Touching Cottonwood

by Randall Simpson

  Matthew lay flat on the carpet—face against the dirty moist fibers. His head was stinging, ringing, pounding, buzzing—exploding. He tried to move his arm—at least he thought about moving it—but nothing happened. It seemed odd to him. I should be able to move my arm. Now, however, he had to think about moving it in a way his brain had never had to before. He concentrated hard. Move arm! You’re attached to me, and you need to move! His arm moved—just a little. With great concentration, he moved it again and then the other one—then one leg and the other. With great effort and willpower, he was finally back up onto his hands and knees, but it was all he could do. He knew doing any more or going further would be impossible. He was flesh and blood, and every molecule of his body screamed in outrageous pain. It took every ounce of strength and concentration he had to remain conscious and up only on his hands and knees. The bloodied filthy carpet below called to him to collapse back down and find rest.

  Then from off to his right, in a now oddly distorted voice—though he knew it was Eddie—he heard, “Take a good look at your sweetie pie now, Becky. You think he’s handsome now? The way you see him now is about all he’s ever going to be able to do the rest of his life. All he can do now is act like a good little doggie. Hell, he’s worse off than some of the veggies you take care of every day. His poor little brain has been smashed in pretty good—you see that? I’m surprised he’s even up on his hands and knees. He’s sure got willpower—I’ll say that for him.”

  Matthew wanted to turn his head; he wanted to see her. He tried with all his might but couldn’t turn. He could only keep his head in the down position—watching through blurry eyes the splatters of blood continuing to fall to the carpet.

  “Now, I guess if I were a merciful man,” continued Eddie, “I’d make one more home run on his head right now, Becky, and put him out of his misery. That’d be the kind thing to do. But he’s invaded my house, and worse—he’s tried to take you from me. People like that deserve to live like stupid vegetables. He needs to suffer every day. Death would be too easy for him—too quick.”

  Matthew thought then that just for a moment, mixed with the ringing and buzzing, he could hear Rebecca sobbing. It was oddly muffled and distant, but he was sure it was her. With a force of his will and the desire to see her face, against all the unrelenting pain and pounding in his head, he turned his head to the right. He first could only see their legs. He struggled but turned his head more—and then he saw her. Through blurry bloodstained vision, he saw Rebecca standing next to Eddie, her tear-filled eyes reflecting her terror and agony. He could see enough to also notice that Eddie had his left arm around Rebecca’s neck, and she had a blue bandana wrapped tightly across her mouth. He focused his eyes as best he could on Rebecca, and their eyes met for only a moment—but it was long enough to exchange a final passing of love, mixed with the awful terror and horror of the moment. You’ll always be the other half of me….

  Rebecca’s hands were behind her. In Eddie’s right hand, he held the baseball bat. At that moment, as Matthew watched, Rebecca appeared to take a small step forward with her right leg and then suddenly bent it backward, bringing it up sharply, right into Eddie’s groin. He dropped the bat to the floor and bent over slightly, holding himself with his right hand but keeping his left arm around Rebecca’s neck.

  Eddie slowly stood upright, moving his arm from Rebecca’s neck to the back of her head and then suddenly yanking her hair and whipping her head back. As her head came back forward, he slapped her hard with his right hand and yelled, “Oh, you bitch, you little fucking bitch! You’re going to pay for that!”

  While still holding Rebecca by her hair, Matthew saw Eddie take a step in his direction. Eddie quickly swung his right leg up toward Matthew and caught him underneath, full on in the stomach. Matthew crumbled back to the carpet, unable to breathe, but he could still hear Eddie’s angry voice.

  “That one’s your fault, Becky,” Eddie hissed. “But I’m not gonna kill him. He’s gonna be a fuckin’ retard, forever. But you…you…shouldn’t have kicked me like that. I think we need to take a little walk up to the falls…to talk things over.”

  Those were the last words Matthew heard before falling into blackness….

