by Edward Es
For a long time Tom could not return here, and in fact didn’t until the wall was built, and then it sat alone for over a year. He picks up a package of light bulbs laying on the table next to the lamp, puts it back down, then reaches for the phone on the coffee table and places it on his lap. He dials a number on the old rotary dial, and after a few rings, the Doctor answers.
“Hello?”
“I know what you’re up to. I could be really upset,” Tom says.
The Doctor sits on a couch in front of a stone fireplace, the only light source in the room, with his old Dachshund Schultzie looking devotedly up from his lap. Kirshner views the flames through a glass of wine with one eye closed. “I heard about your little meeting today.”
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
“We had an agreement, Thomas. The probe came first or nothing at all. You were just unavailable.”
“How did it come off?” Tom asks.
“100%.”
“Nice work.”
“You expected something different?”
“No. As a matter of fact, you did me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“I want this on green tonight. No arguments.”
Kirshner puts his wine down wrong, spilling it on himself and Schultzie, who jumps out of his lap and runs in front of the fire looking scared. Kirshner stands up, carrying the phone over to a table, and turns on the room lights.
“Hello?” says Tom.
“I don’t see how we can—”
“Doc?” No answer. “It’s time.”
“As you wish.”
“I’ll be over first thing in the morning. Good night.”
The Doctor puts the phone down. He holds his face in his hands, then resurfaces, looking frightened. “Oh, my Lord. What have I done?” He grabs his coat and keys and hurries out, slamming the door behind him. Schultzie scurries to the door too late and looks up at the handle.
Noah’s bedroom is dark but for a pale, thin slice of light coming through drawn curtains, casting a sharp line across a picture of the Man-in-the-Moon. The stillness is punctured by the sound of a turning lock. After a moment’s hesitation, the door groans open, spraying light from the living room onto the opposite wall. As the door opens wider, the room unfolds. A child’s room, created with the adoring hands of expectant parents, finished with the personal touches of a boy fascinated with the heavens. The walls are papered with blue sky and clouds, the ceiling a planetarium with constellations of luminous paint and a comical Moon that glows in the dark.
Tom turns on a table lamp, a hand painted ceramic of the Owl and the Pussycat in a green boat, the lampshade poised on the tip of a guitar by which the cat serenades in silence. Tom’s face shows a mixture of all he has felt since there was life here. Sorrow, fear, pity, hopelessness. And joy. No matter how deep the wounds, he cannot, and must not, forget the joy. A dull smile appears as he looks at shelves cluttered with figurines and music boxes. He picks up a rubber Goofy, Noah’s first toy, then quickly replaces it as his mood convulses from tenderness to grief and back.
In a corner there’s a stand-up mirror, elliptical, held in a corroded metal frame. It’s tilted up just enough to catch his reflection, angled so he appears to lean backward. This disorients him as he stares at the stranger in the mirror, the person who dared remain in the world, who dared continue breathing air which should have been his son’s. He looks into that traitor’s eyes, then down to the bottom of the mirror where there’s a piece of glass missing. And then, across the room, into his sight comes the dresser, whereupon rests the infinite weight of his world.
There he sees Theo the Bear, and the Book. Between them is a tin canister, decorated with a painting of Mickey Mouse, the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, standing with one foot on the Earth and holding in one hand a crescent Moon. In the other hand is a magic wand around which Tinkerbell circles in a trail of magic dust. In front of these objects sits the photo of Noah, smiling and happy.
Tom is able to look at this only for a moment, looking into a backward sun, blinded by darkness. He turns away, his glazed scan fixing loosely on a music box, Noah’s favorite, given to him by his mother on his second birthday. It’s a miniature trunk exploding with animals and toy soldiers. Tom picks it up, turns the crank, and sets it back down. A tiny rocking horse tilts back and forth as it plays “You Are My Sunshine”, echoing from a time when it brought smiles and delighted eyes. A grin appears, gone quickly, however, replaced with pursed lips, either angry or agonized, the distinction by now useless.
