by David Athey
"Praise him," I sang in the truck while I plowed toward the interstate, "praise him with tambourine and dancing, praise him with the strings and the flute, praise him with the clash of cymbals, praise him with resounding cymbals. Let everything that has breath praise the Lord. Praise the Lord."
Something caught my attention in the rearview mirror. Something back there in the snow was kicking up a cloud and stampeding toward the truck.
"What on earth? Not again."
I tried to accelerate but had trouble finding traction. The wheels spun and the truck swerved while the herd of swine followed me toward the interstate. I could hear a faint snorting and squealing in the wind while I finally got the Chevy to gain speed toward the ramp. I thought: just get on the freeway and that will be the end of them. Pigs can't run sixty miles per hour.
The truck missed the entrance and plummeted down the embankment and turned sideways. The Chevy rolled and the notebooks in the passenger seat flapped and fluttered into the air. The pickup rolled again and hit a tree, and my rib cage was crushed by the steering wheel. My mouth filled with blood and everything went black.
In a blinding light, I blinked and tried to move, but I was strapped to the bed and plugged into all sorts of medical devices. I blinked again. A man in shades stood over me, staring down.
It was impossible to turn away. All I could do was move my eyes. To my right was a glass door. To my left was a window. The blinds were open and the sky was wild with yellow, green, and purple. Arcs and streamers and searchlight beams.
The aurora borealis.
The man in shades looked down. "Daniel Gospel?"
"Yeah?"
"Is that your real name?"
"Well ... it depends on who's asking."
"I am asking for your real name."
"Why?"
"Are you refusing to cooperate?"
"Cooperate with whom?"
"Listen, Daniel. Things could get less comfortable. There are other rooms."
I swallowed hard, the taste of blood strong in my mouth. "Where am I?"
The man in shades leaned toward my face. "You are under observation."
His words made me laugh. "Ouch!" The pain in my chest was excruciating.
"Your heart is damaged," the man said. "Don't laugh."
I nodded. "I won't laugh if you don't." Then I told him my real name. "Daniel David McGillicuddy."
The man adjusted his shades and smiled. "Very good." And he stepped away from the bed and walked out of the room, his heels clicking like tap shoes.
My eyes returned to the aurora. The colors swayed like curtains opening into one another. I strained at my restraints. They would not give. So I rested for a while, saving my strength.
An hour or so later, the man in shades clicked back up the corridor, his steps echoing louder and louder. He reentered the room and locked the door behind him with an old-fashioned key. I tried to remember what that was called-a skeleton key? In his other hand, he held a blue spiral notebook. "Danny, do you recognize this?"
"Yes."
He opened to the place where I'd stopped writing my life story. "Danny. Where are the rest of the words?"
"What do you mean?"
He dropped the notebook onto my chest. The pain was like fire. "Your confession," he said in a scolding voice, "is unfinished."
I swallowed some blood.
He reached into his pocket and then placed a gold pen upon the notebook. "Finish your confession."
I wriggled my fingers. Wriggled and wriggled, but the man didn't seem to get it. "You have my arms strapped down."
"Oh. Yes. Here." He fiddled with the restraint and set my writing hand free, and adjusted the bed so that I could almost sit up. "Finish your life, Daniel. And I want you to clarify something. What was the meaning of the poem that you shared at the Foxhead Tavern?"
I snuck a peek out the window at the aurora. "You want me to explain poetry? It's simple. Heaven kisses you. And you sing."
The man grinned. His teeth were so white. "Daniel David McGillicuddy. Are you claiming to have been kissed by an angel?"
"No. Not exactly. But even so, is that against the law?"
"Yes. Now tell me about Gloria."
"What do you want to know?"
"Do you and Gloria have a serious relationship?"
"I'm not sure. That's up to God."
The man in shades was relentless. "Tell me about your crimes."
"My crimes?"
"Yes. You need to confess them."
"I have been. The last notebook is almost full."
