by Edward Es
Roberta’s accent complements her ancestral features. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
Nurse Crumb grabs Roberta’s arm and flusters. “This is Mr. Holmes! He’s the man who gave us this wonderful place!” She turns back toward Tom, focusing on his pale stare. “Are you all right, Mr. Holmes?”
Tom, aware of his emotional state, tries to reassure Nurse Crumb, though within, the battle rages. “I’m fine, really. Just a little… I’d like to see the children. If that’s permitted.”
“Why, of course. Of course. They were just getting ready for bed. Come with me.” Nurse Crumb leads him down the hall, motioning Roberta to follow.
The Starbridge is the sleeping quarters for the patients. It’s a circular activity room with the children’s individual cubicles opening into it. Designed to look like the flight deck of a spaceship, with pilot stations doubling as desks and futuristic conduits running along walls and ceilings, it gives the children of Noah House a special world, removed from their tribulations.
There are fifteen children, some playing, some sitting quietly, in various degrees of health. A few look perfectly normal, most look ill, the remainder have ravaged hair and gaunt faces. Nurse Crumb opens the double swinging doors that lead in, but Tom stops, frozen by what he’s been avoiding since he built the House. It takes only moments for the children to realize there’s someone watching. They turn and look.
“Children, we have a very special visitor. This is—” Tom touches her shoulder, arresting the introduction.
Jason, the oldest boy, steps forward. “You’re Mr. Holmes, aren’t you?”
Tom draws a difficult breath. “Yes, son, I am.”
Jason takes Tom by the arm and leads him to a round table as the children gather. Nurse Crumb slips into an office that overlooks the Starbridge and initiates a phone call.
“This girl over here is my best friend. Her name is—”
“Melody. I know,” Tom says.
Melody Baxter sits in a wheelchair, permanently bent over at the waist, her head resting sideways on a pillow. She turns her wheelchair to look at Tom.
“You know my name?”
“Sure I do. And that’s Bridget over there, and Joshua. There’s Sara, Stephanie, Jose, Maria, Jessica, Dusty, Robert, Shane, Raji. Let me see, Sonya, and... where’s Angela?”
Maria, a frail little thing with pigtails as long as she is, responds. “She went potty.”
“Oh. You see, when each new kid comes here, they give me your picture and tell me about you. I know all about you.”
Bridget is bald, her head partly covered with a backwards ball cap. “I can’t believe you know all of us. Because we’ve never met you. Why don’t you come over and see us sometimes?”
Tom, convicted, replies, “Well, it’s because I’ve had a hard time with a lot of things. And I’ve felt very sorry for myself. So, I was scared to come here.”
Sonya clomps forward in her leg braces. “Is it because of Noah?”
It touches him they know. “That’s right.”
Melody rolls closer with laborious but persistent effort. She must position herself for each address, deprived of the ability to glance. “Could you tell us about him? All we know is what his favorite song was, that he died when he was eight, and that he wanted to be an astronaut and go to the Moon. That’s why you made this place like a spaceship.”
Tom’s eyes close at the collision of pain from the mere mention of his son, and the pitiful state of the sweet girl asking.
“Sure, I’ll tell you about him.”
Sam and Matt sit on opposite poles of a never-ending modular couch, fidgeting. The Holmes living room is sunken a few feet and protrudes out over one end of the bluff, giving the impression a great ship came to rest in a sea of red sand. Uninterrupted glass presents a sweeping view of the pale-blue canyon narrowing in the distance. Sam gets up for the second time in the last minute and walks toward the glass, looking into the night.
“I wish he wouldn’t go riding off like this. Did you try to call again?”
Matt snaps, “I told you, man. He’s got to have the phone turned off. What’s the big deal? He’ll turn up. He always does.”
“He needs to know about those two maroons we found on the river. I don’t like what’s going on. Besides, Doc’s got his panties in a wad. Says he has to talk to him tonight.”
“Well, stop the world, I wanna get off. Doc’s got his panties in a wad. Doc’s always got his panties in a wad. About this big.” Matt mocks with his fingers, as if holding a BB. Sam doesn’t even turn around.