Tom picks up another music box, crudely winds it to the brink of breaking and sets it down. This one, a stage of dolls, plays “It’s a Small World”, clashing with the other defiantly. This grating of two songs gnashing against one another feeds his mood. He finds another, winds it, sets it down, and then another, and yet another until the room is filled with an intolerable cacophony of clinking little songs, deafening to his ears and his heart.
Tom falls to the floor on his knees, then folds to a seated position with his legs crossed. He covers his head with his hands, elbows propped on his knees, and closes his eyes. The sound of the music boxes drives deeper and deeper until it crosses faintly into the shadowland of dark memories, and that is where he drifts, again.
It’s night, and Tom, alone in the car, drives hell-bent down a dirt road. The headlights, beaming crazed as the car crashes in and out of potholes and skids through turns, are of little help, though Tom knows the way in his sleep. Even through the veil of tears he can see to make it back. On the front seat, clutched tightly in his whitened hand, is a paper bag. He’s frantic, racing against time, exhausted. In the distance he sees flashing red lights and as he draws closer they throb against the ambulance parked in front of the Tijuana beach house. Tom turns pale as his worst fear approaches through the dirt-streaked windshield.
Shadows flicker out the open front door, and when he turns off the engine, silence falls. The red light pulses on his expressionless face, then stops. Tom gets out of the car slowly and sees the ambulance driver standing by his vehicle. He looks at Tom, then casts his eyes to the ground. Tom’s movements are catatonic as he floats toward the house, staring at the driver. He turns to see people standing quietly in the living room, opens the screen door, and walks in.
Francine sits on a threadbare sofa, her face in her hands, sobbing softly. She surfaces only for a brief moment to look at Tom. On the table in front of her are two packages, gift wrapped in paper printed with faded balloons. Tom drops the bag, turns, and moves toward the black abyss that beckons him, grabbing for his heart. He stops in the hallway and looks at the opened door to Noah’s room. There he sees one wing of the angel lamp, Theo, laying on the floor, and a small hand, still, on the edge of the bed. He drops to his knees, folds to a seated position, and puts his hands over his head. And he cries.
Tom lies on the floor asleep, his face pinched as “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” scratches and wavers on a child’s phonograph. The first smattering of daylight breaks the darkness and he partly wakens to the song, looking over at the phonograph, wondering. Drowsy wonder turns to sudden full awakening when a helicopter roars over at low altitude. Tom stands, dazed, and hears yelling outside, then a voice shouting over a megaphone.
“Move the truck! Now! We have a federal warrant!”
Tom runs out of Noah’s room up to the front window, peering through the curtains. Tall Tree has blocked the entrance with his pickup and stands on the hood, swinging a two-by-four at agents trying to dismount him. From what Tom can see, vehicles are clustered just outside the wall, some sheriffs’ cars and some unmarked. Cirrus twitches in front of the verandah, Zion sitting on the saddle with his back to the action. Tom steps back to collect his thoughts, stops, closes his eyes, and takes a breath. Looking upward, he backs toward Noah’s room.
“Against the wind,” he says as he turns and runs
away.
Tom stops in front of the dresser, his face is drawn as, with shaking hands, he gently, reverently, picks up Theo and the Book, lodging them under one arm. Finally, agonizing under all the years of heartache that have passed since any of this was touched, he picks up the canister, moving it toward him, clutching it to his chest. With eyes closed tight, he stands silently, then moves out the door.
Tom slips through the front door and walks up to the horse under the watchful eye of his cat. After placing the Book, Theo, and the canister in the saddlebag, and Zion in the basket, he mounts, grabbing the reins. The commotion at the gate stops as all turn to look. Bud quickly slides around the front of the truck, megaphone in hand. Tall Tree starts to lunge toward him but falls victim to agents, who wrestle him to the ground.
Bud unnecessarily barks into the megaphone. “Hold it right there, Holmes. We have a warrant. The game’s over.”
With a kick of the stirrups, Tom walks Cirrus toward Bud but stops thirty feet away. “Game? What game is that?”
Bud lowers the megaphone. “You know. Go directly to jail.”
