Even As We Breathe

by Annette Saunooke Clapsaddle

  “ … and then that old man plumb near blew a hole straight through his overalls,” she chuckled.

  “That’s funny,” I offered on command. After a lifetime, I knew exactly where her punch lines fell, when to laugh, when to shake my head, when and how to respond to ebb and flow.

  “Uh-oh.” Lishie frowned. “What’s on your mind this morning, boy?”

  “What? Oh. Nothing. Just tired.”

  “Mmmm. Maybe. Maybe not.” She jammed her left elbow deep into my rib cage, the worst of all bad Lishie habits.

  “Ow! Lishie! You gotta stop that! That hurts. I don’t care who you are.”

  “Toughen up, tsu-ts!”

  She called me son just like she did Bud, probably just like she had my father. She dug in once again.

  My right hand flinched, trying to deflect her swift jabs. The car swerved, sending us both upward until the roof forced us back into our seats. I overcompensated and nearly landed us in a drainage ditch on the right-hand side of the logging road we followed. I bore down hard on the brake, swinging us forward and then back again. We sat still, both panting, eyes wide in wait.

  In front of us, eyes wide in wait as well, stood a black bear on two legs, as tall as our vehicle and just as black.

  She screamed at us.

  She opened her mouth and shook her head like a wife whose husband has tracked in mud for the tenth time. Annoyed. She did not roar nor growl. She screamed a deep, tonal screech. Neither Lishie nor I said a word. We just stared forward as the bear dropped back to all fours and was immediately joined by two small, equally annoyed cubs. The family took one last look at us and scurried into the laurel.

  We arrived at the white cinderblock church just in time for the morning announcements. The parish was stuffed with small, elderly women in floral patterned dresses, hems barely greeting knee-high stockings, like in-laws at a family reunion leaving a slight gap in their embrace of one another. The women’s graying heads were tucked neatly beneath red, blue, or purple bandanas. Men waited on the steps, taking the final drag from hand-rolled cigarettes and waving to children racing through the dusty churchyard to end their game of tag and join the others inside.

  Lishie loathed lateness so she did not wait for me to help her from the vehicle before climbing out of the passenger side and scurrying as fast as she could toward the church steps. I took my time joining her inside. If I waited long enough, one of the men would offer a final drag of his half-smoked cigarette in lieu of tossing it wastefully away. Mothers were still settling into the pews, rocking infants, and the choir was warming up with weekly gossip. Lishie walked in ahead of me, nodding to the other ladies and clutching her Bible beneath her arm. She slid into our pew and I followed. Same spot every Sunday. Third pew from the altar. Right side. Middle of the bench so that others could join on either side, though they never did.

  The choir stood in unison, the signal to mothers to hush their children, men to find the most inconspicuous resting position, and older women like Lishie to assume a pious pose. Preacherman Davis moved from the back of the church where he had been greeting parishioners and joined the choir in song.

  “How great thou art,” the chorus concluded.

  “Good morning,” Preacherman greeted us. “Good morning.”

  “Sunale.”

  “Mornin’.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”

  The responses, varied and disparate, joined in piecemeal harmony. “We gather once again in the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, who shed his blood so that we might be saved.”

  “Amen!”

  Lishie nodded beside me. She would not uncross her ankles nor unfold her hands from her lap throughout the entire service. While younger folk might raise their palms in the air in praise, she sat composed and reserved. The gentle rocking of her head and cadence of Preacherman’s sermon did little to keep me alert.

  I tried to focus on the meaning of the words, “ … and set me in the middle of the valley; it was full of bones—and I saw a great many bones on the floor—bones that were very dry. He asked me: can these bones live?”

  I thought back to the bone I had found and resolved to make sure it was still wrapped safely in my room when I returned. Had my sharing its story, true or fabricated, brought that bone to life?

  Preacherman continued in his own words, “And then, brothers and sisters, Ezekiel witnessed the Lord breathing the four winds into the bones, bringing life back into them.”

