell me where you're going. And don't call. I'm sure my phone is bugged."
I shook my head. "Listen, Grease. I can't simply drive away from my problems."
"Danny. If they catch you and put you in a psycho ward, you'll never get out. Will Bentley's family owns half of the city, and a third of Johnson County, and a sixth of the state."
I gripped the steering wheel. "I didn't bust Will's skull on purpose. I have witnesses."
"Witnesses can be bought."
"I have good witnesses."
"Good witnesses can be bought."
"I can't run away from Iowa. This is home. This is where all the stories make sense. Even if they lock me up, this is where I'll still be Danny Gospel."
"Turn the key, Danny, and go."
"The post office said I can't go anywhere. I'm under investigation."
Grease grunted and plodded across the stained cement floor over to a refrigerator covered with fleshy calendars. He flung the door open and started grabbing food and drinks and tossing them into a plastic cooler. He returned to the Cadillac and placed the cooler in the back seat. "You can't return for a long time, Danny. The cops, the post office, and the Bentley family are all after you. Everyone is after you."
"I'm in deep, that's for sure."
Grease closed the back door and began searching through piles of boxes and junk until he found a case of motor oil. He told me to grab the lever that opened the trunk, and he placed the case inside. "Don't worry, Danny. I'll figure out how to contact your brother without the Feds finding out."
"Jon won't get involved with this."
"Of course he will, Danny. You're his best man."
Grease slammed shut the trunk and returned to my window. He looked at me funny. "This reminds me of a good movie I once saw. The hero got away, nursing just a few gunshot wounds. And his sidekick got hung and eaten by buzzards."
I smiled at my friend. "I don't want you to get into trouble, Grease. By helping me, you're breaking the law."
"Oh, I'll risk anything to help you. The sheriff can throw me into a hog lagoon, but I won't complain. I'll just call Johnnie Cochran, and he'll say, `If the Grease is slick, you must acquit."'
I laughed. I didn't want to. But I did.
Grease reached into his grimy overalls and pulled out a money clip. "Here," he said, stuffing the clip into my overalls. "Business has been good lately. I've been really blessed. And it's not just money. At church yesterday, I heard the voice of God."
"Is that a fact?"
"Yep. The voice was loud and clear, with a Canadian accent."
I shook
my head. "And what did the voice of God tell you?"
"STAY OUT OF STRIP CLUBS, EH?"
"Oh boy," I said, turning the key. "Maybe I should get out of here."
"Danny."
"Yeah?"
"The voice also said, "TELL DANNY TO STOP WORRYING ABOUT RACHEL. SHE'S FINE."
I gave the pink high-rider some gas and it roared to life, squealing out into the empty lot. I cranked the wheel and the car spun in a half circle and headed toward the alley. I saw Grease in the corner of my eye, applauding, while the garage door closed down.
The pink Cadillac took me to 1-80 and accelerated east toward Chicago. Okay, I thought, perhaps the City of Big Shoulders can carry my burdens for a while.
However, before I'd gone fifty miles, something told me that I should take the next exit and return to Iowa City and face my accusers. Something told me that I should trust the legal system and allow the courts to judge the proper punishment for my crimes, even if I hadn't committed any in the spiritual world. Something told me: if you flee, you'll never see your brother, the farm, or the woman who kissed you, ever again.
I prayed through the windshield, beyond the midnight stars, "God, even if I'm going the wrong way, please bless this journey."
After praying some more, I switched on the AM radio and dialed around for a soothing melody. Considering all the great songs in the world, finding one shouldn't have been difficult, but the only sounds up and down the dial were monologues and diatribes. Finally, I settled for a talk show that was exploring the mysteries of outer space. An astronomer from Oxford was talking about his search for intelligent life in the universe. I was struck by the words "intelligent life," and I wondered: if the Oxford astronomer reached the outer limits of the universe and found just one measly life-form, a man dressed in bloody overalls, praying like an imbecile, would that count as intelligent life?
Crossing the bridge and the border into Illinois, I had to decide if I should continue toward Chicago or take the loop going south. It occurred to me that the pink Cadillac might draw too much attention in the Midwest, and I would be better off driving to a destination that was full of wild and colorful cars. Miami came to mind, and then a better idea: Key West, the absolute end of the line.
"That's where I'll go. I'll take the high-rider to visit its home."
In the early light of morning, I was still in Illinois, which was just like Iowa except for a few more trees. There was an atlas on the passenger seat, and I grabbed it and propped it against the steering wheel and scanned the United States and was amazed by how far Florida was from the rest of us. Out in the Atlantic Ocean among exotic islands, Florida seemed to be more mythological than real, a geological dream, with all of the roads on my atlas seemingly drawn to that kingdom like magic.
My stomach rumbled hungrily, and I reached back into the cooler and pulled out a Greasy surprise, a barbecued pork sandwich. It was awful and quite good, and after the first bite I remembered to say grace. Or rather, I remembered to sing it. "Oh, the Lord is good to me. And so I thank the Lord, for giving me the things I need, the sun and the rain and the apple seed. The Lord is good to me."
That was Holly's favorite grace. And she would have sung it in the Boundary Waters, sung it so faithfully, if she had just survived a few more minutes.
While Father fried a sizzling walleye over the campfire, Holly paddled the canoe over the calm lake, just a hundred feet from shore. This was her third trip to the Boundary Waters, and because she had proven her abilities, Dad was letting her paddle alone. He knew how important it was for her to experience God in the wild. Every few seconds, he looked up from the fire to see that his thirteen-year-old daughter was okay.