Tom smiles. “Oh. That game.”
Cirrus blusters loud enough to edge Bud back a step. Tom reaches in his coat pocket, prompting agents to draw weapons, but Bud stops them with a wave of the hand. Tom pulls out his wallet, removes something, replaces the wallet, then throws the object at Bud, who snatches it out of the air.
“The game’s not over yet, Meyerkamp. It’s just my move.”
Tom whips his horse. Cirrus rears up, crouching Bud down, then gallops around the back of the Shack and leaps over the rear gate, leaving a dusty quiet behind. Bud erects slowly, looking at the brass-plated, engraved, “Get Out Of Jail Free” card in his hand. He throws the megaphone to the ground as all his forces stand and watch. Tall Tree nods in satisfaction, watching Tom ride over a knoll. “The Child of Skyeyes be with you!”
Bud looks at him in disbelief. “The child of what?” Tall Tree proudly crosses his arms. “Oh, horseshit.” He picks up the megaphone and attempts to yell a command, but projects only a piercing squeal. All stand frozen as Bud’s eyes shut, a subterranean rumble of frustration surfacing from somewhere beyond the moment. He hurls the megaphone a good twenty yards and watches, with everyone else, as it skids and tumbles to an angry stop against the adobe wall. The artificial calm is shattered by his bellowing, “Well don’t just stand there for godssake! Let’s go!” Men scramble to their vehicles, dragging Tall Tree in handcuffs with them. Bud stomps behind, joined shortly by a flustered Knowles.
Tom and Cirrus climb up onto the road from behind a grove and gallop off full speed away from Rockville. In the distance, approaching rapidly, is a battalion of cars with all manner of flashing lights and sirens, quite useless at this early hour in such a place. They serve nothing more than to draw attention as sleepy residents walk out their front doors to watch.
Just as the cars are about to catch up, Tom darts off the road, across a ditch, and out of sight back into the trees, causing the lead vehicle to screech brakes and donut to a stop facing the wrong way. The others barely manage to miss, swerving and sliding past, one ending up half in the ditch. A chopper rises from behind a wash and positions itself overhead, beaming a searchlight down in broad daylight like an alien craft, and adding to the confusion by whopping dust plumes into its light shaft. Sid and Bud jump out of the lead car and Bud looks down at the ground, then at Sid.
“Son of a BITCH!” he shouts over the noise.
“Are you thinking... what I’m thinking?” Sid asks.
Bud points his finger at Sid’s face. “Don’t you think that! Don’t even think it!” He looks around and up at the chopper. “Ten million bucks worth of hardware and goons around me, and I’m chasin’ a guy on a horse. Sid, I don’t like horses.”
“I don’t think it’s the horse we’re worried about,” Sid offers.
Bud points again. “I SAID, don’t think that!” He draws a walkie-talkie off his belt, gunslinger style. Sid notices and gives him an oh-brother look, prompting a brief stare off. “Attention all units, we’re proceeding to location Delta One. Feather Two, you head straight for Delta Four and hover as long as you got gas. Copy?”
“Feather Two, roger,” scratches the radio.
The chopper banks sharply and angles off toward distant red and yellow cliffs. Bud marches to the car, peels rubber turning it back around, then sits rumbling as Sid trots up to the passenger side, looks in, and enters. Another squeal of tires and they’re off, followed by the caravan of lights.
Cirrus splashes across the river, hoofs up a bank on the other side, and stops. Tom’s heart races and he heaves for breath, not so much from the ride as the tumultuous parade of events. He reaches into the saddlebag and pulls out his phone. Pausing to collect his thoughts, Tom licks the sweat from his upper lip and speed dials. There’s no answer. He looks at the sky in frustration and tries another number.
