(2008) Down Where My Love Lives Read online

  "Morning." Blue ran up to smell and greet Bryce. "Thought I'd come see how the storm left you. Everything still here?"

  "No problem," Bryce barked in his best Scottish brogue.

  Looking around, I noticed that one of the screens he no longer used had been torn from top to bottom. The canvas that was once tacked to plywood now flapped in the wind, exposing the splintered plywood that was separated and ripped right down the middle.

  "Looks like that one didn't fare too well," I said, pointing.

  "Yup," Bryce said between gulps. "No big deal. Only need one." Bryce threw his now-empty can on the ground and walked toward his trailer. He came back carrying a blowtorch. To my amazement, he walked across the parking lot into the second lot and up to the wooden housing at the base of the torn screen. He sparked the blowtorch, adjusted the flame, and held it against the wooden housing. After a few seconds, flames appeared. After a few minutes, the wind caught it, fueling the fire, and it rose up to the screen. The screen and structure behind it caught fire and burned like film in a projector.

  Bryce walked back to his trailer and returned to me without the blowtorch but with a beer in each hand. He handed me one, and we watched the screen burn to the ground. Bryce lifted his beer above his head and said, "To the Silver Screen."

  IT WAS WELL PAST DARK WHEN I CRANKED MY TRUCK. I passed the amphitheatre, and all was quiet. I pulled off the shoulder, and Blue let out a big breath and lay down in the back. I cut the engine and sat in the quiet.

  One night after a show, Maggie and I had lain in bed, ears ringing and too wired to sleep. Bathed in darkness and the sweat of a South Carolina summer night, she asked me why I was so quiet. And taking a chance, I told her what was on my mind.

  "When I see those people on stage, sometimes I think about the little drummer boy. Standing there, offering his gift. All he had. Right there at the foot of the King. I wonder what that moment was like. Was it quiet all except for the sound of a drum? Were the animals shuffling about? Chewing hay? Where was Joseph? Was Jesus sleeping, up 'til He smiled? And the smile. What did He feel? I ... I wish I could wring out my soul, like the drummer boy, and then stop midwring, and know, in that minute, that that-whatever that was-was the perfect expression of a gift."

  I pointed out the window toward the amphitheatre. "Those people, when they stand before the world, just before the sound fades, they know that they're doing the very thing they were created to do. Their faces show it. Gift affirmed. They know life. That's it. That moment, when the fans come alive and the King smiles, is living. Sometimes, I just wonder what it'd be like to play my drum for the King. Did the drummer boy stand like Pavarotti, hang the notes off the balcony, stop midbeat, and listen to himself? Did he notice the moment, or did it pass by unmarked?"

  I thought she'd laugh, maybe lecture me. Not Maggie. When I had finished, she ran her fingers through my hair, wrapped her arm and leg around me, and pressed her chest to mine. "Have you ever had that feeling? Ever?"

  "I think so."

  "Where?"

  I looked up at the ceiling fan, hypnotized by the backwardspinning mirage caused by the forward spin of the blades. "Maybe a time or two in class. It's hard to say."

  A few nights later, Maggie packed a brown-bag dinner, blindfolded me, put me in the truck, and started driving.

  "Where're we going?" I asked.

  She just kept driving, and after fifteen minutes of U-turns and "shortcuts," we got where we were going. She pulled over, grabbed my hands, and led me to a gate, where she fumbled with some keys and unlocked what sounded like a padlock. Loosing the chain, she pushed open a creaky fence and then led me a hundred or so yards to a series of steps. At the top of them, my feet told me that the surface had changed from concrete to something hollow, maybe wood. She led me a few feet farther, then placed her finger across my lips. It was quiet. Pin-drop quiet.

  I heard her shuffle away from me and down the steps. Then, while I stood there wondering what in the world was going on, she started screaming at the top of her lungs.

  "Whooooo! More! More! More! Whooooo!"

  It scared me so bad I ripped off the bandanna, only to find myself on the stage of the amphitheatre and Maggie running up and down the rows of seats, holding a candle, waving her arms in the air and screaming like a wild woman. Throughout the rows she had placed cardboard people, maybe fifteen in all, and each held a burning candle. She whooped and hollered for ten minutes, dancing around as if she'd struck gold or come to hear the man at the mike. It took me ten minutes to get her to stop.

