Strapped to the gurney was my friend Morgan, partially sedated and on his way to the Emerald City where Deckard and the others waited for him. He seemed neither frightened nor enraged by his restraints but merely puzzled. His face looked like a sleepy child’s. And he wore a disposable diaper, already urine soaked and limp around his waist. His eyes seemed drawn to the car headlights in the parking lot far below, but as we passed he looked in my direction and seemed to find something that he recognized. He made a slight movement with one of his hands, perhaps an attempt to communicate in sign language, who could know? Maybe it was only a reflex.
The next morning I asked Sylvia the caregiver to bring me one of those little charts they use to teach sign language to the chimps, and on it I looked in vain for the word he had left in the air. For days I wondered if he had been reaching for some unprinted thing, or only a circus word. Like grape or juice or cup.
THEY HAVE REPLACEABLE VALVES AND FILTERS
The Cave
FOR SUSAN
In my mind I see the six of them hunched in the shade like a chain gang, exhausted, their fingers cut and caked with mud, faces already gone blank with despair. I imagine Burke down on his haunches, wrists hung over his knees, with a cigarette maybe, studying that ragged hole like it was his own grave. Their daddy, name of Lucas Bender, standing off by himself. And one of the twins praying, or maybe just hoping out loud, I don’t know. You can imagine that second day at the cave any way you want. It don’t change a thing.
I expect one of them finally said, “We could try and get that wild girl lives over to Flint Ridge. She might could crawl under the outcrop, reach him some food and a blanket so he don’t freeze. I mean, if we could find her.”
Which they did.
Plucked me out of a chinaberry tree. Carried me over the tourist road in a Model T Ford, my first ever ride in an automobile, to a no-name holler where the world had caved in on Lee Bender, and there I was. A whole new place. The same mountain blue sky as my sky, yes. And the same cotton white clouds, same layer on layer of greenness all tumbling over the crest of the mountain and down to towns where girls my age didn’t wear overalls or bob their hair or ride off with strangers. But hill folk are different; and here I was not even surprised at a man who looked like Moses stepping me down from the running board of that Model T, saying, “Lucas Bender. This’d be Burke, Asa, Ronnie, and Donnie that brung you, and Hugh. I knew your granddaddy. And we obliged to you.” Like he had all the time in the world.
That’s what I remember of my life before the cave.
My childhood came and went. Like a long courtship, with wildflowers, honeycakes for breakfast, running, running, running along ledges only one step away from clouds, like you could just throw yourself out and they would catch you in the quilting of it. That’s what I recall. Then the little heart shapes of sun and shadow flickering over his face. So handsome. And Burke a gentle, lumbering man who’s standing in the creek to his knees, offering to carry me over like a town girl; but I jump, scramble up the bank without slipping once, and find the opening on my own right next to a mountain laurel. Because I’ve been in woods and caves all my life.
When I grab the branch, pink petals come twirling like snowflakes, and he’s quietly behind me saying, “That air blowing in your face, it found its way from underground.” He knows that he must stay calm and quiet because I might startle like a colt and then their trip would have been in vain. So Burke’s voice is sleepy and slow, light enough that it nearly floats away. “What they call a breathing cave. My brother’s trapped down there, but it ain’t like you imagine. It won’t be like climbing down into no grave, Rachel Ann, and I won’t let nothing smother you. It’ll breathe out like this for fifteen, twenty minutes, then, after a spell, breathe in. You can feel it the whole time. I seen it suck in a dragonfly this morning and then let it back out not even wrinkling the wings.”
“It’s cold,” I say.
“It’s fresh and clean too, like running water.”
“It’s cold as the grave, and there’s a man down there, ain’t that right?”
“It’s constant fifty-one degrees,” he says. “Lee told me hisself. Same temperature year-round. Fifty-one in July. Fifty-one in January.”
“Either way you could die.”
“It ain’t like you imagine,” he insists. “Nothing ever is.”
And talks me in by degrees. He carries the blanket and the lantern. I take the paper sack and the longbar from the Model T’s toolbox. Near the entrance it’s sand and gravel like a railroad tunnel, then shale farther back, and finally smooth limestone sloping off in three directions. Burke picks the middle passage that still gets some light from the entrance, but pretty soon he’s bending over and shuffling like an old man, and in another minute he is crawling. Then, after a while, I am crawling too. Just scrunching and twisting for years until it’s not fun at all and my hands begin to look like theirs, my elbows raw, and I am not fourteen years old, and I am not a mountain girl anymore. Until he finally stops, saying, “Why don’t you scoot on past me while I light the lantern.”
And for a moment we are like man and wife.
In the yellow kerosene light I can see the outcropping that’s blocked their way and the dirt piles where they’ve tried to dig around it, but there is no hole, only dust and leavings. Because I am little, I can still sit with my back against the wall and see Burke, who’s struggling on his side now, shoulders almost touching floor and ceiling at the same time. He’s panting when he puts his face down low into the dirt and shouts under the outcropping, “Lee! Lee, we brung somebody. Gonna pry you loose. Got a blanket for you. Can you hear me? Lee! It’s me Burke.”
But there is no answer, only a blank black oval underneath the outcropping where you would never think to look. After two days of patient chipping they have made it twelve inches wide. I can feel the sharp-toothed edges with my hand, and suddenly I cannot breathe for thinking about it. I cannot move at all. My mind wants to run away into another place, but I can still feel his hands on my hips, even today, right now, his lover’s caress and patient insistence, and then I am through.
I go tumbling down, down like rotten tree limbs under a load of snow, at first only sagging over the edge and then crashing down through rocks and slippery soil until I collide with the very thing that I have imagined. It is soft and wet and full of frightening strength, the hands crawling over my face as I gasp and fight. I’m touching him in a different place every time I push away, and we are tangled together until finally I can relax and back away upslope, while he moans.
“I got him,” I whisper to the cave, “I did it, I’m through, I got him,” water dripping into water somewhere in the darkness. I’m shaking with cold and fear and effort, shouting, “I got him!” back toward his brother on the other side. The words come out in a jumble, get caught on an inrushing current, and echo. “Pass me that sack, no, the blanket. No. Wait. Pass me that lantern first.”
It comes through sideways, and I have to relight, but I am slow and steady now. This is not my first cave, my first corpse. It’s not my first dark night of day, because I am a mountain girl. I know sunshine and storms. Both my mamma and daddy by the age of nine. And now Lee Bender who is fish-belly white, caught between two boulders. A weak and wasted version of his brother on the other side, he squints and twists away from the light that burns right through the crook of his arm and sets fire to his brain; and I know in that first glance that Lee Bender will die because he has become a part of the cave. I turn the lantern low out of pity. Then from out the shadow his dry voice is rasping, “Who is it?”
And I’m yelling back, “He’s okay! He’s moving around some.”
“Who are you?” Like I am a ghost.
“Rachel Ann Starns from over about Flint Ridge. I come to give you this.” And hand him the paper sack.
Lee Bender’s arms are free. They are long and thin like spider legs and come dribbling dust so fine that it glistens, slowly, slowly, until he can reach
up to where I am reaching down. He takes the sack but cannot unroll the top and tears it open the way a crayfish would tear. And picks at the pieces. Inside it is a crust of cornbread, which he crumbles and lifts to his mouth with fingers gone straight and stiff with cold. And there is a jar half full of buttermilk, which he takes in sips. “You don’t know how thankful I am for this, Rachel Ann Starns. God’s gonna bless you real good.”
“He’s eating it!” I yell back, and then scramble up to take the blanket that Burke has passed through the hole.
But even the good you do.
It makes me cry sometimes. There is loose rock all around, and I have kicked down several big ones, sent sand and gravel sliding, and buried him to his chest. I’ve made his mouth go small and round, gulping at the air like a fish flopping, but it’s done with such slow finality that it takes my breath even now. And I am paralyzed again. But it is what happens in a cave. You are caught. Through the billowing dust you see him pull one arm out of the muck, patiently digging the other one loose handful by handful. You watch as he starts picking away the rocks one by one, delicately, dropping them away into the darkness where they give back no sound at all.
