by David Athey
A quick nap was desperately needed, so I pulled into the next rest area, knowing full well that I was risking getting captured. I parked between two semis whose drivers were soundly snoozing, and I caught just enough winks to get me back on the road almost refreshed.
There was the hitchhiker again.
I slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. "Get in," I said. "Sorry about passing you by earlier."
The guy sneered like Will Bentley and pointed at the high-rider. "I ain't climbing into that thing! Git away from me."
"Are you sure?"
"Git! And don't let me see you again."
In western Kentucky, at dusk, a spotted pony trotted in a field parallel to the road as if following an invisible hand full of sugar. When the pony saw the Cadillac, he tried to outrun me. I admired his playful willingness to race despite his falling so quickly behind, and I watched the pony gallop in my rearview mirror until he finally stopped at the outer limits of the field, where he reared up at the last second to avoid a collision with the fence.
And I remembered the white fence at Grove Baptist Church, not far from Saint Isidore's, where I once attended a class for "Future Christian Farmers." The only other students were the Samsonov brothers-Mud Eye and Slopper. Our teacher, Pastor Gordon, suffered from a disease that was slowly killing him, but he was a compulsive smiler. And he always said, "Love. Joy. Mercy. Peace."
That dark afternoon, down in the church basement, I raised my hand to ask the pastor a question about farmers in the Bible. But my hand went unnoticed because Mud Eye and Slopper began fighting. In an instant they overturned a table and tossed several chairs.
Pastor Gordon responded by saying, "Love. Joy. Mercy ..."
Mud Eye and Slopper kept fighting.
Pastor said, "Boys. Let's go outside for our lesson. What do you say?"
"Ya-hoo!" they shouted, rampaging out the door.
"C'mon, Danny," the old smiler said, limping after them. "I need your help to teach those boys a lesson."
The moment we reached the backyard, we witnessed Mud Eye and Slopper hurling sticks at a black-capped chickadee that was perched in the upper branches of a barren oak.
The minister reminded them. "Boys, that bird belongs to God."
The brothers nodded, and hurled more sticks.
The chickadee's feathers were ruffled, but the bird simply sat and chirped, refusing to fly away.
"Mud Eye and Slopper," the pastor said, approaching them with outstretched arms. "I want to teach you about faith. I'm going to close my eyes and let you lead me. I'm going to let you play God. You can lead me wherever you wish."
I exhaled a loud worried breath.
Pastor whispered, "Danny, your job is to watch and not make a sound."
The brothers grabbed his pale hands and led him through a pile of leaves in the yard. Pastor Gordon stumbled but did not fall. Mud Eye and Slopper escorted him toward the church, where in a moment, if they didn't turn, he'd smack his head against the wall. I almost blurted out a warning, but then Mud Eye and Slopper twirled the smiler safely away.
I thought: maybe the brothers have a conscience after all.
They turned and led him toward the pond.
I bit my tongue while the chickadee twittered nervously from its perch in the oak. Pastor Gordon chuckled as if unaware that the brothers were planning on pushing him into the water. Mud Eye turned and gave me an evil grin, and then Slopper gave me an evil wink.
They approached the shoreline, and I couldn't contain myself. "Don't do it!"
The brothers paused, holding their prey.
Pastor said, "Danny. Hush. Your friends are doing fine."
The gray sky reflected darkly on the frigid water, and I was afraid. The fragile man of God, if dunked, could easily catch his death of cold.
"Okay," he said, squeezing the hands of his tormenters. "Let's keep going. Let's finish this."
I leaned forward, ready to rush to the pond. Even if I had to ruin the pastor's lesson about faith, I felt compelled to take action and save him from harm. Suddenly the brothers whirled him around and led him back toward the starting point. The brothers were careful to guide him along the smoothest part of the yard, and safely around the large cross that was planted near the white fence.
So maybe this was a good lesson after all, I thought. Maybe Mud Eye and Slopper really learned something.
As if reading each other's minds, the brothers veered and smashed the pastor into the fence. Either a board or a rib cracked. He bounced back, swaying, but did not fall.