  When I finally got her calmed down, we sat in the second row, propped our feet up on the first, ate turkey sandwiches, and watched a show that existed only in our minds. When I finished my sandwich and leaned over to kiss her, she had mustard dabbed in the corner of her mouth. I can still taste it.

  Maggie could have made me feel foolish, even stupid for wondering outside myself. But she didn't. She took me down there, set me on the stage, and then acted like my own private audience no matter how foolish it made her feel.

  Now I sat there in the moonlight and looked down at the amphitheatre through blurred vision. I opened the truck door, slid down the hill, and hopped the fence. I walked down the center aisle and climbed up on the stage. The moon reflected off the tops of the chairs like ten thousand candles, but I never opened my mouth. I knew no sound would come. Only tears. I lay down on the stage and hid from the demons that fed my doubts.

  THE DIGS ENGLISH DEPARTMENT HAD TITLED MY class "Research and Writing," hoping that the students would do just that. This meant that from day one, they would need to be thinking about and working toward a term paper. It also meant that anyone waiting until the last minute would land him- or herself right back in the class a third time. I suppose most of my students knew this. The syllabus allowed for weekly, sometimes daily, quizzes, but the bulk of each student's grade would be determined by one single term paper.

  With this in mind, I set aside the third day of class as optional. On the second day I told them, "The most important aspect of your paper is not your topic-there are thousands of interesting topics. The most important aspect is your question. You ask a vague question, you get a vague answer. Ask a specific question, and you tend to get a specific answer. I want specific questions and specific answers. If you have any doubt as to the effectiveness of your question, such as, `Is it tight?' you'd better come see me on Thursday."

  I was willing to answer questions, no kidding, but more than that, I just wanted to see who would show up if I gave them the option.

  No one came.

  That meant one of two things. Either they all had good questions, or they could not care less. The proof would be in the paper, and we'd find out toward Christmas.

  BLUE AND I ARRIVED AT THE HOSPITAL AROUND FOUR IN the afternoon. We walked into Maggie's room, where her brushed hair told me that Amanda had been working. Around Maggie, the sun hung a peaceful light. The lack of tension in her facial muscles told me that she liked it. Aware but unaware, peaceful but not at peace, rested but tired, sleeping but not asleep.

  I wanted to wake her up. To nudge her shoulder, watch her stretch and yawn, reach for a hug, sip coffee, and then head for the barn or slip along the river and watch the bass and bream break water or the wood ducks whistle overhead. I sat down next to Maggie, kissed her cheek, and she moved not at all.

  The doctors say her brain registers "normal activity for a person in this condition," whatever that means. They say, "All we can do is wait. Sometimes shock does the unexplainable to a person."

  I'm having a hard time with this. If we can put a man on the moon, split an atom, move a heart from one man to another, cure polio, or build a hundred-story building, we ought to be able to wake up my wife. One minute she was awake and crying, reaching for our son. The next minute she was vomiting and then not awake. I can't explain that.

  I sat with Maggie while the sun went down. Blue settled in on the blanket someone had folded in the corner. The sam
e someone had filled a bowl of water next to it.

  Just a couple days after the delivery, my friend Mr. Thentwhistle had sent a nurse to tell me that he was calling animal control to remove my "filthy canine."

  "Ma'am," I said politely and pointing at Blue, "I've tried to tell him, but he won't listen to me. The dog goes with the girl."

  She had left, reported to Mr. Administrator, and he called animal control. Animal control is a voluntary position in this county, and it happens to be held by Amos's dad, Mr. Carter. When Mr. Carter found out what kind of dog it was, he put two and two together and said, "No sir, that girl might need that dog. You best leave it alone."

  I sipped coffee and held Maggie's hand in silence.

  Maggie wasn't a real touchy-feely person, but she loved for me to rub her feet. In her bedside table she kept some moisturizing cream that she got at one of those sensory-overload stores in the mall. You know, the kind full of creams, candles, and all the fluffy crap that sits unused in your medicine cabinet. I didn't really like the smell, but she did. She said it smelled like honeysuckle. The label said "Body Butter."

