by Brian Meehl
I went upstairs to check on him. When I put the bad book back on his bed, his eyes opened. He started telling me about the dream he’d just had. In the dream, he was standing at his bedroom window and looking into the moonlight. He watched two figures walk down the driveway to the road. But they weren’t any figures. It was Huck Finn, walking Jim to freedom.
I told him it wasn’t a dream. He’d woken up, gone to the window, and seen me walk down the driveway with my friend Ruah.
He gave me a puzzled look, then shook his head. “No, I know what I dreamed; I know what I saw. When you see Huck and Jim, you can’t mistake them for anyone else.”
I didn’t argue. I sat on the edge of the bed until he went back to sleep.
I took the letters off the hall table and into the study. There were two envelopes, both torn open and probably read by Joe Douglas. On the first envelope, my father had scrawled For Billy, if you came too late. The other envelope said To be opened only upon my death.
I pulled out the first letter and read what he had typed on his store’s stationery.
He apologized for not living long enough to meet me.
He gave GPS coordinates that would lead me to his “genizah” and “the last cache.”
He asked me to read the final chapters of Huck Finn.
I left the second envelope on his desk. I took the fancy copy of Huck Finn to the living room, lay on a couch, and finished “Chapter the Last.”
When I got to the last paragraphs, where Jim tells Huck that his father, Pap, ain’t a-comin’ back no mo’, and Huck realizes that his father is dead, it was too creepy. I had to go check on my own pap.
He was sleeping, breathing steady and quiet.
Back downstairs, I turned out the lights and stretched out on the couch. Slipping into the z-bag never felt so good.
14
Howling Adventures
First thing in the morning I checked on my dad. He was awake but too weak to get out of bed. All the excitement from the day before had wiped him out. I made him breakfast: tea and toast. We turned his bed into a breakfast table for two.
When I told him I’d finished Huck Finn, he asked me about the last chapters. I said I was disappointed by the ending. I thought it was weird that Tom’s escape plan for Jim was so goofy and far-fetched, and that it felt like Tom and Huck were being cruel to Jim. It also made Huck, who’d begun to treat Jim like a person and not a slave, seem like he’d totally backslid to treating him like a “nigger.”
As I told him all that, I had a little revelation. The end of Huck Finn, with the bolted-on drama, might’ve been the first case of an audience getting GLASSED. The first known case of George Lucas Action Sequence and Special Effects Disease.
I explained to my father about that, and he enjoyed hearing a little about the Potlatchers. After that, he told me that lots of people didn’t like the ending of Huck Finn. “But what they don’t get,” he said, “is that it’s written that way because Twain was setting up a sequel.” He dropped his hand on the bad book on the bed. “That’s what’s so important about this.
“You see,” he went on, “at the end of Huck Finn, Jim, the slave, is free, but Huck, the boy, is still a captive, a slave to Tom’s foolishness. The story of Huck and Jim isn’t over until both of them are set free.” He tapped the bad book. “Twain’s sequel is the story of Huck, Tom, and Jim lighting out for Indian Territory and Huck winning his freedom.”
“From what?” I asked. “From being GLASSED by Tom?”
“Much more than that.” He pushed the bad book toward me and told me to open it to page 108. “Read the note Twain has written in the margin. Out loud.”
I read the penciled words. “H becomes converted.” I looked up. “Converted to what?”
“An Indian religion. Huck and Tom abandon Christianity and take up Indian beliefs. Tom eventually returns to ‘sivilization,’ but Huck doesn’t. He wins his freedom from Tom, ‘sivilization,’ and Christianity.”
I stared at him, not quite believing it. “What happens to Jim?”
His wrinkled mouth pushed into a sly grin. “What’s the worst thing you can do when talking about a book?”
I shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Spoil the ending. But I’ll tell you why Twain never wrote his sequel. The story would have caused riots and ruined his reputation. He would have been hanged from the nearest steeple. That’s why I call it the bad book. Yet even today, Huck turning his back on Christianity will rub people the wrong way. But in our world, on the brink of a war in which the feuding sides both hold books of mass delusion in one hand and weapons of mass destruction in the other, the story of Huck’s escape from the dark side of Christianity is more important than ever.”
