SKYEYES

by Edward Es

  “Hello, folks, my name is Reggie, and I’d like to welcome you to Las Vegas. Sorry about this weather! I know it isn’t what you came to Vegas for, and we don’t get it that often, but when we do, it’s like everything else around here. Big, bright, noisy, and nonstop!” The PA drifts away as Bud slips into his thoughts.

  The rental car wipers strain to fend off torrents of rain as Bud squints through them, leaning forward to read a road sign: Entering Virgin River Gorge; Caution- Winding Road, Trucks Use Low Gear. The Virgin River sliced its way through a mountain range some eighty miles downstream of Zion, exposing tilted gray and light-yellow strata that angle nearly straight up in a Narrows of their own. His car enters the curving descent into the gorge to the accompaniment of a flash of lightning followed abruptly by a clap of thunder.

  Every piece of news equipment in Springdale has assembled in front of Noah House, satellite dishes pointing up at a menacing sky, cables snaking and cameras lined up in a bank in front of the statue of Noah. News vans display logos of every major network and microphones point at waist level as reporters mill around, not sure what they’re waiting for.

  Noelle pushes Melody’s wheelchair down the corridor to the front doors where they see the activity outside. As they reach the door, she stops.

  “Are you ready, Melody?”

  “Yes, Miss Crane. I’m ready.”

  Noelle opens the glass doors, pushing Melody through as the throng gathers. She positions Melody a few feet from the microphones and Scott cues her.

  Thunder rolls in the distance. “Good afternoon, from Springdale, Utah. My name is Noelle Crane. As I’ve been covering the Thomas Holmes story, I’ve gotten to know a very wonderful young lady, and I’m proud to say she has become my friend.” She looks at Melody. “Melody is very special to everyone in Springdale, and she’s been left alone here at the Noah House while the rest of the children went on a cruise provided for them by Mr. Holmes, before he left.”

  Noelle turns back to the cameras. “You may have seen my interview with Melody a couple of days ago when she expressed her feelings and concern for Mr. Holmes. Since then, we all know what happened, and Melody was watching the news conference given by Dr. Kirshner, explaining Mr. Holmes’ situation. She heard me say something that hurt her. I indicated to Dr. Kirshner that there was no hope left for Mr. Holmes, and it upset Melody very much. So she asked me to arrange for her to say something about it, and that’s why we’re here today. So, here’s Melody, and I ask all of you, from my heart, to listen to what she has to say.” Noelle walks over to her and positions the wheelchair by the microphones.

  Inside the capsule Tom watches his monitor.

  “OK, Melody, you’re all set.” Noelle backs away, crouching down so Melody can see her, and the crowd stills.

  Melody looks at Noelle. “Thank you, Miss Crane. Thank you for letting me talk to everyone here, and out on TV.” She turns to the camera. “Miss Crane told me that Mr. Holmes might be watching. If you’re watching, Mr. Holmes, I hope you’re feeling all right. I’m really sorry about what happened to your spaceship, and I’m very sad about it. I want you to know I’m praying for you, and how grateful I am for all the things you did for me, and for all the other kids. I know they’re praying for you, too. I don’t know if they’re watching, but if they are, I wanted to say that I miss them and I hope they’re having lots of fun.”

  Tom closes his eyes, overcome with the conviction that he had not spent more time with her. The magnitude with which he allowed his pain to diminish his life looms before him, casting blackness across his heart. In running from the pain of his loss, he avoided the very things his son would have had him embrace: children, afflicted or otherwise. He built hospitals and showered them with generosity, yet withheld the most precious gift he could have given. Himself. And still she is grateful to him.

  The Noah House children have gathered around the TV by the ship’s pool and watch Melody, pointing at the screen in excitement at seeing their friend.

  Melody wipes her mouth with the scratchy sleeve of her sweater. “Even though I want to say this to everybody, I especially want to say it to all the children in the world who are listening.”

  A family in India, gathered around the TV, reads Melody’s words, translated into subtitles.

  “Mr. Holmes has done a lot of things for children all around the world who are sick, or hurt, or hungry. He lost his son, and it hurt him very bad, and I think he’s tried to help us because he couldn’t help Noah anymore.”

  Another family watches in Mexico.

  “I think it’s time we tried to help him, all together. Mr. Holmes, I made a picture for you.” Melody raises up a few inches and pulls a paper from her lap, displaying it to the camera. It’s a drawing of the solar system with a big orange Sun and planets around it, each with its orbital path. Where the Earth would be, however, she drew a bright yellow star.

  “The Indians who used to live here a long time ago believed stars were living things that traveled through the sky and hunted and had a happy life. One of them was a mountain sheep named Nagah. He climbed the highest mountain. It was very hard for him and he almost died trying, but his father was so proud, he made him into a star that would never move, to help other stars find their way. That was why the North Star stands still.”

  Camera flashes strike the picture as photographers position for a better shot. “I’ve always felt people were like stars, shining bright from inside and helping other people find their way. I think when all of us shine real bright together, we’re like one big star, and maybe we can help you find your way back home.” She strains to look at Noelle, who moves more into her view.

  “Miss Crane said something on TV that really bothered me. She’s a wonderful lady and didn’t mean anything by it, but when she said there was no hope left, it made me very sad, and I got a little mad. I don’t want to be disrespectful to Miss Crane, or other grown-ups, but I don’t think they should say there’s no hope. My Mommy told me that when children pray, God listens real hard to hear us because we’re little, and He treats our prayers like they were special.”

  Back at the Noah House, camera crews let their equipment run and stand frozen.

  “I learned in church that when more people pray about something, the louder God hears it. So what I wanted to say was, tomorrow night at eight o’clock, which is my bedtime, I’m going to say a special prayer to help Mr. Holmes, and I’m going to shine as bright as I can. And I’d like all the children in the world to do the same thing at the same time. Maybe it will help. Maybe God will hear us, and do something for Mr. Holmes. And for all of us.”

  She looks at Noelle and at all those staring in heavy silence. Noelle walks over and crouches down beside her, placing her hand on Melody’s shoulder.

  “Thank you, Melody. I’m sure everyone who heard what you said will try to help you and Mr. Holmes. I know I will.” She turns back to the cameras. “Melody is right. It’s not my place, or anybody’s place, to give up hope for someone else no matter how hopeless it seems. I, too, believe the prayers of children are special, and I also believe that children are the hope of this world, and of our future. I think we can all agree that the grown-ups of this fragile planet have done enough damage, and have not preserved or made a better world to pass on to Melody and all the children like her. We all owe it to them, and ourselves, to let their prayers, and their hopes, and their shining, guide our way.” She looks at the crews, then back at the camera. “Noelle Crane, Springdale, Utah.”

  Noelle rises as it starts to rain, turns Melody’s wheelchair, and pushes her back into the House. After the doors close, everyone stands still.

  Tom watches this strange scene. The cameras still live, pointed to where Melody was. The screen dissolves to a CNN anchor, who turns solemnly toward the camera. Tom reaches over and turns off the monitor, looking outside at the Earth, now visible as a globe through the window. He pick
s up the phone and enters a number.

  Inside Noah House, Noelle shakes the rain off her jacket, her hair drooping from the downpour. A phone rings in the background, and she looks at Melody, feeling something’s different, though she can’t quite put her finger on it. Until she realizes Melody is completely dry. Roberta leans out of a door with the phone in her hand, a surprised look on her face.

  “Melody, there’s a phone call for you.”

  Noelle wheels her over as she looks at Roberta. Melody takes the phone. “Hello?” Her face lights up. “Oh my gosh! I can’t believe you called! Did you see me on TV?”

  The Noah House kids are beside themselves about seeing Melody. Isabel and Nonna, standing on the deck just outside the lounge, watch through the glass in dazed uncertainty at the transpiring events as Walter runs up to them. “Did you see? Did you see that? Melody was on TV! I know Melody! I met her once!” Isabel touches his shoulder, unable to respond.

  He runs off and Nonna looks up at Isabel, who looks away and says, “What’s going on here? It just all seems so... out of control. How are those kids going to feel when nothing happens?”

  “Careful, darling,” says Nonna. “Your lack of faith is showing.” Isabel walks over to the railing. The Sun prepares to set on the sea as it hides behind a cloud bank, darting shimmering rays of pink and red on the water, a glowing ring of fire in the center of peaceful stratus. She puts on her sunglasses, awaiting the sun’s blinding farewell yet to come in the sliver of sky just above the horizon.

  Sid, Scott, and Noelle sit in the churning water of the Driftwood’s poolside jacuzzi as a light rain falls, spattering into the bubbles. Noelle sips a glass of wine, Scott a beer, and Sid keeps trying to light a damp cigar, his Bic on empty. The sound of a wrought iron gate opening and rattling shut doesn’t even evoke a glance. A pair of crooked, hairy legs come into view, a bathrobe is thrown on a lounge chair, and the arrival steps in. As he lowers into the water, Bud brings with him a pipe and settles in without saying a word. Sid stops trying to light for a moment as he looks, barely believing his eyes, then continues his futile effort. Noelle takes another sip.

  “Bud,” remarks Sid.

  Bud extends his silver lighter and easily produces a vigorous flame.

  “Light?”

  Scott laughs out loud, and Noelle looks up to where the Moon sits brightly in a break in the clouds, but only for a moment as lightning flashes and the growing storm retakes the sky.

  It’s a cold, clear, blustery morning at Rockefeller Center, the familiar street corner outside NBC’s Today Show studios. Katie Couric stands on the sidewalk, wrapped in a full-length black wool coat. When the camera light comes on, the crowd cheers, waving the usual array of signs. She’s sequestered a man wearing a T-shirt with Melody’s drawing silkscreened across the front. Under the picture is an 800 phone number.

  “Matt, I’ve got a fellow here, Dan, Graffet was it?”

  Graffet, long gray hair and beard, responds confidently. “Yes, ma’am, that’s right.”

  “I see you’ve got a shirt on that has the picture Melody Baxter showed us in her press conference yesterday. What’s going on here, Dan?”

  “Katie, I own a business where I make and sell T-shirts, a silkscreening business, and when I saw that wonderful little girl, I decided to print these up. There’s a toll free number here, as you can see, and I’m giving all the profits to a fund for her so she can donate it to whatever children’s charity she wants. Anyone can just call this number, and we’ll send them one for eight dollars. Six of it will go to the fund.”

  “I see. And how many of these did you make up?”

  “As many as people want. God’s been very kind to me, and I’m happy to give some of it back. That’s got to be the bravest little girl I’ve ever seen.”

  “I have to agree with you on that. And you can count me in for one.” She presses her earpiece. “And Matt says he’ll take one too.” She turns to the camera. “Well, as you can see, the story just keeps right on going,” she says, holding up the T-shirt. “Any of you who want one of these just call Dan here at 800 555 5263. And Melody, if you’re watching, I think I can get one for you.”

  Graffet leans into the shot. “I already sent her a case.”

  “I see. OK, back to you, Matt.”

  Noelle, wrapped in a towel and untangling her wet hair, is frozen in mid-brush, caught when she began watching the piece with Couric. The shot shifts back to Matt in the studio and she resumes brushing, shaking her head as she walks back toward the mirror.

  A substantial part of the Virgin runs through the Holmes property and, having left the canyon, meanders in gradual loops through the parunuweap. The storm has subsided, but the sky is still dark and rain will begin again soon. Sam, sitting by a small rapid, throws stones into the water, plopping them into pools formed by tree trunks and boulders. Matt appears on the opposite side but says nothing, joining in with the target practice. They hear splashing downstream where the river turns a bend out of sight and look in that direction as Billy approaches on Cirrus, maneuvering upstream through the water’s edge. Cirrus makes his way between them and stops, bowing to drink.

  “Good morning,” Billy says.

  Sam only nods.

  “Hey, Billy.”

  No one feels like talking. Billy looks up at the clouds. “We haven’t seen the last of this one yet. Tall Tree says it’s a warrior storm.” Matt looks up. “Pow wow tonight on the Watchman. You should come.”

  “Maybe we will, if it don’t rain,” Matt replies, still looking up.

  “It won’t. Tall Tree wouldn’t call it if it was.” Billy continues upstream as Sam and Matt look at each other, then resume the stone throwing.

  Bud fills a cup of hot chocolate from the machine at the Driftwood kitchenette. Sid enters, bundled up and chilled from the wind outside. He pulls the stocking cap off his head and ruffles his hair. Bud looks different, dressed in jeans and a thick brown corduroy shirt, in fact almost identical to what Sid is wearing. They look each other over, obvious patrons of the same souvenir shop clothing rack.

  “Hey, good morning,” says Sid.

  “Morning.”

  Sid fixes a coffee. “Boy, that wind cuts right through, doesn’t it?”

  “No kidding.”

  “You never said what brought you back here. I was really surprised to see you.”

  “Yeah, well, not as surprised as I am. I just... I had a few things to take care of.”

  “What things?”

  Bud takes a sip. “It’s personal, actually. Nothing to do with Holmes, or any of that.”

  Sid stares at him. “No?”

  “No. Not directly.”

  Sid lays a hand on his shoulder. “I know. I’m not here for that reason either.”

  Bud stares straight ahead as Sid walks away. That’s surely the most personal he’s ever been with Sid, and that thought alone bothers him, as does nearly everything else lately.

  The Shack compound is still manned by federal agents. Bud pulls his car into the entrance and is blocked until the guard recognizes him and lets him through. He gets out of the car and stands, looking at the small building. The last time he was there he never entered, giving chase to Holmes. Still unsure of his reason for coming, he walks up the creaky wooden steps and opens the screen door. Before he enters, he looks in.

  Bud crosses the threshold and closes the door so it doesn’t make any noise, then looks at the faded room. The gray overcast finds its way in through yellowed sheers and partially closed shutters. The glow from the table lamp stands as a sentinel to a life that once existed, memories not his. Even the sound of his breath intrudes on the etherial silence. Bud knows the details about the Holmes family, but they’ve always been parts of a dossier, profiles of people, backgrounds. For the first time he feels something of what happened. He senses the warmth from a young family, the
beginnings of a life, and the end of it all. Each artifact, each momento, a picture on a shelf, old magazines in a rack, whisper of the people who lived there. Real people.

  Bud walks to the kitchen doorway and stops. The kitchen is small, barely enough room for a table up against a peeling wall with three wooden chairs, one still turned out. On the windowsill there’s a dried-out mason jar with skeletons of wild flowers drooping over the edge, the wrinkled petals laying where they fell long ago. Bud stands there and looks at it all, piece by piece.

  The door to Noah’s room is ajar and Bud presses it open, stepping in. A frigid wind passes through his heart as the sorrow of a little boy leaving his room for the last time envelopes him. Now he understands what Holmes was running from. Here in this room, Bud is a father again, the father of another lost son. He backs out quickly, sensing he’s trespassing on another’s grief.

  Bud walks back into the living room and after looking around again, sits on the couch. He closes his eyes, drifting back to a distant life.

  The vision is yellow-hazy, a backyard with grass, trees and sunshine. A swing set squeaks in the distance and a little boy leaps off and runs to Bud, who scoops him up, holding him over his head as the boy giggles and pulls on his nose. Bud hugs him, puts him down, and watches as he runs back over to the swings, motioning for his daddy to come push.

  Bud lowers his head and weeps quietly.

  Noelle walks down the corridor with a brown paper bag in her hand and turns into the Starbridge, expecting to find Melody, but sees only Roberta who looks at her with frightened eyes. “She’s out on the patio. I’m worried. She’s not herself.“

  Noelle hugs her. “We have to be strong. We have to, for her.”

  Roberta wipes a tear. “Please, you go to her.”

  The patio opens onto a grassy field with the aged willow hovering over. Melody stares out toward the field, watching as a man in a brown suit with a felt hat walks away. Noelle stops, wondering, then tightens as Melody starts coughing. Noelle rushes up. “Melody, honey, are you OK?”