  For some reason, I don't smell too well. I mean, I can smell gardenias or bacon cooking or that perfume of Maggie's called Eternity, but on the whole, I don't walk around smelling life the way she does. Maggie can smell anything. We'll be walking in the mall, stop at the perfume counter, and she can close her eyes and differentiate between eight perfumes. To me, they all smell the same.

  But a week ago, I brought that cream from the house and put it in her bedside table. I opened the drawer, pulled out the cream, slid my chair to the end of the bed, gently slipped off her socks, and rubbed. Starting with her heel, up through the length of her arch, between her toes, and finally up her calf.

  Maggie has beautiful feet. Her toes are small, callused, trimmed. I used to kid her about having interchangeable toes, because they're all the same size. She has strong feet, a high arch, a slender heel, and a strong calf-working feet, I call them. She's a natural runner, with a much better gait than I have, and occasionally we jog along the river. But that's her second hobby. Her first love is her garden. She'd much rather dig in the dirt than run.

  AT FIRST, MAGGIE AND I COULDN'T SEEM TO DEVELOP A routine at the hospital. At some times we were like two kids on a continual first date, and at others we were like Papa and Nanny after fifty years. Sometimes I'd sit there and talk to her. Sometimes not. Sometimes the rubbing did all the talking. And sometimes, I just didn't know what else to say.

  Sometimes when I walked into the room, Maggie's forehead was real tense. Today she had a wrinkle between her eyes, so I started rubbing her feet and the wrinkle disappeared. Who knows what coma patients are doing or thinking on the other side of their eyelids? Maggie's forehead made me think that they don't sleep all the time. I'm no expert, but sometimes when I walked into the room, I could tell Maggie was awake even though her eyes were closed and she looked asleep. Her face showed it. Sometimes it was her hands, but mostly it was her face. Then there were other times when she looked asleep, and I knew she was asleep. Her whole body looked relaxed. Sitting at the end of the bed, I rubbed a few more minutes, and Maggie slipped off to sleep. And no, I never told her about the funeral.

  A wristwatch alarm on the arm of a nurse walking down the hall sounded at nine o'clock, and I woke up with my head slumped over next to Maggie's. I wiped off my drool and sat there a few minutes in the dark, letting her breath wash my face. The moon hung full, and a couple of clouds blocked the stars, but for the most part, it was clear and breezy. A sweet, South Carolina starlight serenade. If we were home right then, we'd be wrapped up in a blanket on the front porch. I tucked the covers up around Maggie's shoulders, checked her socks to make sure they covered her heels, set the cream next to the bed with the cap off, and pulled the door shut behind me.

  Walking out Maggie's door, I noticed that Amanda had taped a note to the doorjamb. Professor, come to church tonight. Daddy's preaching. 7:30. I'll save you a seat. Amanda.

  I pulled the note down, read it a second time, and thought to myself, The life of a preacher's kid. Probably front and center every time the door is open.

  Blue and I slipped down the hallway, and a fat old nurse nodded at me as I left. She glanced over her reading glasses, looked me up and down, and continued reading. The silver chains hanging down both sides of her glasses outlined her square jaw and double chin like a cowbell. Blue and I walked down the stairs and out the ER, and I started my truck. We drove out the main entrance of the hospital, and I pitched Amanda's crumpled note out the window.

  At 9:30 I rounded the last corner before home, and Pastor John's church came into view. The AME church was built in 1952. Since then, Sunday mornings had become a local spectacle. Almost a parade of sorts. Just prior to the ringing of the 10:30 Am bells, women in all shapes, sizes, and colors, escorted by their families, walked smack down the middle of the highway en route to their pew.

  And hats? Hats galore. You've never seen so many hats. They say sometimes Pastor John stops midsermon to point out a new or good-looking hat. The women love it. They also love his preaching, which, according to his reputation, is pretty heavy on the fire and brimstone. People say he tells it like it is, and they like him for it.