  What kind of man must have Ezekiel been for God to perform such a miracle before his eyes? There were a great many bones that deserved life, a great many graves needing to be unearthed. Both then and now.

  “…and stood on their feet, a vast army…”

  Soldiers resurrected. Would God call up the skeleton of my father to rejoin the American army during this new war? And if he didn’t, were we to believe that this war was not worth such a miracle or simply that my father’s life was not?

  The single ceiling fan did nothing to stave off even the earliest of morning heat in the tiny building and did much to provide a sleep-inducing soundtrack. My eyes grew heavy, stung by the lingering smoke, my body warmed until I could only remain upright by cupping my forehead in my hand and resting my elbow on the windowsill.

  There’s a kind of terrifying quality to this type of sleep. Fire and brimstone, condemnations of Hell and glorious songs of angels weave their way through the unconscious conscience. Reality, fear, and hope served to jolt my body upright at the most inappropriate moments, yet I felt paralyzed, unable to produce any voluntary movement, even to pull myself awake. I can’t say that I was dreaming, nor can I say that I was crafting wakeful thought. Images coursed through my mind, seemingly at their own will and pace.

  Essie’s laugh

  Lishie’s song

  447

  My father’s name

  My father’s name

  The newspaper

  The bear’s scream

  Bud’s muffled cursing

  Laughter

  Dry bones

  Song

  God’s voice

  Tendons and flesh

  In our father’s name—

  Amen!

  Lishie pinched the fat of my arm.

  “Ow!” I flinched.

  “Wake up, boy. The Devil doesn’t sleep on Sunday morning and nor should you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I rubbed my arm and reached for my hat. “We staying for dinner or you wanting to go home?”

  “I’m going to stay. Myrtle’s boy can bring me back after. You go on. Bud’s got some chores for you before you head back to the city. There’s beans on the stove if you get hungry.”

  “Thought we weren’t to work on the Sabbath.” I smiled.

  “Devil works on Sunday morning and so does Bud.” Lishie smiled back and patted my rapidly bruising arm. I dug the keys from my pocket and handed them to her. Because what Lishie didn’t have to say was that Myrtle’s boy didn’t have a car of his own, nor did any member of their family, and so he would be driving ours. This was how she could disguise her favor as his. They lived as close as anyone to us and so the four would avoid the long walk from church by giving Lishie a lift.

  I never minded Lishie’s convoluted charities, nor commended her for them. She could go to great lengths to ensure that no one publicly recognized her for kindness, fearful that it might insinuate weakness, gentleness, or naiveté. She couldn’t afford such labels. None of us could.

  Preacherman grasped my hand tightly as I shook his on my way out. I was eager to be on my way, but he nearly jerked me backward with his grip. He leaned in, questioning, “How’s Miss Essie Stamper?”

  “Getting along quite fair. Don’t see her much since they keep us busy,” I lied.

  “Good to hear. You two take care of each other, being so far from home and all.”

  “Yes, sir. We surely will.”

  As the congregation unbundled picnic packs, I began the walk
across the ridge, a quicker route than following the logging road. The forest provided cool shade beneath the summer sun. I was in no hurry to reach Bud and his list of demands, so I took the opportunity to listen for bird songs, attempting to identify the singers before seeing the first feather. I peered into the small pool of one of the many mountain streams, hoping to see minnows. I avoided hollow logs and decomposing leaves so as not to cross a copperhead or rattler. I searched the overhead limbs for squirrels, thinking I might return later and shoot a few for Lishie’s stew. And because of this wonderment, I ignored the one piece of advice Lishie had given since I was a young boy making tree forts: “Keep your head down in the woods.” She knew I had a tendency to gaze at the canopy and trip over roots and into burrows.

  And because of this, the claw, the knife, possibly the mythic liver-gouging nail of Spearfinger herself scraped along the arc of my left cheek, sending warm blood dripping from my face onto the ground as I bent over in pain.