I rushed to Pastor Gordon's side. His lip trembled and he continued to smile.
"I'm okay, Danny," he said, his eyes still closed. "C'mon, now, just let it happen. Love. Joy. Mercy. Peace. Let's keep going."
I drove the Cadillac deeper into the night and the South, only stopping for coffee and gas or an occasional wash and nap at a rest area. I slept peacefully most of the time, but a few of my dreams had me running for my life through jungles, over deserts, in canyons, and under water.
In the dusty light of dawn, a Tennessee mountain rose up. It made me nervous for some reason, and I slowed the car to a near crawl. A line of vehicles passed me, with drivers and passengers staring at the freak show on wheels. While the pink monstrosity meandered up the mountain, I received looks of fear, rage, jealousy, and admiration. The admirers were mostly children in the back seats, delighted to see the spectacle. The kids grinned and waved and held up their stuffed animals as if they wanted me to bless them. And I could almost hear the children begging their parents to slow down so the thrill of this strange parade would continue on and on, up and up, into the clouds.
Eventually the high-rider hit the peak and descended with great speed, passing all the other vehicles, flying farther and farther down.
About forty miles beyond the mountain, I pulled over at a rest area. The oil gauge was dangerously low, so I raised the hood and gave the pink monster three quarts of the good stuff. Grease had put a whole case in the trunk, along with a scribbled note: "Take good care of my baby. She loves her bottles."
I turned toward Iowa and shouted, "Thank you for the oil! You're a good man, Grease!"
Then I read the postscript on his note. It was barely legible because of the grime. "Send me dirty postcards." "Shut up, Grease."
Back on the road, approaching Nashville, I turned on the radio and fiddled with the dial and found a station that was playing traditional gospel music. What a wonderful way to fill up the airwaves. And I thought about how those songs had inspired my grandmother when she was a girl and spent a summer with her aunt in Memphis.
Grammy Dorrie, who at her death was hailed in the Des Moines Register as "the Ma Carter of the Midwest," had often talked to me about the slave spirituals. "The greatest songs composed on American soil came from the slaves," she said. "Can you imagine the world without `This Little Light of Mine' or `Swing Low, Sweet Chariot' or `Joshua Fit the Battle' or `Free at Last'? Those songs are eternal."
Passing through Nashville, I remembered my grandmother's love for the jubilee Singers of Fisk University. They were the ones, after the Civil War, who traveled around and performed the spirituals as a choral group. Of course that style was not how the songs were originally sung, and much of the raw power was diminished, but the jubilee Singers guaranteed that the spirituals would not be silenced.
"Thank you," I whispered, knowing that the pain I felt was not nearly enough. "Thank you for helping us to be the Gospel Family."
A couple hours later while approaching Chattanooga, I was feeling upbeat and began singing the choo-choo song. A large family in a minivan started singing alongside me, tugging on imaginary train whistles. Choo-chooing, we rolled slowly through town while two lines of cars followed behind us, honk-honking.
That night, driving alone through Georgia, with the universe sparkling above and all around me, I kept getting flashes of a new song. Words arrived that could have been at the beginning or end, words like "creation" an
d "groan" and "dark days." The words wanted to make music, but I just couldn't fit them together. I had a good melody, but I couldn't find the story line.
When the sparkling universe receded and the sun blazed up, southern Georgia was a jungle. Thick walls of trees, bushes, and billboards lined the freeway, blocking peripheral views. Houses, churches, farms, even large cities may have been out there, but I couldn't see anything from the road. That made me somewhat uncomfortable, because back home you can see for miles and miles. Even if there wasn't much to see in Iowa, at least you could see it.
WE'RE NUTS ABOUT NUTS! a sign proclaimed.
Another sign enticed me to stop at the PECAN EMPORIUM.
Another one proudly boasted: THE GRAND OLD PLANTATION.