The blockhouse has no windows, only a narrow opening in the solid cement wall. Standing in front of the steel door entrance, now wide open, is Marion “Butch” Lee, Butch short for “Butcher”, a handle he picked up in Operation Enduring Freedom. He stands, looking straight up. Butch chews tobacco, necessitating an occasional spit, a habit that disgusts even himself as evidenced by the look on his face. Sunlight is filtered from above, casting checkered patterns across the ground. The helicopter echoes down as a phone rings inside. Butch walks in, then walks back out holding a cordless handset. “Blockhead. Go.” Tom’s voice brings him to attention.
“It’s Tom. Where’s Doc?”
“Doc? Well, he was here all night, but he just left. What’s going on around here? He’s got us all on Green.”
Tom drops the phone to his side and shakes his head. He brings it back up. “Listen, Butch, this is important. Did he say where he was going?”
“No, he didn’t. No, wait a second. He did say something about rerunning a sequence on the service module engine. Sticky valve or something. By the way, you know anything about this damn chopper? It’s hovering right overhead, blowin’ dust everywhere. It’s pissin’ me off.”
Tom pauses. “I don’t have time to explain. Get somebody up on the roof and tell them to do anything short of shooting it down to get it out of there. And Butch, I want you to listen very carefully.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s time for Blue.” Butch swallows his tobacco and drops the phone, spitting and gagging. “Butch? Butch? Hey, are you there?”
Butch picks up the phone. “You didn’t say what I think you said.”
“Code Blue, Butch. Now!”
“Yeah? Well what about Code Red and White?”
Tom tries to check his ballooning frustration, holding the phone down again, then continues. “We’re skipping red and white, Butch. You see that chopper up there? Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Go directly to Blue. Am I making myself clear?”
Butch’s voice tightens. “Wait a second now. We... we have a password for Blue. Yeah, how do I know it’s you? What’s the damn password, Tom?”
Tom looks across the valley. Of course there’s a password. They set it up that way, but he hadn’t expected this and can’t remember right now. He searches. “Red Rock. Red Rock!”
“No way! No way, man! That was last month!”
Tom explodes. “Screw the password! Damnit Butch! Read my lips! CODE BLUE! NOW!”
Butch coughs again, then motions with his lips. Code Blue? “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.” He turns his head around to look at something behind him, moves his frightened gaze upward to the top of it, nearly looking at the sky, then runs full speed away.
Tom rides Cirrus back down to the river and dismounts. While Cirrus drinks, Tom splatters water on his face, looking up at a daytime Moon sitting high, ghostlike behind the cold, winter-blue sky. From the remotest edge of his vision someth
ing glints. Tom turns to look, shielding his eyes from the morning Sun burning just above the east rim of the canyon. Off in the distance he can barely make out a man’s figure standing on a massive slice of rock that tumbled from the ridge before humans were walking upright. Tom squints to see, then stills as he realizes it’s transparent, glass-like. The figure turns toward him, and when he does, sunlight prisms through him and beams a rainbow shaft across Tom like a knife-edge spotlight, shocking him backward into the water. The glass man turns and disappears behind the rock.
Tom stopped trying to make sense of these visions because somehow, in some layer of himself, he understands, deeper than mere logic would permit. The one thread he feels in it all is a commonality of purpose, yet to be revealed. The first came a few months after Noah’s death when he brushed against suicide and sought the counsel of Billy’s father, Gabriel Graymare, a tribal elder turned pastor. Gabriel embraced Tom’s grief and consoled him with tales of eternal life and heavenly reunions, none of which Tom could fathom. During that session, however, as Tom watched Gabriel talking, all sound silenced, and from Gabriel’s moving lips outpoured liquid gold that ran across the floor like shining lava, turning everything it touched to gold. And then in the familiar flash of light, it went as quickly as it came, yet Tom had still heard every word. He never said anything to anyone about it. At first they came rarely, but now more frequently, almost daily.
Tom gathers up Zion and in one motion, mounts Cirrus and kicks him back into a gallop.
Robert Linden climbs down from the rock.
Billy, dressed only in fringed leather pants, his long black hair blowing across his chest, sits bareback atop a white stallion at the edge of a bluff. He watches Tom and Cirrus race across the flatland below, slide down an embankment, then run along a narrow dry-wash. Billy turns his horse and lopes away.