  “Shit!” I pressed my fingers to the gash. I turned in a crouched circle, searching for the cause. Nothing. No ominous owl. No erratic squirrel. No storied witch in search of careless children. Stunned, I sat down and pulled my knees to my chest so that I might gather my bearings before setting off again. When my heartbeat settled, I began to laugh. I laughed loudly with no soul around to hear me. Edgar, no doubt. Tsa Tsi’s free-spirited monkey had paid me another visit. That damn monkey! I sat a bit longer until I heard what sounded like his familiar call. From the direction it came, I reasoned that he might be returning home to Tsa Tsi soon. The old man needed to know of Edgar’s growing boldness before some hunter shot the poor creature out of spite. I decided to follow the bending branches before returning home. If he was going home, the distance would not be great. The last thing I wanted to do was walk myself right up to the fire line, but Edgar seemed to be moving away from the heavy smoke.

  I had not spent much time on the slope of the ridge, had no reason to, really. There were tales of high waterfalls and cool swimming holes. The extended trip might be worth it if I could find a new pool beneath a cascade. I thought how nice it might be to bring Essie back with me one weekend. Show her a secluded fall—share another secret space with her.

  Edgar called overhead again, farther ahead than I had expected. I still could not see even the bobbing of his tail, though. My foot slowed my pace, but I hurried as best I could. So much so that I came just shy of stepping squarely on an outstretched black snake, harmless but still good for a scare. I leapt awkwardly, unable to come to a complete stop in time. My left ankle buckled and I landed on my hands and knees in silt mud, startling a congregation of horseflies. Though I was still bruised from Lishie and bleeding from Edgar, my fall had only caused mild soreness in my ankle and muddied my hands and knees. Lishie would kill me if I wiped the mud on my church shirt or further stained my slacks. I looked around for broad leaves, but was relieved to find the waterfall instead.

  It must have been twenty-five feet high from its base. It extended so wide across the mountain slope, fifteen feet at least, that I feared it might be home to a sleeping bear or panther. The base pool was clean and clear enough to reveal its shallow bottom. I dipped my hands into the cold water and rubbed them clean. I cupped my palms and brought the water first to my mouth and then across my face. The scratch on my cheek stung a bit, but then numbed from the coolness.

  Refreshed and relieved, I stared into the waterfall before me. I thought back to my question to Lishie. They ever figure out how Dad got through the wire to the enemy side so fast?

  Your grandpa used to swear that that boy would go in a cave and come out a waterfall clear on the other side of the mountain, she had answered.

  Was this the falls? If there was ever even such a thing. I stared so long and intently at the rushing plummet, veiling a probable cavern behind it, that it turned before me into a fence … the fence, barbed wire delineated in the accumulated particles. I stared as I imagined my father must have done, knowing he had no choice but to penetrate it. Did he pause? Did he consider the danger? Did he wonder if he would return? And these weren’t even the most important questions I had. Curiosity drew me forward, whereas a human call for help compelled him—if, in fact, the story was true. Darkness surrounding him, had he returned to dress, to retrieve a gun when no one else had even bothered to stir? Why had he not called to his brother for help?

  I was not so bold as to traverse the unknown alone when given a choice. If I could ever convince Essie to return with me, I would bring her here. I would lead her to this sanctuary with confidence, knowing every rock and fallen limb to avoid. Together, we could enter the interior of the fall’s cave if she wished. Explore together. Lighting our way. And maybe we too would exit on the other side of the world. If I were to go it alone on this day, no one would know where I was, unable to find me in the event of snake bite or cave-in, or if I fell into one of the dozens of unexplained bottomless pits lining the floors of mountain caverns. No, I was not brave like my father. And somehow, too, I managed to convince myself that Essie would miss me, and if I ever emerged, would be angry that I hadn’t taken her on the inaugural journey, as she had me into 447.

  I barely heard Edgar anymore, though I saw he had likely stopped at the waterfall’s base to drink from its pool as well. His prints in the mud were unique among creatures of the forest, although smudged. I called into the cavern, “Edgar! You in there?”