I didn’t get everything he was saying, but one thing was crystal clear. I knew why he didn’t send me the book in the mail. Mom would’ve taken that hatchet off the wall and pulped it.
My father sank back on the pillow and shut his eyes. I thought he was going to catch a nap. I started clearing the breakfast things. He grabbed my hand and held it.
His eyes slowly reopened. He looked up at me with a bitter sweet smile. “At the end of Huck Finn, the boy doesn’t completely escape his past. That’s what makes Huck so believable. It’s the same for all of us. The past is inescapable. Your mother’s no different. Sit down, I want to tell you something.”
I sat on the bed.
He gathered his thoughts. “As a child, Tilda was repeatedly beaten by her father. To survive the terror of his beatings, she had two choices. To fight back and probably die, or to submit and live. She submitted. Her surrender was so complete, she ended up bowing down and worshipping her abuser. It forged her compass for living. Life was to be spent trembling at the feet of a higher power.”
I was so shocked, at first I didn’t believe what he was saying. My brain went into lockdown against it.
He took a difficult breath and went on. “There are two things I’d like you do to for me.”
“What?” I heard myself whisper.
He reached out his quavering hand and tapped my hand. “Love your mother for who she is. But don’t waste your life trembling before a higher power.” His finger tapped my hand again. “Treat God, and all the other gods you meet in your long, happy life, as the most fantastic friends ever invented by humankind.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good.” He slid his hand off mine and shut his eyes. “I need to rest now.”
I didn’t know if he wanted me to stay or go. Even if he’d asked me to go, my legs wouldn’t have carried me. My body was paralyzed by what he’d told me. But not my mind. It flooded with a vision.
I was walking in a fog-buried forest. My mother was with me. In the heavy curtains of mist, she was only a shadowy silhouette. She held my hand, keeping me from stepping off the trail and plunging into the swallowing fog. This shadow Mom didn’t scare me; she had always looked this way to me. Then light penetrated the forest, and the fog began pulling up through the trees. For the first time, I saw my mother’s shadowy silhouette become shape. She looked like one of those hybrid creatures in mythology. She was half woman, half beastly father. Seeing her this way didn’t scare me, or even startle me. If anything, it made me sad. It made me want to grip her hand tighter.
Like one of those flying dreams that don’t stop, the vision kept playing. I watched the sunlight push the fog higher in the giant trees. Then I spied another creature, high in a tree, on a big branch. It was a little girl with long dark hair, pale skin, bright eyes. She laughed and twittered a song as she danced along the branch. The little girl was Mom too. The little girl I’d never imagined: the free and singing bird she’d once dreamed of becoming, Tilda Hayes before the talons of life swooped down and reshaped her into a Jesus-throated Whac-a-Mole.
A buzzing fly invaded my daydream. I blinked away the vision, and watched the fly land on a half-eaten piece of toast on my father’s plate. I gathered the dishes and started out.
“Billy,�
�� I heard my father whisper.
I turned back. His eyes were shut. “I’m here,” I said.
“Last night, you told me something about a man with a strange name.”
“Ruah,” I reminded him. “His name is Ruah Branch.”
“Who is he?”
I thought about all the things I could tell him. But it could wait. “We shared an adventure together.”
“After my rest, I want you to tell me the adventure of Billy and Ruah. Promise?”
“I promise.”
15
In Plain Sight
I went downstairs and sat in my father’s chair. Even though it was only midmorning I felt wasted. I was still trying to sort through everything he’d told me. Especially about Mom. Talk about another reset button getting punched. I mean, given all the things I was going to have to rethink—Mom, Dad, the Bible, gays, even the end of Huckleberry Finn—it felt like God had delivered on my big prayer request, put me in high school early, and buried me in homework!