From far away I can hear the trapped man saying, “It ain’t the boulders holding me. It ain’t the riprap. They’s just one tiny little rock. Broke off when I was climbing out this crawl space and must have fell just right. Cause when I jerked my leg—,” he pauses, almost embarrassed I believe, “—hit just clicked into place. Like the closing of a door. It don’t even hurt.”
So I cover his shoulders with the blanket and brush the filth from his hair and caress his forehead to take away the pain because I already know there is that much in the touch of a woman’s hand.
Then just before Burke pulls me through, his brother comes alive to me, saying, “Don’t worry, Rachel Ann Starns. You an angel of God. This ain’t such a bad place, you know that now. Tell ’em. With this blanket, little food, Lee Bender can stay down here a month if he has to. I’m not in any pain. You tell ’em that. Tell my brothers I’m not in any pain, just a mite uncomfortable. I been a caver all my life. Been stuck before too. My brothers’ll get me out and my daddy, and, besides, lift up your eyes and look.”
I have already passed through the lantern, but we no longer need the light. I see it hovering over me, as clear as a cloud against a mountain sky, glistening white, as ripply smooth as melted wax. At the top it curves into a half circle, all the rest just flowing away to one side and down so that it looks like a lace window curtain blown sideways in a breeze. You would never think anything made in stone could be this delicate. All along, left to right, it just drips away in creamy folds that have the overlapping delicacy of feathers. “Like an angel’s wing,” I say.
“That’s what it is,” whispers Lee Bender. Laying his head down on the blanket that I had brought him and closing his eyes in sleep.
Outside, the holler has changed.
I don’t know how they got there so fast. It may have been a telephone somewhere, or the cars. But like magic they are there, twenty or thirty of them when we come out. Helpers helping us down the embankment. Women with baskets of food. Men, relatives I reckon, with their sleeves rolled up, coats hanging from tree limbs. Silent sad-eyed children among the galax and ferns. They are all staring at us like we just clawed our way up from another world. And I am staring back at them in the hush of it all, not realizing that I have taken his hand, and someone behind us is murmuring, like in a dream, “I thought you said hit was a girl.”
And there is a flatbed truck now piled with wheelbarrows, rope, shovels, picks. A man handing them down one at a time. I can see where they’ve brought it down the holler, a green furrow of branches and saplings all bent in the same direction like a fish trap. Straddling the creek. Backed up to the opening as near as they could get it. And farther upstream, between the ruts, men are harnessing two mules, tying heavy ropes to the traces like they come to pull stumps. And somebody is trying to shush a pack of hounds that think it’s time to hunt.
Burke speaks to his daddy in low urgent tones. “She done good. Got through and all. Next thing is maybe get some fellas in there with cold chisels, widen that hole.”
He nods, fumbling with his pocket watch. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know what’s next to do. I just want him outta there.” Then closes the cover with a snap, like he could stop time if he clicked fast enough and buried it deep enough in his pocket. But it is on a chain, and the chain is hooked to his overalls.
Across the creek in a ragged clearing is a man whose voice draws stragglers in ones and twos. It is a child’s voice, tinny and distant, and it is a child’s body except for the face, where time and pain have done their work. He stands upon a stump, both arms raised to the sky, both hands clamped upon a ragged black book, piping in that high radio voice, “You know, Lord God, that this world is rotton and corrup’. Undergirt with treachery. And that the earth that abideth forever will claim any who will not lift up their eyes, amen. Surely and purely it is set forth as a sign among us, and so we pray this afternoon for your fallen servant Lee, ask that you smite the rock and stay the hand and restore him once again to the love a his family, amen. Bring forth a miracle as in the days of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, amen.”
“What’s going on here?” says Burke.
