Touching Cottonwood

by Randall Simpson

  One of the most popular of the companies offering personalized tours of the Dead Zone was Wise-Fool Tours, operated by the former sheriff of Cottonwood, John O’Neil. He had resigned from his duties as sheriff by writing a simple and short letter to Mayor Gilmore that read:

  Dear Mayor,

  You need someone as sheriff who knows what the hell is going on in Cottonwood—I don’t. I’m the biggest fool I know. Perhaps when I wise up, I’ll come back.

  Sincerely,

  John O’Neil

  After resigning from his duties, he disappeared from Cottonwood for many months. Some of the townspeople were thinking they’d never see him again, and others had heard he’d even moved out of state. Then one day, just as suddenly as he’d left, he reappeared and began offering his Wise-Fool tours. Every day, vanloads of eager tourists from all over the world listened to John O’Neil give a very personal spin to the mystery of the Dead Zone.

  After driving slowly through town past his old office and out to the southern boundary of the Dead Zone, John would always end his tours by driving north out of Cottonwood and telling the story of his last big case as sheriff. He would first drive to the parking lot for the trailhead leading up to Abyss Falls. There he captivated his audience by telling the tragic story of three people who went up to Abyss Falls late one summer day. He would tell them how only one of them ever returned alive, while one died and one—well, one had never been found. In his story, he would go on to tell how the one who survived, a woman, still resided in Cottonwood—though he never revealed her name—and how the one who died was a scoundrel. Finally, he would tell how the one who went missing was a hero, as far as he was concerned, for he had saved the woman’s life.

  The former sheriff always ended the tour by driving the group out to the northern boundary of the Dead Zone. He’d park his electric tour bus along the highway and have all the passengers unload. He would lead them over to a roadside memorial that always had fresh flowers on it. There were two crosses, one with a picture of man and the other with that of a woman in the center. He would tell the story of how they both had died in an automobile crash right at that spot. He’d been the first one on the scene that day, and sadly, there was little he could do. He would then tell the silent and solemn group of tourists how these two people were the parents of the hero from his story about Abyss Falls.

  Before he let them go, the very last thing John O’Neil would tell the group was that though he was no scientist and had absolutely no scientific evidence to support the claim, he was convinced that because the boundary of the Dead Zone ended right at that spot, the mystery was somehow related to the missing hero whose name was Matthew Duncan.

  The tourists would then leave and travel back to the various parts of the world from where they’d journeyed, and there they would pass along the real story of the Dead Zone as told to them by the former sheriff of Cottonwood, John O’Neil.

  John O’Neil was also gracious enough and now wise enough to let Sheriff Sparky do his job without any sort of interference. It turned out that Gerald Sparks made a pretty darn good sheriff and was well-liked and respected. He had gained a new confidence over the past year and went about his duties in a way that always kept the idea of his public servitude at the forefront. He spent far more time helping citizens change tires or giving directions to lost tourists than he did handing out speeding tickets, but that was Sparky’s nature.

  On Sparky’s office wall, he’d hung a pair of handcuffs. This was a special pair of handcuffs he no longer used on anyone, and they were never taken off the wall. There were times that Sparky would sit in his office and stare at those handcuffs and be thankful for the personal and quiet miracle that had come from once wearing them. Whenever Sparky was on the Internet, he was proud of the fact that for any site he visited, his own grandmother could have been standing over his shoulder, and he wouldn’t be ashamed. If he ever felt temptation to wander a bit, he’d just think of those handcuffs.

  For years prior to the Dead Zone, Yamamoto Farms and its organically grown produce had been one of the bright spots in the Cottonwood economy, but the existence of the anomaly only increased the popularity of the farm’s products. Because the farm was inside the Dead Zone, it could truly and accurately say it was the only organic farm in the world, miles away from any of the poisons spewing forth from the internal-combustion traffic common near other farms. Yamamoto Farms provided some of the purest food in the world, and the farm was rewarded appropriately for that service through a loyal and growing list of customers.

  On many evenings, after a hard day’s work, Amida Yamamoto would stand by the back gate in his garden, looking out toward the northern meadow, trying to catch sight of a flight of birds. Now and then he would spot them taking off or circling somewhere near the farm. Whatever sign his wise old eyes were looking for was always a mystery to Takara, who only noted that his wise expression never revealed whether he was either saddened by or happy from what he saw. In truth, he was neither, for he knew it was pointless to wonder over a cloud hidden—whereabouts unknown.

  Carl Taylor had asked for and received from the people of Cottonwood, anonymity. While many residents of Cottonwood told friends and family about the miracle of Carl’s newfound eyesight, for the most part, the press and media had left him alone. He had successfully avoided any significant attention.

  Carl’s reasons wishing to remain hidden were both practical and seemingly selfish. He and the new Mrs. Taylor, Isabella, had a lot of years to catch up on. As Carl put it: “We don’t want to be bothered by all sorts of nosy people asking all sorts of silly questions. If they want to see a miracle, all they have to do is just look around them every day. If they really learn to see, they’ll see plenty.” As it was, Carl and Isabella spent a lot of time traveling the world together “seeing some old friends” as Carl put it.

  When they were in town, Carl could frequently be found down at his old table in front of Masterson’s Drugstore. Sometimes he was joined by Isabella, who was charming and witty in her own right. Carl was thrilled by the fact that there was now a new and growing group of children in town, courtesy of the booming tourism-driven economy. As he told his many stories, Carl now saw in the eyes of this new generation of children the same wonder, amazement, and ability to dream he had always seen in children. His faith in the next generation, and the next after that, was restored on a daily basis. His favorite story, and an often-requested one, was still that of the banyan tree. He couldn’t tell it without some tears forming in his own brown eyes as he thought of the last time he saw a dear old friend down by Little Bear River.

  The Reese family continued on with their lives, appearing from the outside to have been mostly unchanged by the events of the past year, but in reality, each family member had undergone their own personal transformation. Dr. Reese took more responsibility for the daily operations of the Home, beginning with the hiring of David Westmore as head of security. David Westmore insisted that Dr. Reese be aware of every decision and every action that he took. Dr. Reese spent less time behind his desk and more time visiting with the residents, as much as his busy schedule allowed.

  Amanda Reese spent less time gossiping with the hens around town—their beaks having been dulled by the passing of time—and more time working in her garden. She seemed to suddenly realize the value of being a good gardener, and she even began to volunteer her time at the Home. In her occasional moments of weakness, when she was even slightly tempted to gossip, she would pull out the ever-roughened nail file of humility and file her beak down just a bit by thinking about the night at Ernie’s Diner when she had to eat something not on the menu—crow and humble pie—served to her by the most unlikely of waiters, Sparky.

  Of the three, Chelsea Reese went through the greatest change. She was preparing to go off to college and seemed more excited than ever about the possibilities that life held for her. The memory of what had happened between her and Matthew, combined with the daily sight of Carl’s cane resting
in the corner of her room, reminded her that anything was possible. On the wall of her bedroom, Chelsea had placed a large printed quote. It read:

  “Not only is the universe stranger than we imagine, it is stranger than we can imagine.”

  –Sir Arthur Eddington

  British Astronomer (1882-1944)

  At night, sometimes Chelsea would rest on her back in the cool grass of her backyard, looking at the billions of stars above her, and she would think about that quote. It was at those times, she felt she could almost reach out and touch the stars above her, holding them in her hands, reading in them the story of the cosmos the way she had read Carl’s story in his cane. In reaching out for those stars, she felt she caught glimpses of things not easily expressed—of passions, lives, grand stories, and great meanings, spread across the starry canopy above her.

  When not working, David Westmore spent hours fishing with his new friends Ernie Martinelli, Tom Burnham, Judge Reynolds, and Sheriff Sparky. Maxie, Chloe, and Yankee would usually join the men as well on their outings, and though the hounds still seemed to have some trepidation about going near Little Bear River, Yankee would calm them and proved to be their leader with her almost natural affinity for the water.

  At times, when he wasn’t fishing or working, David could be found enjoying long evening walks down the streets of Cottonwood with a woman who taught him that like a rose, strength and tenderness, when mixed in the right amounts, were both extremely sexy and were exactly what he’d failed to appreciate in women before. He didn’t plan on making that mistake again.

  One special group of tourists who began to frequent the Cottonwood area in larger and larger numbers was the bird watchers. The word had somehow gotten out that the number of birds of all types to be found around Cottonwood was rising. It was fast becoming a bird-watching mecca.

  There were abundant rumors as to why the number of birds was on the upswing in the area. Some speculated that whatever was causing the Dead Zone was also attracting the birds, while others speculated it was because the air was cleaner and the overall silence more conducive to birds hearing their own songs. Whatever the real reason, both bird-watchers and ordinary tourists alike enjoyed walking down Main Street and being treated from a nearby tree to a joyful and celebratory: Tweeta…tweet…tweet…tweetatweet!

  In the time since Matthew’s memorial service, Rebecca had been very busy. Not only had she been busy at work, she’d also had several legal issues to attend to. She legally changed her last name to D’Arcy-Duncan, and she’d also made several trips to Washington State. She met with judges and other officials from that state’s Department of Corrections. Her goal was to clear all the court records of her husband’s case history and remove any further time to be served.

  During her first trip, she made little progress and realized the task would be far more difficult than she’d expected. She also learned that the State of Washington had no process for actually destroying court records. The best she could hope for was to seal the court records and clear Matthew of owing any more time in prison. David Westmore’s final report listed Matthew as “presumed dead,” and that fact gave Rebecca hope that the officials in Washington would concede to her demands.

  On her second trip to Washington, Rebecca brought along three close friends to assist in her efforts—David Westmore, Judge Reynolds, and Carl Taylor. Those three, along with an attorney from Washington that David had recommended, met privately with a judge who could decide the fate of Matthew Duncan’s court records and remaining prison time.

  During that meeting, David asked the judge to revisit the trial testimony, with which David, of course, was very familiar. He asked the judge to simply suspend judgment for a moment and read some of the transcripts with the thought—what if Matthew Duncan had been telling the truth? David had highlighted a few key parts and asked the judge what it would mean if somehow this man really had revived a dead man from the operating table.

  The judge scanned through the selected portions, and after a few moments, he smiled politely and acknowledged that certainly, “if miracles were possible, it would change everything….”

  It was then that Carl smiled broadly in return and spoke up. “I was born blind, Your Honor, but look closely at these baby browns—not because they can now see, but look deeper at the honest heart behind them. Miracles are possible, and Matthew Duncan gave me my eyesight.”

  Suspecting the judge would doubt such an incredible statement, Rebecca’s attorney made certain that they’d brought the full legal documentation which certified that, indeed, Carl Taylor had been born blind and remained so, much of his life. The attorney also pointed out the fact that though the judge may not believe that Matthew Duncan had restored Carl Taylor’s eyesight, it certainly must at least raise some measure of a “reasonable doubt” as to Matthew Duncan’s overall guilt.

  Finally, Judge Reynolds took the Washington judge aside and spoke to him privately regarding general legal issues. After everyone had finished making their case, the judge took Matthew Duncan’s original case transcripts and secluded himself in his office as Rebecca and the rest of the group waited outside, sitting on long wooden benches in a well-polished marble corridor.

  After over an hour, it was not the judge himself but eventually an assistant who delivered the official decision. Matthew William Duncan’s records would be officially sealed by the State of Washington, and any time left to be served under his sentence for second-degree manslaughter would be permanently removed.

  It was with great joy, and a greater sense of accomplishment, that Rebecca and the others flew back to Colorado. Regardless of what happened after that, her husband’s name would be restored, and he was legally a free man—though he remained a missing one.

  There was another way in which Rebecca had been busy. Through the course of the fall and winter, she’d been preparing a new room for her baby, and now the baby had come, and one additional face had been added to the suddenly growing population of Cottonwood. It was the delicate face of Ariel D’Arcy-Duncan, Rebecca’s new daughter.

  Ariel had tufts of black velvety hair that her mother would lovingly but only lightly stroke, for fear she might wear the angel-fine hair away. Ariel’s grandmother was a frequent visitor to the household. Grandmother Diane was worried that she would become a pest, but Rebecca made it clear that she was more than welcome. Diane would be the only true grandparent that Ariel would ever know. Rebecca also knew that the day was not far off when Ariel and her grandmother would be spending a lot of time together. Rebecca would be returning to work from maternity leave, and it was important for granddaughter and grandmother to form a deep and thorough bond.

  One of the most important and useful ways Diane had been able to help was by cooking meals and bringing them over. Nearly every evening, close to sunset, Rebecca knew she could count on hearing her mother’s footsteps coming up the front porch stairs, quickly followed by some delicious aroma filling the house.

  In addition to Ariel, another miracle had remained present for many long months. The little candle in the cobalt blue holder was still burning brightly. Rebecca knew the candle was a true miracle by any measure of the term, but it remained her own little miracle; she kept it completely to herself now. Like Carl and his new eyesight, Rebecca preferred to keep her little miracle a secret.

  After the birth of Ariel, Rebecca decided that for safety, she would keep the small candle on the patio table. Keeping a burning flame in the house while she and the baby were asleep or just taking a nap was a risk she didn’t want to take. She still enjoyed the comfort the candle gave to her, but it remained now safely outside. She did, however, reposition her favorite chair in the living room, so that whenever she was sitting and holding little Ariel, she could look out through the sliding glass doors of the kitchen to the patio beyond and see the little candle burning. In this way, she felt some kind of connection and togetherness, bringing father, mother, and child together, at least in spirit.

  On one pa
rticular evening, Rebecca was sitting with little Ariel in her favorite chair, cooing and smiling at her daughter. It was about the time, or a little earlier, that Diane would normally be arriving with dinner. As she was sitting there, she heard a great gust of wind suddenly stir up outside. It had been a calm evening, but the wind caused the new spring leaves to rustle strongly and the house to creak. Through the window, she saw the soft orange glow of the sunset sky but no hint of a storm. She looked back down at Ariel for a moment, and then some motion outside on the patio caught her attention. Through the sliding glass door, she was astounded to see what appeared to be dozens of birds that had landed on the patio table and chairs. She immediately got up, put a light blanket over Ariel, and walked into the kitchen to get a better look through the glass doors.

  The birds all seemed to be of the same species, with tan and gray bodies and a yellow breast marked by a distinct black V-shape. She knew the species well, as it had been a frequent visitor to her backyard. There were so many birds on the table that they obscured her view of the candle resting in the middle. She began to fear they might either get so close as to put the candle out, or one of the birds might accidentally get its wing near the flame and catch on fire. Cautiously, she slid the door open just a small amount, hoping to startle the birds away, but being careful not to allow any of them to fly inside—especially with Ariel in her arms.

  She had barely nudged the door at all, when all at once, the entire flock lifted off the table and chairs and flew out into the backyard, up toward the sky and out of sight. She checked once more to make certain there were no remaining birds on the patio and then slowly opened the door all the way and stepped outside. That’s when her heart sank with sudden shock—the little candle in the cobalt blue holder was out.

  Holding Ariel tightly, she quickly moved over to the table, picked up the candle, and peered down inside. She remembered the flame had gone out at least once before, many months ago, but had somehow relit itself. She waited. The wick stayed dark. While holding her baby in one hand and the candle in the other, Rebecca turned away from the table, back toward the sliding glass door, preparing to return to the house. She decided she would wait only a few moments more, and then she would go into the house, find a match, and relight the candle herself.