  He was twelve years old. He was in one of the greenhouses on the Yamamoto Farm. He knew another bag of organic fertilizer mix was needed. The bags were very heavy, and normally Ichiro would carry them, but he wanted to show them all how strong he was. The bags were high on a shelf, and standing on his tiptoes, Matthew reached for the fertilizer. Using all his strength, inch by inch he pulled the bag forward toward the edge of the shelf. Just a bit more, he thought, and he would be able to lower it down to the ground. He strained one last time. The weight of the bag was too much. The bag toppled off the shelf, smacking him full in the chest, sending him sprawling backwards to the floor. Before he landed, the back of his head hit something hard. Then there was blackness.

  He woke up in the soft and comfortable bed in Amida and Takara’s bedroom. He had a bad headache. There was something cold on his forehead. Takara was sitting by the bed and smiling.

  “So, you are finally waking up,” said Takara, smiling with her soft kindness. “That is a good sign.”

  “What happened? How did I get here?” asked Matthew.

  “You tried to carry a big bag of fertilizer. It was too big! Amida found you in the greenhouse and carried you here.”

  Takara stood up and walked out into the hallway. “Amida, Ichiro, come now. Matthew has woken up!” she yelled.

  Takara came back and sat down. A few minutes later, Amida and Ichiro were standing by the bed.

  “Did you have a good nap?” asked Ichiro smiling. “I bet you just wanted to get out of work!”

  “Ichiro, though I know you are kidding, that’s enough,” said Amida. He then looked at Matthew. “You tried to carry too much by yourself. You should have asked for help.”

  “I’m sorry, Amida,” said Matthew.

  Amida smiled. “The secret of Yamamoto Farms has always been that we all work as a team. We all help each other, and everything gets done. Even the bees and ladybugs help us. Though they are small, they do what they can and play their parts perfectly. That is as it should be. If a bee needs help, it sends for others. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I think so,” said Matthew.

  Ichiro stepped near the bed and flexed his bicep.

  “You should start lifting weights with me,” said Ichiro.

  “Go put your muscles to good use,” said Amida. “I believe you have some work yet to do, Ichiro. Please tend to it.”

  Ichiro frowned and left the room.

  “I have called your parents, and they will be coming for you shortly,” said Takara. “I will make sure your bike is up in front.” She then also left the room.

  “Matthew,” said Amida, sitting down and leaning closer to him, “I carried you to this bed today, and perhaps someday you shall carry me. Just remember this—it is never a disgrace to ask for help. For just as a bee sends for help when it finds the nectar, please remember to call for help when you need it. It is not a sign of weakness, but of wisdom. Then Amida, the chair he was sitting in, and the bedroom itself faded away into sweet blackness….

  Matthew could feel the warmth of the sun on his back. He was outside, lying on his stomach—his feet and body resting downhill. His right hand was stretched up over his head. He couldn’t open his eyes but could feel there was someone nearby.

  “I have carried you this far, but if you choose to continue the battle, then that is your will and your path,” said Amida. “Without further help, your battle will end here—you will die.”

  He could neither speak nor turn his head toward Amida’s voice, but he was able to think. Amida, thank you for carrying me this far. Please do not feel shame or regret for leaving me now. You have played your role and done it well, as usual. I have chosen my path and must carry out the journey. I am not afraid of death. I have done all I could and have
been led this far. I have faith another will come to help carry the journey along. The journey is always greater than the traveler….

  Eighty-Seven

  At the Boundary

  When Akash Mudali was eight years old, his mother died of breast cancer. He didn’t understand what cancer was or what death really meant either, but he knew that something mysterious had taken his mother from him, and he was hurting inside. As the youngest of three children, Akash had a very different view of his mother’s death than his older brother and sister. Whereas Akash was inclined to be quiet, spending time alone in his room sobbing and missing his mother terribly, his brother, Yuri, and sister, Kusari, took a more proactive approach. After the initial grieving process, his sister, in particular, became convinced that their mother’s ghost was visiting their house on a frequent basis and, even more startling to Akash, that they could communicate with it. This possibility raised his hope of telling his mother directly how very much he missed her.

  One night when their father was late coming home from work, Yuri and Kusari decided to conduct what they called a “special séance” to try to actually contact their deceased mother. They said that Akash could attend the séance only on the condition that he would promise not to cry, no matter what happened, and also, of course, he absolutely mustn’t tell their father of the activities.

  Akash was led into his sister’s darkened room, and the door was closed. A knee-high table had been set up in the middle of the room, and a small lit candle rested in the middle of it. The three children sat cross-legged around the table, and his sister instructed them to join hands.

  “Mother,” his sister said in a strange whispering and haunting voice that rather frightened Akash, as he’d never heard her speak in such a tone before, “this is Kusari…your daughter. I am here with Akash and Yuri. We are calling to you, Mother. Please…we need some sign from you. Give us some signal from the beyond…that you have not forgotten us. Please, Mother…we miss you. Let us know you are still thinking of us and care for us….”

  Suddenly, a loud knock came from somewhere nearby. Akash could not identify exactly where, but the room was small, and he knew it was close. His heart began to beat faster. He clenched his sister’s and brother’s hands more tightly and closed his eyes. He did not want to see anything, and he promised himself he was not going to cry.

  “Thank you, Mother,” said Kusari, her voice not quivering at all.

  Akash was amazed at how brave she seemed. He welcomed the day he would be older and so brave.

  “We appreciate your sign to us, Mother,” continued Kusari. “We would now like to ask you some questions…if that will not disturb you. If you could…please knock once for yes and twice for no. Do you understand, Mother?”

  Once more, a single loud knock penetrated the room. Akash tightened his eyes even more and strengthened his grip on his siblings’ hands.

  “Very good then, Mother,” said Kusari. “Here is the first question. Are you in pain now?”

  Two distinct loud knocks echoed in the room. Though he kept his eyes tightly closed, he was glad to know she was not in pain.

  “We are pleased to know that, Mother,” said Kusari. “Our next question is this—did you have a favorite child?”

  One loud knock penetrated the room. Akash had always thought that his mother seemed to like Kusari the best, because she was the only girl.

  Kusari then asked, “Mother, please tell us, was your favorite child Yuri?”

  Two loud knocks vibrated in the room. This was no surprise to Akash. Yuri was always getting into trouble and causing his mother and father to yell. Akash hoped Yuri understood and wasn’t hurt by their mother’s answer.

  “Mother,” Kusari continued, “was your favorite child then me, Kusari?”

  There were two loud and distinct knocks. Akash was confused. His heart began to beat harder once more, but this time for a different reason. He wanted his sister to confirm it. Ask the confirming question, Kusari!

  Immediately, she did. “That does not hurt me, Mother, for I will always love you. Are you saying then, Mother, that your favorite child was…Akash?”

  There was one distinct knock.

  He was her favorite?! All along he’d thought it was Kusari, and yet now his mother, from some mysterious place called death, had confessed it was he who was her favorite! He began to weep little tears, trying to hold them back so his brother and sister could not hear him sobbing in the darkness. He would, after all, want to be invited again and again to attend more of these séances with Mother in the future, and if they heard him crying, they might not allow him to attend.

  The room suddenly filled with light. What was happening? Akash opened his eyes. They were still wet from the tears. He wiped them quickly. He turned around and saw his father standing by the door and the light switch.

  “What are you children doing in here?!” their father asked. He seemed angry. “And with a candle burning!” Father moved over to the table, picked the candle up, and blew it out. “This is dangerous,” he said.

  Then something over by the closet, behind Yuri, caught Father’s attention. Akash thought there might have been a sound, though he himself hadn’t heard anything.

  Father quickly moved over and opened the closet door. Hiding inside was Yuri’s best friend, Patsami—a mean boy who had always tormented Akash. Father picked Patsami up by his collar and pulled him out of the closet.

  “Go on!” said Father to Patsami, as he lifted him and nearly carried him toward the door. “You go on home now, Patsami!” Patsami’s footsteps could be heard scurrying down the hallway, followed by the distant sound of the front door opening and then slamming.

  “I think I know what you might have been up to here,” said Father, looking at Akash’s damp eyes, “and I don’t like it.”

  Akash also figured out what they had been up to. After that, he would go to his room and weep less and less frequently about his mother and soon, not at all. He told himself from that day on that he would only believe things that he could measure, weigh, quantify, and predict. Nothing else would or could ever be real to him.

  As Akash drove north out of Cottonwood, he watched a green dot on the global positioning unit getting closer and closer to a red dot. The green dot represented his car, and the red dot marked the northern boundary of the Cottonwood Dead Zone that he had identified during his mapping project with Vince Pasternack. He was planning to spend as much time as necessary checking and rechecking all his measurements and analyzing every piece of data he had until he found some distinguishing feature that set the inside of the Dead Zone apart from the outside. He was convinced the key to understanding the phenomenon would be finding some difference, some vital change, occurring at the boundary area. The important thing would be that this difference or change would need to be observable and measurable.

  As he watched the green and red dots converge, he slowed his car down and stopped. He got out of his car, taking with him both the electromagnetic-field meter as well as the global positioning unit. He walked back and forth, up and down the highway a few feet in each direction, noting any changes in the electromagnetic field. He zoomed in on the global positioning unit to get the most accurate reading on where the exact boundary of the Dead Zone was. Standing in the middle of the highway, he found the exact spot he had mapped out with Vince. He was exactly four-point-eight-six miles from the epicenter of the Dead Zone, which, as he now knew, was a point about twenty-five feet south of the corner of Second and Main Street in Cottonwood—a point that was now in the center of a huge hole dug in the ground, through a recently poured sidewalk.

  Akash looked around; the highway was empty and quiet. There was nothing at all unusual about the spot. No changes were apparent on his equipment. He checked across all frequencies and polarizations. Nothing changed as he passed across the boundary from being inside the Dead Zone to being outside. Yet, he knew if he were just barely inside the Dead Zone, a running internal-combustion engine would
stall out. If he moved the engine just a few feet further north along the highway, outside the zone, it would run fine. An electric car would operate fine on either side of the boundary. What was the difference?!

  It was at that point that Akash happened to look over to the side of the road. Directly in line to where he stood on the highway, he noticed a grouping of flowers and two crosses with what appeared to be pictures in the center of each. He vaguely recalled noticing them when he had been at this location with Vince, but had paid little attention to them at the time. He’d seen memorials like this before. Tens of thousands of them dotted highways across the country—erected by families in memory of the victims of traffic accidents. They also had the secondary effect of being silent reminders to passing motorists of the dangers of driving.

  Without really thinking about it, Akash walked over to the flowers and crosses. He bent down and looked at the pictures of those who had died. They were of a man and woman. Underneath the pictures were their names: Debra Nicole Duncan and Frederick Thomas Duncan.

  He studied the two pictures and names for a moment longer. He then walked back to where he’d been before and continued pacing back and forth across the Dead Zone boundary, repeating all the measurements he’d made before and double-checking every possibility.

  Akash had been born with an exceptional gift of memory. It had aided him greatly in his career as an engineer. He could recall the smallest facts and details, even after hearing or seeing them only once. Not only could he recall the information, but also the exact circumstance surrounding how he had acquired that information.

  Akash stopped his pacing and stood motionless in the middle of the highway. He then slowly lowered his instruments to his side and turned to face the flowers and crosses. He stared at them for a moment and took a deep breath. The air was clean, sweet, and pure. His hands relaxed. The instruments he was holding slipped and shattered on the highway into bits of plastic and electronic components. He didn’t bother looking down.