“Name of Reverent Josephus Harwell,” says Asa. “He come with Thomas and Louisa, I reckon. Took up in that clearing as soon’s he got here midafternoon. Been gospel slinging ever since. Say one time he was with the carnival till he got saved.”
“He ain’t no bigger’n her. Whyn’t you send him down?”
The wind smothers the answer, driving the preacher’s words higher and whipping his hair to one side till his words come back to earth as a chant. “They ain’t nobody here can take a man out of the ground nor loose the grip a Satan. They’s only one way to get lifted up, and we going to pray for Lee Bender and Brother Lucas and his family, yes we are, until there’s enough God in this holler to split open the earth and lay a golden staircase all the way down to that poor boy. We gonna bless every man that goes into that hillside, every shovel, pickax, every inch of rope, every woman that brung food, every neighbor who brung hope. We gonna bless every mule and wagon that comes down that road and every free breath of air we take. Because why? Because the earth under our feet is a empty shell, amen.”
“Fine,” Burke manages. “Just pray it don’t rain first. And that you can find me two men with hammers and chisels.”
“We can’t have that kind of talk, Burke.” Lucas seems like a man who’s come back from a far place. “I don’t care how tired and wore out you are.”
“Look, it ain’t the devil that’s got hold of him. It’s a rock. That’s all.”
After a time they made a half circle before the stump, and a few of the men who’d been unloading tools drifted across the creek and took up with the women and children. Someone began a low moaning of a tune that followed exactly the preacher’s incantation. A family just arriving went straight to the gathering without even looking once toward the cave. And after a time Lucas Bender and the twins crossed the creek and sat, hands folded in desperate prayer.
We stay behind.
Burke says again, “You done good an’ I thank you. I don’t reckon we can get you home before dark, but you welcome to stay with one of the families. People say you practically live in the woods anyhow.”
“I live with my aunts.”
“You don’t live in the woods with the animals?”
“I been to school.”
“I been to school too,” he says, “but they didn’t teach climbing and caving when I went.”
“I can read. I know the medieval ages, the Bible, and the Roman empire. I can sew and cook and—”
“I don’t mean nothing by it, Rachel Ann Starns. You done good. One of these days …, why, one of these days, I’m gonna bring you flowers. Right now I’m just tired. That’s all.” He hands me his pocket-kni
fe. “Here. S’all I have that’s worth anything. Why don’t you whittle us up a house, some furniture. Some supper.” Then he collapses on the fern bank, propping himself on one elbow and taking short sips from a mason jar that he passes back and forth with a fat, unshaven man who guards his basket with suspicious care. After a time Burke closes his eyes like he’s listening to music and says, “Whatta you reckon, Solly?”
The bootlegger scratches his stubble. “I think maybe this is the last place on earth that God ain’t got around to yet. What’s your brother doing out here anyhow?”
Burke opens his eyes long enough to point and then closes them again. “Eight miles down that road is the entrance to Mammoth Cave. Like a tourist gold mine is what it is, and eight miles closer to town than we are here.”
“Caving’s big business. People’ll pay to see another world.”
“Yeah, well, another mile or so out this way is the Morrison entrance to Mammoth Cave. Big signs everywhere, souvenirs. They do right well. Then Sells Store a little farther out. Then Great Onyx Cave, where they got a hotel now. Then Crystal Cave. Then Crystal Lake. More souvenir places, campgrounds.”
“I see what you mean.”
“Cause you know where we are right now, Solly? We at the shag end of a muddy, spring-busting road. But my brother Lee, he believes people would come if he could just find something spectacular enough, and we wouldn’t be at the end of the road no more.”
“You’d need a miracle sure enough.”
“When me and Lee were boys, we’d tramp through the fields in winter till we found a sinkhole, sometimes right out in the middle of a cornfield. And we found out you could flop down on the ground and blow down into one of them, and pretty soon you could see your own breath come floating back out. To him that was a miracle, a sign that the world was alive all around you. I guess he never stopped looking.”
The Imaginary Lives of Mechanical Men Page 3