Passing by the various tourist traps and southern temptations, I kept flying south. The jungle grew thicker, making the interstate seem like a narrow path between mighty realms of wild animals that in my imagination had no real boundaries-lions, elephants, rhinos, wildebeests, and boars-rampaging for the Lord and praising him in ways beyond human reckoning.
Finally, I reached the Florida border, and the car shuddered as we passed over, as if we actually broke through something. And I recalled breaking through something at the farm.
The morning of Christmas Eve, the year that Holly and Grammy had died, I was alone in my room, reading through The Chronicles of Narnia. I'd imagined myself a prince of that world a dozen times before, but now it was time to actually visit.
I jumped to my feet and went to my closet, and then opened the door and pushed through hangers and flannel shirts until my head hit the back wall, causing a Monopoly set to fall from the game shelf. Little plastic houses, hotels, a silver shoe, a dog, and a rainbow of money scattered across the floor.
Dazed and angry, I backed up, bowed my head, and charged forward. The miniature real estate crunched beneath my feet. Flannel caught my face. And I hit the wall again, causing a model airplane to crash to the floor and break into pieces.
Now furious that Narnia might not be real, I backed up and then lurched forward and took a flying leap against the sturdy wall, causing a baseball bat to swing down from the top shelf and smack my head.
Bleeding, I crawled out of the closet with a better idea about how to break into the magic.
With an ax.
Five minutes later, returning from the shed, I entered my mother's kitchen. Still wearing her bathrobe, she was slouched over the counter, doing some prep work for dinner. She turned to face me, her eyes watery from wine.
"Danny, you brought an ax into the house," she said. "Good. You can help me chop some carrots."
She poured herself another trembling glass and spilled some on the cutting board. "And chop some potatoes, too. Please?"
Carrying my ax to the stairs, I said, "Mother, do you remember Narnia?"
"Children's story," she slurred. "If I wasn't so tired, I'd read it to you."
I wanted to kiss my mother's sad wet face and tell her how much I loved her, but I just hurried up the stairs and entered my closet.
Hack! Hack! Hack!
I swung with all of my strength, daring the light of Narnia to come flashing through the splintered wood.
Hack! Hack! Hack!
The games and sporting equipment fell from the shelves.
"Narnia, Narnia," I said, "behold, I stand at your door and knock."
Beautiful mist appeared before my eyes, a sparkling cloud. It was lovely, lovely, and suddenly it became a stream of wild water, spraying me in the face. Cold and invigorating, it made me wonder: is it possible? Is this the water between the worlds?
A few minutes later, everything was soaked, upstairs and downstairs. The magical land of Narnia was nowhere to be seen, but I had broken some water pipes in Iowa.
Father tried to fix the pipes but only made things worse, and ended up calling a plumber. The bill was several hundred dollars, and my father had to beg Tom Jenks to please not cash the check for a while. Jenks was a good man who loved gospel music and farmers. He said, "Okay, I understand. I'll hold the check. How long?"
My father hesitated, agonizing. "Maybe a year."
Jenks whistled. "Things are that bad?"
From where I was hiding, in Holly's room, I could sense my father's scalp burning, the cancer eating him alive. He said, "We should have milk and honey by next Christmas."
Jenks picked up his toolbox with a sigh. "Okay. I'll hold the check."
"Thank you. Here, take this cross as collateral. It's worth a lot."
"Well, I don't know. . . "
"Take it."
"We don't really wear crosses in my family, Pete."
"Take it. You won't regret it."
"Well, my wife won't like it, but okay."
The two men walked into the hallway, where dozens of photographs of our family were hung. They paused beneath the photos, and then Jenks said in a low voice, "I need to tell you something, Pete. And it's not just me saying this."
"What is it?"
"Your boy. Danny."
"What about him?"
"He, well, he doesn't seem normal."
The look I imagine Father had on his face should have told Jenks to shut up, but the plumber continued. "Danny seems to have, well, problems."
"Danny's a good boy."
"Yeah, that's true. Danny's a good boy. But people have been talking. I just wanted you to know. People think he could, well, do something dangerous. Since the funeral, he's been seen wandering the roads."