And right then, sitting in that chair, I did a face-’n’-brain plant in the biggest danger of changing from a faith-up, born-again Christian, to the doubt-up, learn-again Christian I now was. My colliding chaos of thoughts mooshed into white noise. Okay, since it’s the brain, gray noise.
Luckily, the best cure for gray noise was right in front of me. TV.
I turned it on and channel-surfed, looking for some X Games stuff. Flipping through the sports channels, I heard a reporter say a name: Ruah Branch. Then a sportscaster said they were cutting to a live press conference in Seattle, Washington.
The picture went to a reporter in a crowded room. He said he was at the worldwide headquarters of Pneuma Sports, and that “Ruah Branch, the major leaguer who’s been AWOL for over a week, is about to make a statement.”
The picture swung to a podium topped with a bristle of microphones. Ruah stepped up on a platform. I almost didn’t recognize him. He wore a dark suit and tie; his head and face were freshly shaved. He would’ve looked like some businessman if it weren’t for the gold stud in his ear.
He leaned into the mics. “Good morning. Thanks for coming on short notice. I’m going to make a brief statement and then I’ll be happy to answer questions. But first, I’d like the chief executives of Pneuma, and my agent, Joe Douglas, to join me up here. They’re gonna help me introduce a slogan for a new campaign we’re test-marketing starting today.”
Some men and women in suits came up on the platform. They each carried a plastic gun with a short fat barrel. Joe was in the back, on crutches, holding one of the plastic guns. He looked miserable.
Ruah counted off “Three, two, one,” and they fired their guns. Balled-up T-shirts flew into the crowd of reporters and camerapeople. Ruah shot one too, as the executives reloaded and fired again. The ESPN reporter unfurled one of the T-shirts. The slogan on it read:
STRAIGHT AND NARROW
O
T
The picture went back to Ruah as he thanked the executives and they left the platform. Joe started to hobble off, but Ruah said, “No, stay here, Joe. You’ve been such a big part of this, you should be here.” Joe looked like he was about to boot.
Ruah turned back to the room. “First, I apologize to my teammates for disappearing in the stretch. Although I noticed without me in the lineup they’re still racking up the wins.” Some of the reporters laughed. “Second, I want to address the rumors that have been circulating.” He scanned the room, then looked into the camera. “To paraphrase the words of a former U.S. senator, I am gay, I always have been gay, and I always will be gay.”
The room exploded with shouting and flashing cameras. Ruah didn’t flinch. He waited, then raised a hand, asking for quiet. “Now I’ll answer your questions.”
Everyone shouted at once. Ruah pointed at someone. “Is that why you disappeared for over a week?” a reporter asked.
“Yeah,” he said, and rubbed a hand over his head. “And it took me that long to shave my dreads.”
There was a burst of laughter and a reporter shouted, “What does Pneuma say about this? Are they on board with a gay spokesman?”
“We had a long meeting last night,” Ruah answered. “One of the women execs said it best: ‘Gays buy shoes too.’ ”
Another voice yelled, “What about your teammates? How do you think they’ll react?”
“I expect a mixed bag,” he said. “Some will shrug and say ‘play ball.’ Some will say ‘I knew it’ and collect on a bet.”
“What about the ones who don’t like homosexuals?”
Ruah shrugged. “I’m hoping they’ll say ‘He’s a fag, but he’s our fag.’ ” He waited for the laughter to quiet. “I’m sure there’ll be a couple of guys who say I’m an abomination and I’m going to hell. I’m looking forward to a little Bible study with ’em. If they can convince me the fork in the road between Heaven and hell is whether you’re straight or gay, I’ll promise ’em I won’t head for hell till the end of the season.”
Another reporter fired questions. “Are you worried about being a target on the field? Do you think you’ll be in danger as the first outed player in the majors?”
Ruah nodded. “Yeah, but I’m ready for the heat. The man from Galilee said it best. The Lord is my helper, and I will not fear what man shall do to me. If Jesus can be flayed and nailed to the cross, I can endure a few extra knockdowns, beaners, and high spikes.”