“You know as well as I do Tom’s not in the best state of mind.”
“He just needs to go out and get lost for a while. Maybe he’ll feel better.”
The phone rings across the room, turning them around. After two rings Rosalee enters the room, drying her hands with a dish towel, and answers. Though they can’t hear her words, Sam and Matt look at each other, sensing a tone of surprise, then back at her as she hangs up and walks toward them. Rosalee stops.
“It’s about Mr. Holmes. He’s at the children’s house.”
Sam is shocked. “The Noah House?”
Matt frowns and looks sideways at Sam. “I thought he’s never gone in there.”
“He hasn’t.” Sam turns back toward Rosalee. “What’s he doing? Is he all right?”
“The nurse said he looked pale. To tell you the truth, I’m worried.”
Sam reaches for his leather coat lying on the sofa back. “I don’t like the feel of this. I’m going down there.”
Matt stops him. “Whoa, big fella. I’ve seen Tom like this before. He knows I hang out at Wiley’s across the street. I’ll just say I spotted his horse and thought I’d nose in. Any objection?”
Matt looks at both of them and Rosalee nods. As Matt walks away, she exclaims, “Call us!”
“And tell him about Doc!” Sam adds, as if Matt were listening. Matt disappears, and after a moment of silence, the front door slams so hard they both flinch, even though he does it every time.
Wiley’s is Springdale’s most popular, and only, sports bar. Matt’s filthy old truck pulls up front in a cloud of dust, some of which it brought on its own. He clangs the truck door shut, sticks his head in Wiley’s to look, then walks across the street where he sees Cirrus standing alone. Alone, that is, except for one cat sitting on the saddle. He stops to stroke the horse’s mane, scoops up Zion, and walks through the front doors of Noah House.
Matt saunters bowlegged down the hallway and stops to look at the candle forest, wondering what it is until he hears the sound of children laughing. He continues toward the sound and reaches the double doors to the Starbridge. He peers through the small windows, drawing back in disbelief, hesitates, then walks through like a cowboy barging into a saloon, pushing both doors open at once. There he finds the children sitting around Tom, who notices Matt’s entrance. For a moment Tom tones down, but then smiles when Matt does. Zion leaps out of Matt’s arms and hops into Maria’s lap, she as surprised as the cat is comfortable.
Tom senses he’s been there awhile. “Well, kids, it’s late, and I bet you should already be asleep.”
Jason lights up. “You know what? I think the kids would like to sing Noah’s song for you. It’s kind of our theme song around here.”
Tom imperceptibly panics. “Oh, I don’t think—”
“Please? Please!” they beg.
Tom looks at Matt and gets a thumbs-up. “I think that would be very special.”
Tom watches the children run for instruments: maracas, tambourines, and a guitar that Jason straps on. Roberta, blushing, takes a dulcimer and sits with the rest. After checking with the others, she starts. Bridget sings lead, and the crowd accompanies.
They say when the Sun shines down it’s a beautiful day.
They say when the Sun shines down it’s a be
autiful day.
They say when the Sun shines down it’s a beautiful day.
Oh, oh, oh, oh,
It’s a beautiful day.
It’s a day to sing, sing to the beat.
It’s a day to dance, oooh and tap your feet.
It’s a day, for everyone,
Oh, oh, oh, it’s a day of beautiful Sun.
They say when the Sun shines down, it’s a beautiful day.
They say when the Sun shines down, it’s a beautiful day.
They say when the Sun shines down, it’s a beautiful day.
Oh, oh, oh, oh,
It’s a beautiful day.
It’s a day to laugh, laugh out loud.
It’s a day to smile, and blow away a cloud.
It’s a day, to clap your hands.
It’s a day, to hear the band.
They say when the Sun shines, down it’s a beautiful day.
They say when the Sun shines, down it’s a beautiful day.
They say when the Sun shines, down it’s a beautiful day.
Oh, oh, oh, oh,
It’s a beautiful day.
Oh, oh, oh, oh,
It’s a beautiful day.
When they finish, they generate a round of well-deserved applause, which of course Tom, and even Matt join as Tom rises to leave. He walks over to Melody and bends down, placing his hand on her back. She reaches out and touches his arm. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Thank you for everything.”
