Danny Gospel

by David Athey

  I was amazed to have a message from Gloria, because it seemed like my Florida adventure had already drifted away like a tropical dream. Gloria. I don't know how she made me feel so tingly, but she did.

  Suddenly I heard sirens and stopped the machine. I thought the sirens might be coming from the McCuskeys' TV, but when I went to the window, I was surprised to hear laughter and music over there. My neighbors were watching It's a Wonderful Life, the final scene where the angel gets his wings.

  The police sirens were fast approaching the trailer park, and I had to think quickly. I wanted to play the rest of my messages, but if I didn't escape now, it might be too late and I'd miss the wedding. I hit the red button, and an excited voice said, "I'm calling from corporate headquarters to inform you that Spitzoclean has received a government patent and will soon be trademarked by Grease Industries International. Wanna invest?"

  While the messages played on, I ran outside and climbed into the high-rider and escaped through the trailer park's back entrance.

  Although my instinct was to drive toward farmland, something compelled me to race into the maze of one-way streets in the downtown area. The sidewalks were bustling with last-minute shoppers wrapped in colorful scarves and bundled in thick wool coats. A Christmas carol resounded from loudspeakers, and some of the shoppers were singing along.

  The sirens blared over the music while I raced up and down the snowy streets, searching for a hiding place. How pleasant it would be, I thought, to recline by the fireplace in the Cottage Deli, sipping hot cider and casually enjoying the spirit of Christmas with friends and family.

  The sirens were relentless, so I whirled around the block.

  For a moment I glanced at the front window of the Hamburg Inn and saw a man dripping with ketchup, relishing his simple lunch. He swallowed and smiled. He seemed normal and happy.

  Why not me?

  The sirens and flashing lights were on my tail.

  At Pearson's Drugstore, I turned left against the one-way traffic on Jefferson Street. Barely avoiding some iffy drivers, I turned left at the Foxhead Tavern, and left again into the alley by Murphy-Brookfield Books. The sirens wailed, and the Cadillac backfired and skidded around the block and slid down the entrance to the Newman Center parking garage. I cranked the window, reached out and pressed the button, and the garage door opened and closed behind me.

  The sirens faded while I descended into sanctuary.

  I parked in a dark corner and got out and hurried down the corridor, deeper into the Catacombs. The place was perfectly quiet, and I snuck into a study chamber, a cave with white cement walls and a brown plastic table surrounded by orange plastic chairs. I collapsed into a chair, rested my head on the table, and tried to think.

  Footsteps sounded in the church above.

  In a panic, I stood and closed the study-room door, a bit too loudly. I tried to hold my breath and hoped that whoever was upstairs was just passing through the church for a quick prayer and a splash of holy water.

  The footsteps padded down the stairs.

  Stay calm, I told myself. It's just one person.

  The footsteps quickened, getting closer.

  I was weak from lack of sleep, but I readied myself for an attack. And I prepared myself for surrender. It all depended. "God, please help me," I whispered.

  The footsteps found the threshold of the study. A man's voice, nervous and edgy, called out, "Is anybody here?"

  I thought: do I know his voice from somewhere?

  The door swung open.

  Punch and kick, something told me. Hurt him before he hurts you. Don't take any chances.

  A large man in a green suit leaned in and saw me behind the door. "This is very odd," the man said, rubbing his bald head. "Or perhaps this is merely a statistical probability, with all things taken into account, considering your habitual proximity to places of worship."

  It was the physicist from the gravel road, the Atom Smasher who had wanted to stone me.

  "Oh, I'm glad it's you," I said. "Welcome to the Catacombs."

  "My, my, my," he said, rubbing his scalp. "You say the strangest things."

  "Yeah. Or maybe the strangest things say me."

  "My, my, my ..."

  The physicist sat at the table. I sat across from him and asked, "How are you? Are you doing all right?"

  "Well, actually, that is very difficult to quantify."

  I nodded in agreement.

  He said, "I suppose one should keep certain difficulties to oneself, but of all the possible listeners, you may be the best for this sort of thing. You see, the thing is, I am having some issues."

  "Issues? What do you mean?"