Holly glided across the blue water, singing. "Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come, why should my heart be lonely, and long for Heaven and home, when Jesus is my portion, my constant friend is He? His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me. His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me."
Like most farm girls, Holly was at home in nature, even in potentially dangerous situations.
"Come on in," my father called. "Let's sing grace and eat! You're going to love this walleye."
"Okay," she said. "I'm coming in."
Above the golden birch trees on the far side of the lake, a flock of geese came into view. Holly jumped up and waved her paddle. "Fly over here, you geese! Honk, honk, honk! Fly over here!"
My father shouted, "Holly, sit down!"
Her eyes locked onto his eyes for a moment as if to apologize while she lost her balance and fell. Her head smacked against the side of the canoe, and then she hit the hardness of the lake.
The impact jostled the unzipped lifejacket away from Holly's body. Facedown in the water, my sister began to drown. In a panic, my father ran to her rescue, splashing and wading up to his chest. It was only then that he paused, realizing that he needed to take off his heavy boots and wool jacket. For a few seconds he tried to get free of them, but seeing Holly's body floating away, a sense of terrified love compelled him to immediately swim after her.
The cold water made everything heavier; and although my father was an ex-marine and a powerful swimmer, his head went under and he panicked again, thrashing his arms and kicking his legs. Down he went into the frigid depths, coughing up bubbles into the hazy light. His boots soon touched the bottom of the lake. He thrashed and kicked and merely stirred up the sand between the ancient rocks. And he knew there was nothing more he could do. In the swirling of silt and golden sand, he gave himself up for lost.
But Father began to rise. He could never explain how. He just rose, slowly floating toward the reflected clouds and the lighter blue. He broke the surface and breathed again, and found himself within reach of his daughter's pale hand. He pulled Holly close to his side, then rolled her onto her back and tried to breathe into her cold mouth. There was no response, just a sick gurgling of water in her lungs. Weeping and praying and kicking to stay afloat, Father continued to breathe into the blue lips.
Another flock of geese sailed over the water, the reflection of wings beating wildly in the ripples around Holly's face. My father tried to guide my little sister to shore. He kicked and kicked, but he could barely move. Waves caused by his panic swept into Holly's mouth, and Father had to roll her over and try to lift her so that the water could run back out. He could not lift her high enough. The quiet gurgling in her lungs was the most horrifying sound he'd ever heard, including all the sounds of war, and it was even worse when the gurgling stopped.
Finally, Father managed to push Holly's body into the shallow water, his numb feet hitting the glittering rocks. With what little strength he had left, he hoisted her out of the lake and carried her close to the fire. He performed CPR, and breathed and breathed into her.
But Holly was already in the air.
At the southern end of Illinois, I hugged the steering wheel while approaching a strange rock formation. The huge rust-colored rocks seemed to form a gateway, jagged and crumbling. I half expected a medieval guard to appear in the center of the road, sword raised to stop the pink Cadillac. The high-rider accelerated and passed through the gateway. And I entered a different world.
The South.
I rolled down the window. The November air was warm and cool and humid at the same time, tasting of some kind of fermentation. A clay-colored light hung over the landscape, and it seemed like the tree branches were struggling with a greater pull of gravity.
My gas tank was empty, so I exited the interstate and stopped at a station in a small town. At a self-serve pump, I was approached by a man in a dirty denim jacket, his belly bulging over faded jeans. He motioned for me to roll down the window. "I fillerup for ya."
"That's okay," I said. "I can do it myself."
The guy hitched up his pants, grunted, and stared into my aching eyes. "You tired from paintin' this car?"
"Oh, I didn't paint it. This is my friend's car."
"Hmm-hmm-hmm," the belly man sai
d. "This kinda car getya killed."
"Oh?"
He rubbed his stubbly chin. "Methlabs are springing up in the woods. Fast cash and colorcars commin'outa the woodwork."
"I'm not into the drug scene," I said. "I'm just driving a pink Cadillac because my friend has an obsession with Florida. If people want to hurt me for that, then I guess people will hurt me for anything."
The belly man smiled and pointed at the sign on the pump. "This here is self-serve." He hitched up his pants and hauled himself over to a rusty chair near the station door.
When the Cadillac was full to the brim, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the fat clip of cash. Thumbing the stack, searching for a couple of twenties, all I could find were hundreds. "Grease," I whispered out loud, "you gave me over two thousand dollars!"
The belly man perked up. "Surprised by yerown wealth?"
I walked over and handed him a hundred. "Keep the change."
His reaction was a complex combination of being grateful, worried, and angry. "Thankya, buddy. Now, don't cause no trouble with that stolen Caddy. Ifya cause trouble 'round here, yagonna pay more than a hundred dollars."
"Thanks for the gas," I said, and sped away.
My heart pounded and ached, and I hated being on the run, and I was sure that any plan devised by Grease was doomed to a fate worse than failure. I accelerated down the ramp to the interstate, my eyes darting, searching for possible pursuers. And because fear was clouding my sense of generosity, I failed to stop for a sunburned hitchhiker. In the rearview mirror, he grimaced and waved, his face a dead ringer for Will Bentley, and then he plopped down among the weeds and garbage.
I was too exhausted to discern the spiritual correctness of the moment, and I hoped my decision to leave the hitchhiker behind was okay with Heaven.
Life on earth, even on an easy day, is so exhausting that everyone eventually collapses into a sort of cocoon and dreams for hours and hours before rising again. We are like butterflies and light-loving moths, but without the wings. Or perhaps we do have wings-wild, beautiful, and invisible.