Sara, a little black girl who hasn’t spoken all night, surprises her friends. “Will you come see us again?”
Tom struggles to keep the smile. “Maybe. Maybe I will.” Maria runs up and hugs his leg. He strokes her hair, and she smiles as she steps back. “You take care.”
Tom walks out and Matt looks at the children. He picks up Zion like deadweight, winks at them, and departs. They stand, watching the doors swing back and forth to a close.
Tom explodes through the front doors, followed by Matt. “Slow up there, mister. You forgot something.” Tom stops, staring straight ahead. Matt turns him around and sobers when he sees his face. “Oh, boy. You look like you could use a beer.”
“I think I’ll just ride off. I’ll be all right,” Tom says, shivering.
Matt shakes his head. “Now, now, Thomas. I’m not givin’ back this here pussycat until you say you’ll have a beer with me.”
“Some other time, Matt. I’m not in the mood.”
Matt puts his hand around Zion’s neck. “Which is it? A cold one, or seventy-five cents worth of fiddle strings?”
Getting no reaction, he persists. “Look here. Your ‘mood’ lately makes me think you and Uncle Ayatollah should be pen-pals. You two have a lot in common. You both got the same damn look on your faces all the time.” Tom keeps his head down, but rolls his eyes up to meet Matt’s. “I had to throw a short field tackle to stop Mother Sam from coming down here and cluckin’ and flappin’ his wings around you like an ol’ barnyard hen. Now the least you can do is walk over there with me. Besides, I get the idea this might be our last chance. For a while.” Tom capitulates with a poor excuse for a smile. “All right, good.” Matt drags him across the street and before entering Wiley’s, puts Zion down. “You go ‘round back there. Wiley’ll give you some nice calf fries or somethin’.”
Wiley’s is packed with some fifty regulars at the bar or tables, the close quarters making the small crowd seem larger. There’s an active pool table in back and a jukebox plays Garth Brook’s Low Places a little too loud. Tom and Matt enter, Matt smiling, Tom squinting through the smoke. The smell of cigarettes, beer, and a stale bar pulls Tom into an old world, one as foreign as the present. At first they go unnoticed, but when enough see who it is, all but the music subsides as eyes turn toward the door. Tom stops, but Matt forges ahead.
“Hey, Phil, Ronny, fellas. How goes it?”
After an eternal second or two, a smattering of Hey Matts and even a couple of Hiya Toms rise back to friendly chatter, though the tone remains subdued. Tom is as uncomfortable as they, for different reasons. Many think he’s been unfriendly, aloof, or both, having not come around much anymore. Some feel uneasy around him, just knowing the tragedy he suffered, while others are in awe of him. And then there are those just plain jealous of his wealth. Nevertheless, as they sit at the bar, several passersby pat Tom on the back. Wiley walks up and plants a beer in front of Matt.
“Tom Holmes. I was beginning to think you’d opened your own joint down the road.”
Tom’s disquiet stirs his smoldering mood. “I’ve just been... busy.”
“Hey, I’ve still got a case of Kalik in the cooler. Wouldn’t sell it to anyone but you. Want one?”
“Sure, Wiley. That’d be great.”
Wiley reaches into the cooler and comes up with a dusty bottle that he wipes with a mangy bar rag. He pops open the beer and thumps it onto the bar. Tom takes a slug as Matt forces the mood upward. “Kalik. Ha! Remember the week we were stuck in Nassau? Hurricane Hortense wasn’t it?”
Tom resurrects the smile. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Yes sirree. Two days in a storm cellar. Just you, me, and a wall of Kalik kegs. ‘Takes a Kalikin’ and keeps on tickin.’ I think it was you that came up with that.”
Tom squeezes out a chuckle. At a table across the room a woman laughs out loud as a cowboy spills a drink on himself. She’s just shrill enough to summon Tom’s attention. He glances over, trying to focus through the confusion as she’s handed a beer by the waitress, who sets another round on the table. Tom frowns and turns back. Matt notices, but he’s determined.