"I know."
"Wandering, singing, talking to the birds. It's just not normal."
My father let the word "normal" hang in the air for a while. Then he said, "Well, Danny has a new girlfriend."
Jenks was intrigued. "Oh? Really?"
"Yeah. This girl's from New York. Christian and Jewish, all mixed up and beautiful. I think she can help him."
Jenks laughed nervously. "You talkin' about his mind or you talkin' about sex?"
"I'm talking about his soul. I'm hoping Rachel can help keep it safe."
Florida sounded good in theory, but for all I knew, the place was a hellhole, and perhaps I would do better to turn around and return to Iowa. After all, my brother was a good lawyer and his fiancee was a good lawyer and I was almost innocent.
Something told me: go back home and face the music.
Something told me: at least call Grease and get an update on the situation. Maybe Will Bentley survived.
Something told me: keep on going and start a new life.
Suddenly I was in the middle of a flow of speeding traffic flooding down into Florida. Too many cars, too many people. I felt smothered, on the verge of a panic attack, and took the next exit. I pulled into the first parking lot that appeared, a tourist trap that was managed by a one-armed peddler. HALF OFF, the sign said. There were long tables lined with colorful seashells and ocean-themed jewelry, baskets of oranges and grapefruits, plastic alligators and snorkeling equipment. And to the side of the tables were racks of gaudy shirts, shorts, sandals, wide-brimmed hats, and mirrored sunglasses.
"Half off," the peddler said.
I realized I'd brought no change of clothes and said, "I might need a shirt or two."
He started grabbing things off the racks and tables as if he had six arms, and I ended up with a whole new wardrobe. The peddler didn't have any underwear for sale, but he sold me seven bright Speedos. "That'll get you through a year in Paradise," he said. "Just wash 'em in the ocean."
"Okay," I said. "Sounds like a good plan."
While the peddler jotted a happy amount in a yellow notebook, I pointed at his shoulder stump and whispered, "Alligator?"
He grinned proudly. "Ex-girlfriend."
All I could think to say was, "Wow."
"Yeah," he said. "She wanted the other arm, too."
"Wow."
"Yeah, she was amazing. I'm still crazy about her."
The peddler handed me a bill and pointed his stump at the pink Cadillac. "You w
ork for Mary Kay?"
"No," I said, opening my wallet. "I'm a gospel singer. Farmer. Mailman. I mean, I was all those things. I don't know what I am anymore."
"Whatever," the peddler said, taking my money. "Welcome to Florida."
Eager to try on my new look, I asked the guy if there was a dressing room. He told me to toss my dirty clothes into the smoking trash barrel and change into my new attire behind a stand of palm trees.
I returned to the Cadillac looking like a jungle parrot, accessorized with wrap-around shades and leather flip-flops. I felt wild in my new plumage, and my breathing was easier, as if I were already getting used to this place. I shifted the convertible into vroom, and away I flew-footloose, wing loose, and fancy free. "Florida," I said to the sunshiny sky, "I'm happy to meet you."
WE DARE TO BARE ALL.
A gigantic billboard blocked my vision with alluring women so enormous that I wondered if they could ever be happy on Earth. The sky-walking strippers reminded me of the daughters of the Nephilim. My brother had told Grease and me about their existence one day in the gravel pit while the three of us smoked cigarettes and leafed through the Bible.
"Relations with angels," Grease said, his face burning. "Man, I love the Old Testament."
My brother snuffed out his smoke in the sand. "Life was different back in the day. Heaven and Earth had a thinner sky between them. Spirits were falling for farm girls and swelling their bellies. And the babies were giants."
I wheezed for air. "Do you take ... those Bible stories ... literally?"
"I don't know, Danny."
"Well ... I believe ... the whole thing."
"Relations with angels," Grease said with a longing sigh. He rose to his feet and waved. "Hello up there, please send down an angel for me. A girl angel!"
The gigantic billboard held no magic over me, and I sailed past the strip club without turning the wheel, descending farther into the kingdom of Florida.