  The church is a good mixture of all races and sizes, and if you drive by during the singing, it'll resonate through your windows. Even in winter when the front doors are shut. It's a good thing that steeple is tall and well built; otherwise they'd bring it down. Clapping, singing, even some dancing. You want good hymn singing? Go to Pastor John's church. You'll get it there.

  Tonight, like every Wednesday night, was no exception. The place was packed. I slowed to an idle and found myself parked on the shoulder opposite Amos's Crown Vic. His radio was squawking voices and radio checks.

  "Seven-twelve to HQ."

  "HQ to 712. Go ahead, 712."

  "Ah, I've got a. . . " An eighteen-wheeler carrying a load of pine trees whizzed by my window, causing me to miss the rest of the mumbo jumbo. After Amos had been appointed deputy, he told me, "D.S., if I don't learn my ABCs, they'll park my B-U-T-T in HQ and I'll be sorta-outta-luck." He spent weeks reading flashcards that he kept in his shirt pocket.

  Law enforcement definitely has its own language. I guess it's a good thing. If I'm sitting there with a telephone pole lying over the top of my car and my feet resting on the engine block, I don't want a deputy with flowery language. I want somebody who can cut through the c-r-a-p and get my b-u-t-t to the h-o-s-p-i-t-a-1. Right n-o-w. Amos says that pretty much eliminates me from law enforcement. He's probably right. I'd be explaining to HQ what the situation looked like rather than what was needed. I see colors, not structure.

  Based on the squawking, it was a dull night in Digger. Apparently most of the population was in church, because every parking space was taken. Even the dirt spillover lot was full. I left my truck on the shoulder and slipped in the side door, where I was immediately met by an usher in a threepiece suit. An older, gray-haired gentleman, probably seventyfive. He smiled from earlobe to earlobe and held the door while I walked through it. You have never seen so many teeth. And straight? You could have drawn a line with them.

  I stood there in jeans, scuffed boots, and a flannel shirt that I was rapidly trying to tuck in. I keep my hair pretty short, so that's never really a problem. Even when it's messed up, it can't look too messed up. The entrance to the church was warm and empty, except for Mr. Smiles and me. He asked me if I was a visitor, and I thought briefly about lying to him but figured the narthex of the church, beneath the apex of my grandfather's steeple, was not the place. I nodded without meeting his eyes.

  Through the window of the door leading into the sanctuary, I could see Pastor John pacing slowly back and forth, wearing a purple robe and holding a well-worn book in his right hand. He'd aged, and his hair had grown white since I last saw him. The usher gently opened the door and stepped in. A sea of three hundred to four hundred people, pressed
elbow to elbow, filled the upright pews, and lines of latecomers filled folding chairs all the way down the aisle and around the back of the pews. This would never pass the fire marshal's inspection.

  The rounded sanctuary fanned out before me like a half circle. At the flat end stood the pulpit and Pastor John. Behind him stood an organ and forty or fifty folks in matching robes shouting "Amen" and "Umm-hmmm." The pews must have been fashioned by the Oompa Loompas because they were little; but judging from appearance, the size of the pew didn't seem to bother anybody. The pews did have padded seats, but I'd have given up the padding for a little shoulder room.

  Before I realized what he was doing, the usher had walked smack-dab down the middle of the center aisle, intending to lead me to the front of the church where, wonder of wonders, Amanda sat next to an empty spot. I tried to stop him. I coughed and even thought about whistling, but Amanda turned, saw me, and started scooting over to make more room. I followed while the whispers grew out from me like aftershocks resonating from an epicenter.

  When the usher got to the front row, he turned, opened his arm so the palm of his hand showed, and nodded his head. Still smiling. Dang, that's a lot of teeth. With my shirt starting to stick to my back, I slithered into the seat.

  Amanda smiled, whispered, "Hi, Professor, I thought you might come," and folded her hands in front of her tummy.

  I looked down and said nothing. Studying the carpet, I noticed that Amanda had slipped off her shoes, and it wasn't hard to see why. Her feet were pretty swollen. I looked up, and Pastor John stopped midsentence, waved his hands, and placed his right index finger against his lips.