  Nothing.

  “Edgar!” I edged into the mouth of the cave, careful to survey the ceiling for bats. “This your hiding place?”

  Something rustled in leaves just ahead of me. I leaned in, balancing myself, ankle still throbbing, one palm on the clammy cave wall. Tiny drops of water dripped onto my head. “Buddy?”

  Leaves rustled again, this time closer. I opened my mouth to call once again but was immediately silenced by a gust of wind that seemed to generate from the deep interior of the cavern. It sent leaves swirling, and specks of dirt nearly blinded me. I fell back and the gust washed over me with chilling force. I reached for a weak pine with both hands. It bent and my hands slipped down its trunk. What the hell? I pulled myself upright, nearly falling into the pool of water.

  Mud and sticky pine resin caked my hands. I plunged them into the pool and splashed a handful of cool water across my face. My skin drank it in as though it, too, had been exhausted by the drought. Everything here was still mossy and lush—a stark and welcome inconsistency to the rest of Cherokee. I gathered myself and rushed off in search of the monkey.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Weekends at home seemed to lengthen each time I returned. It was a different monotony than that of the inn, filled with familiar faces, familiar chores, and Bud’s familiar curses. I missed the inn—its anonymity, the beauty of such an opulent structure, Lee’s jokes, and most of all—Essie. In truth, the only real draw home was Lishie. I worried about her, unsure if Bud was reliable enough to drive her to church or restock her firewood for the stove. After a few weekends of finding Lishie well fed and agreeable to accepting rides from longtime neighbors, I was content to remain in Asheville for the balance of the summer, mostly to spend more time with Essie. I did miss Cherokee when I was at the inn, enough to make me question if I’d ever find a place I was truly happy. Each held something for me that the other did not.

  Instead of making the drive home after work on Friday and back to the inn on Sunday, I chose to remain at the inn seven days a week. Essie and I spent hours in 447, playing dominos, reading in silence, or daydreaming out loud together. Occasionally, we joined the others on day trips off property if the weather was nice, but nothing more than a half-hour drive away. We retreated to the room so often that the evenings fused into one long moment.

  There are snapshots of that summer, literal and otherwise, that refuse to fade, not because they are fantastic or even significant, but because they are elemental to what is now my existence—maybe what was Essie’s, too. Essie was likely the most proper girl I had eve
r met and most certainly the most sophisticated girl from Cherokee. She fit into 447 like one of the first-edition novels we found there. And because she fit, I fit by association—adopted into some modern clan by the clan mother herself. Mind you, that is where the maternal instincts began and ended. Essie corrected no more than my grammar on occasion—quite the opposite, really. She led me to dangle on the edge of complete and utter failure and spin wildly in the awkwardness of it—dancing in delight at my blush.

  “Go ahead, Cowpie. I’ll spot you,” she encouraged. And before I remembered who I was, I found myself upside down, attempting to walk across the length of the room on my hands. I crashed gleefully into the couch, unable to spare my breath from laughter’s thievery. Essie too was unable to remain on her feet, overcome with amusement. She sank into the oversized leather chair and vibrated in a nearly silent wheezing laughter until the clearest expression of the word “Squirrel” eked out from her.

  I sat straight up, imagining that a varmint had joined our evening reverie. She too sat erect, but she was blushing—eyes wide and hand over her mouth.

  “Squirrel?” I repeated. “Where?”

  Essie didn’t answer. Her eyes fell. It was clear that I had not actually heard what I thought I had.

  “Did you just?” She didn’t move. “Essie Stamper! Did you just … pass wind?”

  “Cowpie. Shut your mouth!”

  “You did.”

  “Hush.”

  “You did.”

  “Cowney Sequoyah. One does not speak like that to a lady.”

  “Well most ladies don’t speak through their backsides.”

  She fell into herself, hawing loudly. “I know, right? I couldn’t help it. You got me so tickled.”