“I think that was the time we rescued that poor native girl from those American sailors.” The same woman bursts out again, causing Tom to turn immediately. She’s obviously drunk and more than slightly uncouth, even to the point of grating against Matt, though he continues the disintegrating attempt to salvage a few moments of normalcy. He grabs Tom’s arm and pulls him around. As Tom turns away, she stands up with her beer in her hand.
“Remember how ‘grateful’ she was?” Matt strains, buckling under the force of Tom’s gathering storm. These words echo in the distant regions of Tom’s being, unintelligible and unimportant compared to what his subconscious picks up from the corner of his eye. She’s at least seven months pregnant, and a rage is ignited in the deepest part of him, a rage that’s become common ground for his tortured existence. He bolts off his stool and charges toward her. It all happens so fast, Matt can barely react. “What the… Hey! Tom!”
She’s still laughing and slobbering, unaware that Tom is standing three feet away, glaring at her as the chatter and noise come to a tittering halt. Finally, she can’t help but turn her attention to the silhouette casting a black, disapproving shadow upon her.
Tom seethes, “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? Or do you even think at all?”
She looks around, laughing and bleary-eyed. “Excuse me?”
Tom snatches the beer from her hand, spraying it in her face. “HEY!” she shouts as she rubs the sting of alcohol from her left eye.
Her husband halfheartedly grabs his arm. “Now just wait a second, there.”
Tom breaks his grip with a swift arm fling, never taking his eyes off the woman, then splashes the beer all over her pregnant belly. “Why not try it like this? Maybe it’ll get there faster.”
She throws her chair back, hitting the cowboy next to her in the leg. “Why, you bastard! Who the hell do you think you are?”
She takes a wild swing, but Tom catches her hand as the husband really makes a start. Matt pulls his way through the crowd, pushing the husband back and holding him at bay with an outstretched arm. “Take it easy, Barney. Nobody’s going to hurt your wife.”
Matt peels Tom’s hand off her wrist, which she withdraws, rubbing it with the other hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
Tom turns
to the husband. “And you. You’re the husband? You trying to defend her ‘honor’?”
Barney looks down as she leers around, expecting someone to come to her rescue. Most look away. “What’s the matter with all of you? Afraid to stand up to the great Tom Holmes?” She turns to Tom and leans into him. “Well, let me tell you something. You may own most of this town, but you don’t own me. And you sure as hell don’t own this baby.”
Matt grabs Tom’s arm and strains to pull him. Tom never unlocks his stare. “I guess I don’t.” He leans forward, six inches from her nose. With red contempt spewing from his eyes, Tom fires back, “And neither do you.”
Matt pulls him overcenter with a grunt and drags him off as far as the bar, where Tom shakes himself loose from Matt’s grip. Matt grabs him again, but Tom slaps his arm away and holds up his hand in surrender.
“I’m OK. I’ll be all right.”
“Oh yeah? That’s what you said ten minutes ago.”
Tom notices Wiley standing at the end of the bar, one eye twitching. Pinned to the wall next to him is the poster warning of the effects of alcohol on pregnancy. Tom walks over, rips it off the wall, and throws it at Wiley. “Try printing this on some toilet paper and put it in the can where it’ll do some good.”
Tom stares him in the eye, then charges out, nearly knocking the door off its hinges. Wiley shouts at his back. “You don’t come around here for months, then you show up and cause a ruckus!” Wiley’s words lodge crossways in his throat. He looks at Matt, who tips his hat.
“We’ll stop by again when we can spend more time.” Matt’s concocted grin fades as he walks backward toward the door.
Tom stands in the middle of the street, steaming in the cold night air, his hands in his pockets. Matt explodes out, another test of Wiley’s door as it recoils off the wall on its way to rattling shut. He walks furiously in all directions, his breath coming out in short, angry puffs as the wind gusts around them, spinning snow across the pavement. Matt is truly beside himself, flailing his arms.
“I don’t know what the devil gave me the notion I could take you in there and just have a couple a beers and some meaningless conversation.” He paces, fueling his anger by the motion of it. “But no. You got to walk in there and take the whole world on your shoulders again like goddamn Mr. Atlas.”