  He pointed at the floor, and then at the walls and the ceiling and beyond. "There are things all around us that are beginning to bother me."

  "What do you mean?"

  The Atom Smasher slouched in his chair and rubbed his scalp. His bushy eyebrows went up and down. Surprised. Sad. Surprised. Sad. "Right now," he whispered, "a great cloud of neutrinos is passing like a ghost through this building, through our bodies, through the whole earth. There is no escape."

  I looked around. "Really?"

  "Danny, we are open doors to the forces of the universe. And there may be powers more invasive than neutrinos."

  "Open doors?"

  The Atom Smasher rubbed his eyebrows as if trying to erase them. His eyes were wild with light. "It is impossible to feel neutrinos, but I can feel something moving inside of me. And I cannot bear it much longer."

  I wanted to help him, but I wasn't sure what to do. I folded my hands under my chin and rested my elbows on the table. I took a deep breath, hoping the right words were in the air, and offered, "Why not embrace your blessings?"

  He scoffed. "What blessings?"

  "It's obvious that Heaven loves you. Why not love Heaven in return?"

  The blood vessels on the Atom Smasher's forehead throbbed.

  I reached across the table and touched his hand. "It might not be a cloud of neutrinos that is after you. It might be angels."

  The Atom Smasher yanked his hand away. "That's nonsense. Do you have any evidence? You see, I have proof of the cloud of neutrinos. How can you prove your angels?"

  "I can't prove them. I can only live with them."

  He squirmed in his chair. "So we are stuck."

  There was a chilly silence in the cement room.

  Finally, I asked the Atom Smasher, "Can you sing?"

  "Pardon me?"

  "Can you sing?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Because singing helps."

  The scientist shrugged. "I can hit most notes."

  "Okay," I said. "Good. Did you ever go to camp?"

  The Atom Smasher stared at the north wall. "I loved summer camp. I loved the lakes and rivers, the games and the bonfires, and especially the sing-alongs. That was the last time I remember being completely happy."

  I reached across the table and took his hand, and began to sing, very quietly, "Kum ba yah, my Lord. Kum ba yah."

  The physicist gave me an embarrassed look and tried to escape my hand.

  I held on tightly. "Kum ba yah, my Lord. Kum ba yah."

  He blinked, as if holding back tears, and kept his silence.

  I continued. "Kum ba yah, my Lord. Kum ba yah. Oh, Lord, kum ba yah."

  The Atom Smasher allowed a tear to roll down his face.

  I said, "Do you know the history of that song? `Kum ba yah' means `come by here.' That was the slaves' invitation to God to visit them on the plantations."

  Brother Paul entered the room, wearing a festive green robe. He pretended not to be surprised to find me back in Iowa City, holding hands with a singing physicist. The Atom Smasher, embarrassed, pulled his hand away.

  "I heard the music," Brother Paul said. "I knew it was Danny's voice. And I thought I'd step in and say hello."

  "Hello," I said.

  "Hello," the physicist said, looking sheepish.

  We paused for
a moment. It was a very awkward situation. Strangely enough, the Atom Smasher picked up the song again, and we joined him. "Someone's singing, Lord, kum ba yah. Someone's singing, Lord, kum ba yah. Someone's singing, Lord, kum ba yah. Oh, Lord, kum ba yah."

  That song can be sung for hours, but after a few more verses, we allowed it to fade into the walls of the Catacombs.

  Then Brother Paul invited the scientist to return later for the service. "C'mon, join us. Everyone loves Christmas music."

  "I appreciate the offer, but I'm not very good at going to church."

  Brother Paul confessed, "Neither am I."

  And I had to admit, "Neither am I."

  We all laughed, and then the Atom Smasher and I stood to say our good-byes.

  "Hey, wait a second," I said. "I don't even know your name."

  He paused. "You might not believe it."

  "Oh, I'll believe it. I'm an easy believer."

  The Atom Smasher grinned. "My name is Paul."

  I glanced at my friend in the robe. He seemed delighted by the providential coincidence.

  "Brother Paul," Brother Paul said. "It was wonderful to sing with you."

  "Same to you. And same to you, Danny."

  "Sorry about holding your hand," I said.

  "Oh, that's okay. It felt better than a handful of neutrinos."

  The Franciscan raised an eyebrow. "Neutrinos?"

  The physicist shrugged and chuckled, and then shuffled out into the hallway and up the stairs. "Merry Christmas," he said.

  "Merry Christmas," we answered.

  Then Brother Paul sniffed the air around me and frowned. Being the son of a garbage man, he had a strong immunity to odor. It took a lot of stink to wrinkle his nose. "Ugh. Danny, you can't go to Jon's wedding reeking like that. Quick, we need to get you cleaned up, into a more formal suit and on the road."

  "Okay, but I'd like to see Doggie first."

  "Don't worry about Doggie. He's fine. I found a good home for him. A woman named Melissa took him in. She owns an antique store out in the country."

  "You know Melissa?"

  "Yes, she and her fiance came in for counseling."

  "Counseling?"

  "Yes. Marriage counseling."

  "She's back together with Ethan?"

  Brother Paul nodded. "Ethan has a funny head on his shoulders. I think he and Melissa will have an interesting life together."

  "It'll be a circus."

  "It'll be just fine."

  Brother Paul grabbed me by the collar of my wrinkled Palm Beach blazer and dragged me out of the room. "C'mon now, Danny. You need to be presentable."

  A short time later, I was clean and shaven and wearing a fine light-blue suit.

  Brother Paul escorted me through the Catacombs toward the Cadillac. "Danny, your brother will be very happy to see you."

  But would I be happy to see him? I kept that thought to myself.

  "A letter came here for you," the Franciscan said, reaching into his green robe. "It's from a law firm."

  My hand trembled as I reached out. "Brother Paul . .

  "Yes?"

  "Have you heard anything about Rachel?"

  "No, Danny. I'm sorry."

  "Do you think I should start my life over?"

  "First do your duty to your brother. Be the best man. And don't forget to celebrate. That's a Christian obligation."

  "Oka " Y•

  "We'll talk after Christmas."

  "Okay. See you later, Brother Paul. Thanks for helping me. And thanks for no longer wearing horns."

  He laughed. "See you later, Danny."

  I climbed into the Cadillac and drove to the garage door, and paused. Feeling overpowered by curiosity, I ripped open the envelope. In the dim light, I began to read the first page of the contents. It was a letter from Shelby Williams.

  1 December 2001

  Dear Danny,

  On Thanksgiving Day, my brother opened his eyes and whispered, "Gospel woke me up."

  I haven't been religious in ages, Danny, but I reached down and touched my brother's forehead and said, "If Jesus is calling you, Jack, you better go to Him." He smiled peacefully, closed his eyes, and spoke his final words: "Can't remember Danny's poem. Give him the farm instead."

  Danny, you have to understand that I'm a businessman, and businessmen don't give away valuable Iowa farms. Plus, I still have an emotional attachment to the land where I grew up.

  So here's the deal. I'm giving you the house and other buildings, the equipment, and two-hundred acres, half of them tillable. If you want the rest of the acreage, you may rent from me. Contact my representatives at your earliest convenience. The phone numbers are listed below. They can answer any questions you might have about this transaction.

  Sincerely yours,

  Shelby Peter Williams

  Along with the letter were several signed and notarized papers, and a house key.

  Just like that, I could be a farmer again. Hands shaking, I put everything back into the envelope and prayed, "Forgive me, God, but I'm not sure if I can farm a place that isn't home."

  Leaving the Catacombs, I drove the high-rider into the light of Christmas Eve afternoon and lit out for Des Moines. To avoid anyone who might be looking for me, I drove forty miles on a country road that ran parallel to 1-80. The high-rider kicked up snow and gravel and I lost some time during that part of the journey, but I made up for it during the second part, when I braved the interstate and allowed the pink monstrosity to roar at seventy miles per hour, flying through the spiral galaxies of snow, dust, and salt.

  Here and there, a hill bulged up in the fields. And I thought about my bulbous friend Grease. We usually spent Christmas Eve together, with ham, church, and presents. Hoping my friend would be okay by himself, I made a mental note to phone him between the wedding and the reception.

  "Oh no! Oh no!"

  I began having a panic attack, realizing that I had no directions to the church. My mind and breath started racing each other, neither one of them willing to pause long enough for me to think clearly. It would have been easy enough to take the first exit and find a phone and call Jon's cell, but no, the panic didn't want anything to be easy.

  There were multiple exits into Des Moines, but I just kept driving past them, racing within myself, not sure what to do. And then I noticed that the gas gauge was on empty. Beyond empty. However, instead of feeling more panicked, I felt a sense of peace, because now I had an easy decision. I simply took the next exit and found myself driving into a quaint neighborhood that was sparkling with Christmas lights. Festive decorations warmed the houses, and nativity sets graced the yards. The pink Cadillac sputtered down the street and eventually rolled into a glowing gas station.

  A group of old ladies was gathered in the parking lot, sipping from steaming cups. I climbed out of the car and felt a cold wind at my neck and said, "Nice weather for hot coffee."

  A lady in a polka-dot parka answered, "Don't spit on our graves yet, sonny. We're drinking eggnog."

  A lady in a long green coat flashed a leather cask. "We've just been to the Wise Men of the East Festival in the park."

  I ran my credit card without thinking, forgetting that it might be monitored. "Wise Men of the East?"

  "Oh, you know," a third old lady said. Her puffy gray hair was held down with a hand-knit purple hat. "You know the story. Magi and shepherds and the Savior born in a barn."

  I began pumping gas, my hand already freezing. "Born in a barn? You mean in a stable?"

  "No," the flask bearer said. "They brought a real barn into the park. With a real baby. Would you like to see him?"

  "Yes, of course, but I'm late for a wedding."

  The flask bearer beamed. "Oh, the Christmas wedding. We were invited to that."

  "Really? Do you know the location of the church?"

  The lady with the purple hat nodded. "It's our parish. Holy Family. It's just beyond the city park." She pointed at the steeple above the trees. "Apparently, everyone was
invited, but we didn't believe it. Inviting everybody would be crazy."

  I laughed. "It's my brother's wedding. Craziness runs in the family."

  The flask bearer turned to her friends. "Hilde? Gladys? What do you say?"

  Hilde was the one with the purple hat. She grinned a big gummy smile. "I say we do."

  Gladys was ready to burst out of her polka dots. She said, "The merry widows are going to a wedding!"

  And away we went. The widows all sat in the back, balancing my seven notebooks, my life story, on their laps while sipping eggnog and singing between sips:

  "Here we come a'wassailing among the leaves so green. Here we come a'wandering so fair to be seen. Love and joy come to you, and to you your wassail too. And God bless you and send you a happy wedding. And God send you a happy wedding."

  The city park was illuminated with lights shining like bright stars through the snow that was just now starting to fall. Families were huddling around a carnival booth, or skating on a silvery rink, or admiring a display of freshly cut ice sculptures, or waiting in line to visit the Savior and the Wise Men in the barn.

  The pink Cadillac received smiles, waves, and cheers as if leading a parade through the park. The widows and I smiled and waved back, especially at the children, but my mood became somber when I drove around the block into the parking lot of Holy Family. The lot was full. That meant everybody was already inside. That meant I was late. That meant the best man was a bad brother.

  With no place to park, I thought: just forget it. There's no sense going inside that church. I would only be a distraction in the middle of things, a freak show. Forget it. Jon will have a better ceremony without me.

  "Get out!" Hilde shouted. "I'll take care of the Cadillac. I'll park it in North Dakota if I have to. Now get out!"

  You don't argue with ladies who wear purple hats.

  "Yes, ma'am," I said. And I scrambled out of the car and took Gladys and Pearl by the arms and escorted them, slipping and sliding, into the back of the church.

  At the altar was my big brother in a perfect tuxedo, joining hands with a radiant woman in white. I had imagined Marta to be a nervous anorexic like the lawyer girls on TV, but Marta was calm and voluptuous, smiling at Jon as if they were truly made for each other.