by David Athey
Why did I never dream of moving to New York? Why did I never imagine that the Big Apple was an appropriate place to make music, be in love, raise a family, and have a normal happy life? Why couldn't New York be Heaven on earth for me? After all, in the Revelation of Saint John, Heaven is envisioned as a great city: the New Jerusalem. Not a garden. Not a farm.
In the whiteout, I had slowed to about twenty miles per hour, and now two hulking vehicles were bearing down on the high-rider. I squinted into the rearview mirror and determined that the vehicles were army trucks.
Had war been declared on Christmas Eve?
Behind the trucks were two blurry rows of more trucks, the headlights blinking. A part of me wanted to block the army's passage, to postpone lost lives on all sides, but I pulled over and let them plow forward.
A few minutes later, the military had completely disappeared into the swirling clouds of snow.
I resumed my mission, driving down the center of the interstate, both hands gripping the wheel. And I quit wondering about dreams, because I had a shivering vision of how this holy night would end.
Near Iowa City, I exited and drove into the unplowed countryside, steering a middle course between the fields, guessing where the gravel was. The high-rider rode high above the drifts, as if it could traverse anything, and then I swerved where a driveway should have been, and hit the brakes and slid to a stop.
"What happened to the entrance to our farm?"
Pine trees shimmered in the headlights, two long rows of balsam fir.
"So it's true," I whispered, finally accepting it.
During the past several years, people had tried to tell me that the farm had been transformed. The house, barn, and silos were gone. Replaced by Christmas trees. At least forty acres of evergreens.
Dumbfounded, I rolled down the window and stared at the forest in the cornfield, wondering: who did this?
The wind swirled and the snow kissed my face. For a long while, I just sat there squinting at the trees. I wanted to drive farther up to where the house once stood, where the simple wood structure had sheltered such powerful and fragile hearts, but it didn't seem appropriate to trespass on Christmas Eve. So I drove away from the place that had made me Danny Gospel and over to the Williams farm that was now apparently mine, even though I didn't really want it.
Golden light poured out of the windows of the Williams house, and colorful strings of Christmas lights were blinking all around. I got out of the Cadillac and climbed the stairs to the porch and knocked on the door.
No answer.
The house was silent.
I knocked again. "Anybody home?"
Silence. Just the wind around the property.
I reached out and rattled the doorknob. It was locked.
"Well, that's that. Oh, wait a second."
I fished the key out from my suit pocket, and with a trembling hand unlocked the door.
"Anybody home?"
A fire was crackling in the fireplace in the living room. I shuffled over there and noticed a photograph on the mantel. It was a picture of the Gospel Family. There was Father standing tall but slumped, with me at his side as if holding him up; and Grandmother sitting on a stool, strumming the sweetest guitar; and Jonathan with his banjo, strutting near the torches; and Holly fiddling the violin, smiling at the camera, her eyes already full of Heaven; and Mother, bent gracefully over the harp, inviting the whole crowd to the Higher Ground.
I turned from the fireplace and looked across the living room. Near the north window stood a towering Christmas tree. Angel-topped, glittering, and surrounded by lavishly wrapped gifts, the tree was like a dream. And the gifts around the tree were so large, like the wishes of a child, and I knew exactly what they were. But I couldn't bear to open the gifts yet. Instead, I sat in a comfortable rocking chair and closed my eyes and dream-remembered the time that the Gospel kids snuck out of the house on Christmas Eve. While our parents and Grammy Dorrie were snoring up a storm, Jon and I and Holly tiptoed down the stairs and out the front door. We were aged thirteen, ten, and seven. Like Magi in training, but with no help from the stars, we trudged through the snowy darkness to the Williams farm to witness the miracle of talking pigs.
"Animals can talk every night of the year," Holly said, "because every night is Christmas Eve. But tonight is even more Christmas and more Eve than the other nights. Understand?"
"Nope," Jon said, trudging ahead of us.
I held Holly's hand. "What do you think the pigs will say?"
She picked up the pace, tugging me forward. "The pigs won't waste any words tonight. They won't be talking about their slop. The pigs will be praying."
Jack Williams' farmhouse was all lit up. Shelby was visiting from New Orleans, and the two brothers were keeping late hours. We snuck among the shadows to get into the hog shed, and when we closed the door behind us, there was no sound in the darkness except for our nervous breathing and the peaceful sleeping of the beasts.
Holly pushed a little button on her watch. A green glow exposed her hopeful face. "One more minute," she said. "Okay, now less than a minute. Be patient. The miracle will happen in fifty-two seconds. It won't be long now!"
"Shhh," Jon said. "We don't want the Williams brothers to shoot us."
"Jack wouldn't hurt a mosquito," I said.
Jon laughed. "A mosquito? In winter? You're right, Danny. The mosquitoes are safe tonight."
"Shush," Holly said. "Get down on your knees."
We kneeled in the half-frozen mud beside the barely visible beasts.
Holly whispered, "It is now officially midnight on Christmas Eve. This is it."
We waited in the cold uncomfortable silence while the animals continued to dream whatever it is that animals dream.
Jon and I loved Holly enough to stay kneeling for at least an hour, waiting for her miracle, but it wasn't that long before we heard voices. They began with a single note, as if warming up.
Holly exclaimed, "It's happening!"
The voices were deep and strong, and coming from the house.
Jack and Shelby were singing. "God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay. For Jesus Christ our Savior was born on Christmas Day. To save us all from Satan's power when we had gone astray. Oh, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy. Oh, tidings of comfort and joy."
The pigs did not awaken to sing along. And Holly became worried. She jumped to her feet. "Lift me over the railing."
Jon stood. "No. That's dangerous. Be still."
Holly ignored him. "Danny, help me. The pigs won't pray when there's a barrier between us. Please lift me over the railing."
I stayed kneeling in the stink, wanting Holly to be happy, yet knowing that pigs are unpredictable and can attack. There was no way I was going to risk Holly's safety for a miracle that she didn't need.
More sounds came from the house. Jack and Shelby were opening presents.
Jon said, "Sounds like the clinking of bottles. I wonder what they're drinking in there. I've half a mind to find out."
"Lift me over the railing, Danny," Holly pleaded. "The pigs need to be reminded to pray. We have to help them to pray so they can help us."
Jon strode over to the door and opened it. "Let's go. Midnight is over."
Holly was on the verge of sobbing. "Danny, you know what I'm talking about. If we help the animals pray, then they'll help us."
Jon said, "Pigs poop. That's what they do, Holly. They make a mess. They don't worship God. C'mon, let's go home." And he walked out into the falling snow with every intention of circling around to the house to party with the brothers.
Holly grabbed my hand. "Danny. Don't leave me here alone."
"I won't. Don't worry."
The Williams brothers laughed heartily. They must have been exchanging gag gifts. Who knows what kind of bizarre presents Shelby had brought to Iowa from Louisiana.
"I'll go in the pen," I said to Holly. "You kneel down and pray, and I'll explain to the pigs what's going on.
Okay?"
She wiped her eyes. "Okay."
I climbed onto the railing, very carefully, not wanting to cause a stampede or a feeding frenzy. Death by pigs is not a good way to go, especially on the holiest night of the year. I was being ever so careful, and then I slipped and fell into the herd.
Snort! Snort! Snort!
It was not a joyful noise. But Holly heard a kind of prayer. She honestly believed the animals were singing to God.
She said, "Good piggies! Praise him in the highest! Danny, sing with them!"
I sang, "Away in a manger . . ." until I was almost trampled to death, kicked in the head and ribs and guts, and eventually lifted up by Jon.
The fireplace crackled, and I opened my eyes. The scent of balsam fir hung deliciously in the air and my head swirled, verging on other dream-memories. Catching my attention in the room was a folded letter taped to a gift by the tree. My name was written large: "DANNY." I stood and went to retrieve the letter, and sat back down in the recliner and read the words of my brother.
Dear Danny,
Merry Christmas! I hope you enjoy the presents. I found some of them scattered around Iowa, and one of them I tracked down in a pawn shop in Massachusetts. Praise God, I found everything.
Danny, I did some of the paper work for your inheritance of the Williams farm. That property also includes our old property. Jack had bought our farm after the previous owner, a corporation in Chicago, went bankrupt. Jack was so angry about the corporation tearing down our buildings that he went a little crazy and planted Christmas trees. I was flabbergasted to discover this, but upon reflection I think it was a wonderful thing to do. Father and Holly, especially, would love the growing forest.
Danny, you now own the Gospel family farm.
Your old friends the Samsonov brothers still live three farms over to the west, working mainly with corn and hogs; and they also raise Saint Bernards. Mud Eye and Slopper said you're free to borrow some of their equipment next year, because they always borrow some of Jack's equipment. I hired the Samsonovs to decorate your new house. Did they put up the lights?
Danny, I hope this letter finds you well. When I return from my honeymoon, I'll drive over to your farm so we can discuss various issues.
I remain, your devoted brother,
Jonathan
"So I really am home," I whispered to the Christmas tree.
I felt like laughing and crying, and it was all too much to process. I dropped my brother's letter to the floor and thought about his wedding.... It was a glorious wedding. My big brother found a lovely wife, a better half. But Jon doesn't have a farm. Imagine that, a grown man in Iowa with no farm. Look at me, I have two farms! And a house, and a forest. I have everything a man could ever want. Except for a better half.
I remembered a once-upon-a-time night by the reservoir. The winter stars were burning so close to the earth. And Rachel was enfolded in my arms.
She said, "Let's go together, Danny. You'll love the city. There are so many bookstores, galleries, museums, cafes, parks, colleges, and churches. You'll be inspired to write the songs that could never find a voice in Iowa."
The kiss I gave her in response was warm, and my words were not. "I can't go with you, Rachel. New York would kill me."
"I love you," she said, shivering, "but I need more of a world than this place. Please, Danny, come with me."
The sky was throbbing and throbbing with love-struck stars. And I wondered: why can't Rachel see that Iowa is just as much Heaven as anywhere else?
I held her, knowing that I'd already lost her, and whispered, "I thought you were done with the city, because of what it did to your parents. Why would you ever go back?"
Rachel closed her eyes, and shivered again.
The Williams' living room-my living room-was alive with the same light that was gracing millions of homes that holy evening. Depending on time zones, some families were just starting to unwrap their Christmas presents, while others were finishing and cleaning up, and still other families were singing in church.
Quietly, the song of the Dream Tower came back to me:
"If you sing your life, you pray it twice, through the dark days and the sun-filled nights. All of creation groans. And everywhere there's a reverie. All of creation groans. And everywhere there's a reverie."
Now it was time to open my presents.
I stood and approached the glittering tree. I'd received many gifts in my life, but none so painful. My hands trembled while I slowly unwrapped the first present. It was Grammy's guitar. The strings were perfectly tuned as I played a few chords and whisper-sang, "How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me." The next present was Jon's banjo. I smiled and plucked a few notes, the tears streaming down my face. And then I placed the banjo back under the branches and unwrapped another gift. It was Holly's fiddle, covered with feathers of all colors. I felt like my sister was glancing down from the heavenly choir, and the facial expression of the angel atop the tree suggested that everything was working out according to the Christmas plan, even though my heart was breaking into pieces. The next present was Mother's harp. I began strum-running my hands over the strings to make waves of ascending notes. The image of Mother falling was ever in my mind, but this was a way of lifting her back into the sky. "How sweet the sound, that saved . . . "
My eyes wandered to the base of the tree. There was one more gift, a tiny green package with a red bow. I knelt to pick up what I thought was probably one of Father's crosses. I shook the package and heard the jingle of metal on metal. "Yes," I whispered, unwrapping the gift. "I'll carry this for you."
And the telephone rang.
I wondered: who could that be? Shelby? Jon? Grease? Mud Eye or Slopper? Who else knows I'm here?
The telephone rang and rang, and I hurried into the kitchen to answer.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Danny."
"Rachel!"
"It's me."
"It's really you?"
"It's really me."
"Rachel! Where are you?"
"Listen, Danny. I can't talk long."
"Where are you? I need to see you!"
"Danny. Did you get my messages on your machine? I explained-"
"I didn't get them. What's going on, Rachel? Are you okay?"
"I wanted to say I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry, too."
"Danny, you didn't do anything wrong. What are you sorry about?"
"New York ... our birthday."
"It was horrible, that's for sure. But I want to wish you a Merry Christmas. And I left some messages on your machine that explained ..."
"Explained what? Tell me."
"You need to hear the messages first."
"Rachel, just tell me. Please."
"I'm very nervous, Danny. Everything has changed."
"I've changed, too."
"Please listen, Danny. I'm sorry to have hurt you. I wasn't thinking clearly. But you need to know this, Danny. It wasn't a real kiss. I didn't even like Will Bentley. The only reason I kissed him was to set you free."
"I didn't want to be free."
"I know, Danny."
There was a long pause full of sighs and tears. And I heard sirens, but I wasn't sure if they were near the farm or where Rachel was.
I said, "I need to see you again."
She sobbed and said nothing. The sirens were getting louder.
"Rachel, where are you?"
Her words were fading and disappearing, "Danny ... you need to be ... free ... and-"
And the line went dead.
"Rachel! Are you there? Rachel!"
I immediately dialed the code to find out the number where she was calling from, and a disembodied voice said: "We're sorry. The last number that called this address is unlisted."
I shouted at the disembodied voice, "Tell me where Rachel is! Tell me!"
Disembodied silence.
So many thoughts passed through my mind in the next instant, along with things that weren't even thoug
hts, and suddenly the phone was on the floor and my feet were shuffling out of the kitchen and out of the house. The wind was stronger than it had been earlier in the night, nearly howling as it built up drifts. I rushed over to the Cadillac and reached inside and gathered up my spiral notebooks; and then I tromped through the snow to the storage shed. There was the rusty red pickup. I climbed inside and placed the notebooks in the passenger seat and then sat frozen at the wheel. I took a deep cold breath and turned the key, giving fire to the engine. The old Chevy coughed and sputtered and spun away from the shed, plowing through the drifts as if nothing could stop it. The truck roared up the driveway to the county road.
I didn't hear any sirens, and hopefully that meant I could drive to my trailer without getting caught. Regardless of the risk, I had to hear all of the messages on my answering machine. I had to know what Rachel was talking about. Everything had changed in our lives. We both knew that. But what did that mean? What kind of an "us" were we now?
The messages would tell me.
I remembered how Rachel had scooped up Grammy's guitar a few minutes before the auction and led me down to the cellar, where we sat on overturned rusted buckets. Rachel strummed the guitar-I didn't even know she could play-and sang in a bluesy voice, "Praise the Lord. Praise God in his sanctuary; praise him in his mighty heavens. Praise him for his acts of power; praise him for his surpassing greatness. "
Rachel sang Psalm 150, the final psalm in the Bible, as if it would be the last thing sung on earth. "Praise him with the sounding of the trumpet, praise him with the harp and lyre. "
The Gospel Family had tried to obey those commands to praise. Despite our problems, weaknesses, and sins, we'd lifted up our music to the Lord.