The man smirked. "Daniel. You are accused of stealing and tampering with the mail. You are suspected of sending out anthrax. And you are being held on suspicion of murder."
"What?
"Murder. And terrorism."
"That's crazy. I've never hurt anyone. Not on purpose."
The man paused, adjusted his shades, and continued. "A clear confession might help you avoid the death penalty."
I laughed, and grimaced from the pain in my chest. "You're making this up."
The man shook his head. "There was a trace of anthrax on a piece of mail in your trailer."
"So? There were infinitesimal traces of anthrax all over the place. The mail carriers were aware of that. Some people wore gloves for a while, but I wasn't afraid."
The man pointed at the blue notebook. "Confess, Danny. Avoid the death penalty. Explain why you messed with the mail. Write it all down."
I took a deep breath and tasted more blood. "Listen," I said. "Before I write it, let me just tell you what happened on 9/11. Okay?"
The man did not respond.
"I kept trying to call Rachel, but the phone was dead. So I turned on the TV and saw the twin towers burning. There were people in the windows, waving shirts and towels, begging to be saved. Where were the fire ladders, or helicopters? Where were the angels? Suddenly the television caught the face of a young woman, leaping. There was sunlight on her face, hazy through the smoke, and the sunlight clung to her skin as she fell. She could have been ... anyone. I prayed with all my might that she would survive."
The man in shades was unmoved. "What does this have to do with the mail?"
"Stealing the mail was my way to help."
"That sounds insane."
"After the towers fell, I went to the post office. Everyone was in shock. Nobody noticed when I put a bundle of mail in the back of my pickup. I took that bundle home and dumped it on the floor. In the middle of my living room, the envelopes were piled up like debris. And I sifted through, searching."
The man leaned down and whispered into my ear. "Searching for what?"
"Bills, invoices, stuff like that. If I couldn't save anybody in New York, at least I could pay the bills in Iowa City. Mortgages, electricity, water, tuition, rent, everything. I got to be a hero until my nest egg was gone."
"Your nest egg?"
"I'd been saving every penny, thinking I could buy back the family farm. That was my big dream: to start another Gospel Family."
The man in shades backed off. "Your claim is that you only tampered with the mail to help people."
"Yes. Now, may I please borrow a phone and make a call? Or better yet, can I please go home and listen to my messages?"
The man shook his head and pointed at my heart. "Your messages have been erased. Now you need to finish your confession. Don't leave out a thing. Give us the whole story."
I sighed and swallowed and nearly choked on the blood. "I can only tell you what God allows me to know."
The man nodded. "Your cooperation, if it's complete, will be rewarded. By the way, Merry Christmas."
"Yes," I said, grimacing. "Merry Christmas."
The interrogation was over. The man in shades walked out, locked the door with his skeleton key, and left me alone. His heels clicked down the hallway, echoing as if the hallway went on forever and ever. The lights in my room darkened. And the night became silent.
My eyes returned to the win
dow, and I was disappointed to see that the aurora had vanished. But the heavens were throbbing with stars and planets and galaxies.
I wondered: how does anyone ever finish a confession?
Exhausted, I hugged the spiral notebook to my aching chest and soon spun into dreams.
Eve ... Oasis ... Psalm ... Grace ... Angel ... Iowa ... Bride ... Gospel ... Family.
Some time later, perhaps a long time later, I was awakened by a light in the hallway. A woman, strangely familiar and perfectly lovely, stood shimmering outside the glass door.
She was dressed in white, and she began to sing a song that was old and new and beautiful. It was like a Spiritual, but without any sorrow.
"Let's fly away," she sang.
about tl author
DAVID ATHEY has taught creative writing at Buena Vista University, the Dreyfoos School of the Arts, and Palm Beach Atlantic University. Athey's poems, stories, essays, and reviews have appeared in more than sixty liteary journals, including The Iowa Review, Harvard Review, and California Quarterly.