“What about the fans, Ruah? You think they’ll turn on you?”
“If most fans really cared about what we did off the field, they would’ve turned on players who used steroids. I’m not saying steroids and sexual orientation are the same. I just think the fans love baseball more than they dislike players’ lifestyles. I hope they prove me right.”
A reporter yelled, “So you wanna be the gay Jackie Robinson: the first active player to break the gay barrier?”
Ruah shook his head. “No. Jackie broke a real barrier: skin color. There’s no ‘gay barrier.’ We’re already in the game, hiding in plain sight. If I’m breaking anything, it’s the gag order.”
A woman asked, “When did you know?”
Ruah spread his hands, playing dumb. “Know what?”
“That you were gay.”
He smiled. “About the same time I heard the expression ‘You can’t control the bounces.’ ”
“Hey, Branch,” another reported called out, “can we drop the gay chatter and talk baseball?”
Ruah laughed. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“We heard you have a broken wrist,” the guy said.
He raised his left arm and pulled on his jacket sleeve. His cast was gone, replaced by a wrap. “It’s a hairline fracture. I should be back in the lineup in two weeks.”
“How’d you break it?”
“The closet can be a rough ride.” He quickly pointed to another reporter.
“What pushed you over the edge? Why now?”
“You sure you wanna know?”
“No,” the man answered, “but it’s my job to ask.”
Ruah wagged his head. “Okay, but let the record show I gave you an out.”
The reporters laughed.
Ruah got a look I’d seen before. He was going to the Book; he was going to preach. But then he didn’t. He cracked another smile. “Fielder’s choice: you want the long answer or the sound bite of why I’m out.”
“Sound bite!” reporters shouted.
“Okay, here’s the short. ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ made me a slave to silence. Now I’m free.” His mouth crooked into a small smile. “If that’s not short enough, try this. To quote a friend, ‘The Bible made me do it.’ ”
“But Branch,” a reporter yelled, “what if the Bible and God have nuthin to do with it? I mean, where do you think this is gonna end? With you in the Hall of Fame, or the Hall of Shame?”
Ruah’s face pinched, then he nodded slowly, staring at the reporter who’d asked the question. “Okay, here’s the slider people li
ke you might get some wood on. I’m the new Pete Rose. I’m betting on baseball. I might get tossed out of the game, but that’s not gonna stop me from placing my bet. I’m doubling down against ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell.’ I’m betting that the fans are ready for a new rule: ‘He’s gay, so what.’ ”
He raised his good hand. “Thanks for your questions. I’ll look forward to more of ’em in the Reds locker room.” He turned and left the platform with Joe hobbling behind him.
16
Ain’t A-Comin’ Back No Mo’
I flicked off the TV. After getting over the shock of what Ruah had done, I remembered what he’d said the night before about playing baseball like God wanted him to. He said he found the answer in Job 5:7.
I went to the study and dug the Bible out of my backpack. I turned to Job. When my eyes fell on 5:7, I couldn’t believe it.
Yet man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward.
He had turned my providence check into his own. I didn’t know what to think. It didn’t stop me from feeling. My insides were catching major air. I was proud to be his invisible friend, standing beside him. Jerry Silks, his ex-boyfriend, was there too, giving Ruah a shout-out for leading the league in honesty.
I suddenly wanted to go upstairs, wake my father, and tell him all about the adventure of Billy and Ruah.
I took the stairs two at a time.
The bad book was resting on his chest. As I got closer, I noticed the book wasn’t moving. I touched his hand.
It was cold.
Maybe I uttered a word or a sound, I don’t remember. I just remember lifting the book off his chest, sitting on the bed, and crying till my lungs were as empty as his.
I finally went downstairs and opened the second envelope. The one with To be opened only upon my death. Inside was a typed Last Will and Testament.
I, Richard Allbright, leave the following to my only son, Charles William Allbright:
1. A FIRST EDITION OF ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN