by Ian Lewis
I heave Melissa for the last time and meander a crooked path away from the building. Once I sense we are at a safe distance, I let her down as easy as my clumsy body can and then collapse into oblivion.
Brutality, Firsthand
February 27th, 2002 6:37 PM
Mordecai Mothersbaugh walking home
Pulling the collar tight around my neck, I brace for the deadened, dagger-like air as I step out from the church’s front stoop. The walk home promises to be a bitter one; the ragged gusts cut to the bone.
The starchy fibers of my being, once solid, now bend under the burdens I’ve shouldered. Whether physical or spiritual, their cold ache drove from me the righteous fire I once wielded.
The ache seeped in over time and displaced the resolve that carried me for years. Such a leprous sensation at first, I often recoiled at its advances. Now the ache defines me; my waking minutes would seem bereft without it.
At last I finally admit it to myself. If I’m not broken then what am I? If I’m not the penitent preacher man, what can I claim as my own suffering? Is that what I’ve come to? Relying on some self-righteous priggishness to channel self-pity?
Racked with the selfishness of this, I spent several hours this afternoon planted on my knees in prayer. I pleaded with the Lord to renew my sense of purpose, to rebuild me. There’s no good that will ever come feeling sorry for myself.
Now half-dragging my way across the town, I’m deflated to find that the derelict houses and abandoned souls within them drag me down even further.
A small child shivers on a darkened porch; heated shouts eject from the open door behind her. Past this, a measly farm market stand hides under wooden planks, boarded up not for the season, but forever.
More of the same dejected scenes cry out as I go. Their smudge upon the landscape is a badge of hopelessness, and it rings in me that I’ve lost my purpose.
Each plodding step suggests it’s more than a loss of purpose, though. I mash my good leg into the snowy muck with an indifference that confesses what my mouth will not. This is a loss of being, a loss of self.
If I’ve failed at giving these people hope, at giving them a second chance, then I don’t know who I am. I committed my younger self to the Potter’s hands, and asked that He do with me what He willed. That’s the only identity I’ve known since I was twenty.
And I thought this was it—to spur on a small hope amongst the downtrodden. In that I would find fulfillment, but I’ve failed! How I’ve failed so miserably! I’ve invested so much that the thought of starting fresh laughs at me with a preposterous jeer.
As usual, Scripture finds its way to the surface. “I have labored to no purpose; I have spent my strength in vain and for nothing. Yet what is due me is in the Lord’s hand, and my reward is with my God.”
This world is built for younger men to will their own way upon it. I’m past whatever prime I might have had, but if it’s my lot to run out the rest of my days here, I’ll do so faithfully. Even if I’m the last of the faithful…
The road ahead narrows, a snowy gauntlet guarded by the vacant brick of decayed industry. Humble textile and pottery operations once flourished here; the meager structures ramble back to the reaches of their property, fading into the obscurity in which they reside.
These bygone reflections crowd around me as dear brothers. I’ve known their shadow and slant like one might understand the subtle inflections of a friend’s voice. We’ve grown world-weary together.
As I pass, a swiping hand darts out from between two ramshackle garages. A sharp, solid blow lands on the back of my neck and I crumble. A boot to my back side sends me flailing from hands and knees onto my stomach.
Icy grit stings my chin and cheek. Frozen hands buried, I push myself back up and roll to my side to see my attacker.
A glowering boy stands at the corner of the garage, balled fists shaking in slight pulses. He might be sixteen, peach fuzz and unkempt hair.
Three more sullen boys step out from the alleyway and circle around him. They match the first with their wild hair and silent scowls. Their mottled faces only hint at what they will do.
I scoot backward and try to stand, but I’m halted by the sturdy legs of two boys who appear behind me.
They look down at me with soulless eyes, no expression. Thick steam escapes their nostrils.
I turn back to the first—the one that struck me. “Son, you don’t have to do this.” It’s the only thing I can think to say. In what seems a fleeting moment of life, words evade my best efforts to be sincere.
The silent boy holds for an eternity, unmoved. Is he contemplating my plea? Is he wavering at the last minute? The violent jerking of his torso, right arm back, answers as a streaking, gloved fist lands a muffled thud against the bridge of my nose.
A solid, sharp jab comes next, digging into my side. Then it comes again and again. The steel toe of a work boot. Similar pains erupt in my lower back. Something thick and unwavering crashes over my head—a board?
I hunker deeper into the blistering snow as if the sting of it will dull my sensation, but I can’t get far enough away from the pummeling limbs that wreck me. On my side, the aggression shifts to my stomach, chest, and face.
These wayward boys. What drove them to this? Their stout, youthful vigor misappropriated by some reckless meandering of their souls. Do they have no bounds, no guidelines?
I accept the wet leather tearing into my cheeks, slamming into my ribs. I don’t fight back. I can’t, nor do I want to. These boys are some of the ones I didn’t reach. To lash out at them would only be to shift the blame.
I’d still try to show them the Way given the chance. A saving grace so perfect and true, it would break the tarnished shackles from their hearts. I’d look past this offense.
There’s no way to tell from which direction my attackers advance. They press in and strike from every direction all at once. Just as I grow numb to a softened, bruised patch of flesh, they find new targets for the hate of their fists and feet.
My arms can protect my face no longer. Slushy tread mashes into my forehead. My nose dribbles blood, or maybe it’s my lips. Maybe it’s both. Long past the point I thought I would last, my strength dwindles for the last time.
Then an unearthly howl fills the narrow street—a low, sonorous wail churning over a guttural moan. There’s something mechanical about it, yet it growls with the savage howl of a beast.
The piercing, searching glare of high beams illuminates the night; they widen the field of view in a blinding arc as they draw near. Their intensity matches the banshee shriek of the motor behind them.
My attackers scatter at once, leaving me as a crumpled speck in the sea of snow and light wash. The stutter of their steps fades into the unreachable lengths of darkness.
The oncoming vehicle slides to a stop, drawing up alongside as if it was shoring up to a curb. The roar of the engine subsides to a staccato wump-wump.
Leaning on my right elbow, I struggle to get up, unsure of the black two-door before me. No one exits or signals; the car remains steadfast in its cockeyed position in the middle of the street.
I stand and pause to regain my breath before limping toward the passenger-side door. The window lowers as I approach. Leaning over, I rest shaky hands on the frame.
A hidden face speaks before I can offer a thank-you. “You’re not dying tonight, Preacher. Get in.”
The shock of his statement mixes with the fainting of my body and the distressing cold. The cliché of being beside oneself seems appropriate; I’m barely with it as my hand reaches for the handle, disconnected from feeling.
The long, sturdy door swings out and I stumble around it, collapsing into the deep passenger seat. With burning ribs, I reach out in a labored grasp to pull the door shut. “Thank you…you most certainly saved my life.” I turn towards the man behind the wheel.
Shaggy black hair spills over his ears, neck, and forehead. Shadows create a jagged relief of an angular face—severe and n
o-nonsense. Yet there’s something pained there—something wounded in the carving of his features.
Man-handling the wheel, he straightens the car and beckons it forward. The howling subsides to a low moan as we pass from dimly lit patches to darkened stretches. With half a nod he says, “These aren’t the safest times. You ought to consider another way home.”
The glow of passing street lamps blurs in the streaking night as we cut into the thick of it all—a deft projectile dividing the street into the past. “I’ve walked this route for years; I’ve never needed an automobile.”
“Steadfast or stubborn? I can’t tell.” Sarcastic, the man remains fixed on the road.
I look away, caught off-guard by his forwardness. The man is calling me out on my oldest, most self-centered foible. “Maybe a bit of both. I guess a part of me never wanted to be underestimated or pitied for having a bum leg. That’s a bit of pride, I suppose.”
The dregs of Halgraeve rip by, muted and distant. They’re familiar yet strange; the recognizable seems to dissolve into angles and perspectives I’ve not seen before.
“Do you think this town wants to die?” The man cuts in with a new direction of his own.
I answer, too tired to give it much thought. “I don’t know. Part of me hopes there is still hope. Another part thinks Halgraeve died a long time ago.”
“Would you say there are still good people here?”
“Yes, some. But the number dwindles. The socioeconomic realities contribute to all manners of faithlessness.” I pause to get another look at the man’s face. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you. Do you live in town?”
“Just visiting.”
I turn back toward the window, dazed from a combination of physical exhaustion and the hushed, lulling effect of the dream-like qualities of the passing landscape. Houses seem a mile from the street; snow banks tower like mountains. I lean against the headrest, eyes heavy. “Well, I’m sure you’ve seen it, then. It doesn’t take long to notice.”
“People in these types of towns are searching for a reason to live. Something gets them out of bed in the morning whether or not they acknowledge it. They have some small sliver of expectation—maybe even faith—that says tomorrow might be better. That’s what I’ve seen, anyway.”
I blurt out a careless reply. “You’re young. You can still say that without lying.” I’m immediately embarrassed by my cynicism. I’m supposed to be a beacon of light, uplifting to those in my midst.
The man doesn’t seem affronted. “I don’t begrudge you your weariness, but you might be the only part of hope that these people see. You can shirk that if you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that you know better.”
I retreat back into exhaustion, head swimming with contention. I’m struck with the fact that I really don’t know where we’re going; the man never asked or said. Another glance out the window reveals the lights flashing by at a blinding rate as the hammer of the motor builds to an ever-increasing pitch. “Maybe you should slow down, son.”
The man doesn’t acknowledge me; he only peers down the road as if it might disappear.
My head floats, bubbling up to the surface of unconsciousness as we blast faster and faster down the road. The drone deafens my waning thoughts.
As I fade out, the man looks at me for the second time since entering the car. “Remember who you are.”
His words resonate in the thickness of my head and then echo faint ripples that dissolve into blackness.
A Seed
February 27th, 2002 7:26 PM
Mordecai lying outside his church
Sapped and in a stupor, I lift my head from my coat sleeve to find that I’m lying across the church’s salty front stoop. The torture of the beating sticks; each blow calls back in remembrance. The car ride is less vivid.
The man’s arrival came as a Godsend. His blunt words left their stain. What happened after that blurs in the slush of subconscious. Remember who you are. That’s what I remember him saying.
A motorist slows when he sees the disheveled heap that’s me, but I ignore him as he stares past. I should probably get up. Reaching for the skinny rail, I drag myself to a wavering stance, turn, and unlock the solid door. I’m not ready to head home yet; I need some warmth.
Crossing the warped threshold has me wondering why the man drove me back here. The waning glow of a streetlamp sneaks in through the tall, narrow windows. Blades of intersecting light criss-cross the darkened sanctuary. The pulpit sits vacant, a vanishing point in the far reaches of the shadows.
Collapsing into a pew midway, I close my eyes and drift for a moment. Remember who you are.
Who am I? That’s the question that begs most earnestly for an answer. It’s the focal point of the resonating doubt in my heart. Who I am makes the difference; it’s everything. I can’t function until I’m sure of who I am.
If I believe I’m a frail, useless man, left to his own devices in a faithless world, then I will wither away as I hew my life out of the crumbling dirt of the earth. It’s bitter and coarse, but it’s easy.
The alternative—that I’m a man of God—remains an intellectual belief but doesn’t resound in the depths of my soul. It used to, but I’m so tired. If anything can sum up this valley of despair, it’s that I’m exhausted.
Leaning forward, I rest my chapped brow on the pew in front of me. My mind is too scattered…too fragmented for prayer. I don’t want the burden of having to think for a while.
Behind me, the heavy brass knob turns with a rattle and the door opens with a gust of frigid air. I turn with a start to see a boy standing in the frame, the weak light casting a pale glow on his features.
A mop of hair hangs over his forehead. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his oversized work coat, never taking his wary eyes off of me.
“Have you come to finish what you started?” Fatigue strangles my best attempts to move away.
The boy’s brow rises and his mouth hangs open as if he’s struck in genuine surprise. Taking a step back to leave, he seems to reconsider and moves forward. Looking down, he says, “No. I’m done burning.”
Burning? What does he mean? Isn’t he one of the boys from before? Then it clicks with me—the fires of late. Could he be the one they call “Johnny Arson”?’
We stare at each other for several awkward seconds before I ask him to come in and shut the door. I’m not sure why I do this; I have little reference of who he is or what he wants. I only know that he looks tired. Maybe he recognizes this in me; maybe we have an understanding.
The boy shoves the door closed but remains near it, hands still crammed into his pockets.
“You’re welcome to sit down, son.” I nod toward a pew on the other side of the aisle.
The boy hesitates and then moves to sit one row back.
“Do you need somebody to talk to?” I’m not sure what else to say, but sense he needs an outlet.
The boy continues to look down at his feet as he scuffs the toe of his boot back and forth across a worn floorboard. “How did you know I was the one?”
“The one who started the fires?” My face aches with each syllable.
“Yeah.” He nods.
“I didn’t know. I thought you were someone else when you stepped in.” I pause to readjust the bent frames of my glasses. “Are the fires the reason you’re here?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t think anyone would look for me here, I guess.”
Of all the haunts or hideouts he might have chosen, he wandered into my church. The subtle providence in all of this isn’t lost on me. He’s not here to give his life to the Lord, but this could still be a turning point for him. Who knows what ripple effect a chance encounter might have? Remember who you are.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” he mumbles, not looking up.
“Do you have a home situation?”
The boy rolls his eyes, but still doesn’t connect with mine. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“
Not a good one? Do you live with your parents?” I try to coax dialogue from him, but realize it’s a fine line and it’s easy to push too hard.
“Just my mom. Dad’s not around. Never has been.” He cuts himself off, as if he has more to say but won’t. His mouth sets firm in a grim line.
“It’s OK to be angry about that. That’s not the way things are supposed to be.”
The boy spits back. “Yeah, well what is?”
I grant a nod of understanding. “There are many things that aren’t right; this world is topsy-turvy most of the time. But that’s where you find the beginning of an answer. Why do you think it makes you mad that things aren’t right?”
The boy shrugs, kicking at the same floorboard that sits higher than the rest.
“We all have a sense of justice built into us. Some of us skew it or don’t pay it much mind, but it’s there. We all have some sense of right and wrong. Why do you think that is?”
Another shrug.
“That’s alright. Most folks answer that way. The important thing is to recognize it in yourself—that’s a start. The cry for justice is an old one, but a lot of people don’t always succeed in their attempt to set things right.”
The boy looks up at me from under cautious eyelids. “I suppose I’ve tried to make things right in my own mind.”
“And what did you find?”
“I think I’ve pretty well made a mess of things.”
We reflect on that for a moment before I continue. “There’s a small voice in the heart of everyone. If you don’t listen for it, you’ll never hear it. It’s underneath your feelings, deep down past the clutter in your head. This voice—it’s not a compass so much as a nudge. It’s a prod to awaken and renew your mind.”
The boy sulks, mouth downturned. “I’m not that good at learning stuff.”
I shake my head. “You already know it, you’re just not aware of it. And if you pursue that voice far enough, you’ll come to see that a big part of justice is taking responsibility for your own actions.”
Words flow through me without effort; nagging bruises find themselves muffled by a second wind. I’m motivated only by the chance I see before me. The boy, unsettled and searching, sits with as much attentiveness as I might ever get from someone his age. I have to make it count; I have to see him on to a better path. Remember who you are.
