“Why?”
The question proved a lack of understanding — Becky’s influence once again. Did he think his father crazy? Did Becky think that? Jim wasn’t sure how to respond if judgment had already been cast. The cabin came into view. The lights were on inside and the fire pushed smoke into the air. A flickering of light danced inside, a comforting sight, which meant warmth from the fire. Jim stopped dead and Brad came to a sudden halt.
“What?” Brad said.
“I don’t know what your mother told you about the deer, but it was a miracle. Plain and simple. No one need believe me. Why should they? I’m dying. I need to hold onto strings. Well, the deer were not strings. They were real. I talked with them for hours. In the woods, tonight, I thought I saw one of them. That wasn’t real. I was deluding myself.”
He faced his son, who had let his arm fall, the flashlight illuminating the snow around them, touching on a bush nearby, and bringing the darkness of a tree trunk into the light, producing a smooth gray tone. The light fell onto their boots and onto their pant legs. Jim found himself staring at the light, thinking, not talking. What use was talking going to be? But this was his son; he needed to express how important the miracle had been, let Brad know that miracles were possible, maybe probable.
“The other deer, before,” Jim said slowly, “the ones your mother told you about, they were real. You need to believe that. Know that. I’m not crazy or hallucinating. It’s the truth.”
“I know, Dad,” Brad said. Then he flicked off the light. The ground, the snow, went gray, and the bush and tree, the pant legs and boots, all went black.
“I’ll tell you about it.” Jim wanted time, words, the right words to convince his son, but he didn’t know if he had them. He’d try. Maybe in the accumulation of words, his own urgency, his own belief, would come through and touch Brad, too.
They walked back to the cabin. Jim talked on and on, trying to explain every detail. He talked around the subject just as Brad had explained Susan and he talked around love and sex. He wanted Brad to understand. He believed that in those details, if in nothing else, lay truth so clear it could not be disputed. He remembered how all the deer at the end of his visit appeared from nothing. When he got to that point in his explanation, he sighed. To him, it was still a miracle, still the most beautiful and awe-inspiring thing that had ever happened to him.
Brad listened closely the whole time, Jim could tell.
“Wow,” Brad said at the end.
Jim felt rewarded for his story in that small exclamation.
“It was a real miracle,” Jim said after a few moments of silence, of watching Brad slowly shake his head, almost in disbelief.
“It would be hard to make something like that up.” Brad stood and walked near the fire, stood in its light and warmth while leaning against the mantel. The fire shed the only light in the room. “The details would be hard to memorize. They’re the same details Mom told me. There’s no reason for you to make anything up. You seem to believe what you’re saying.” Brad mumbled, trying to assess the validity of his father’s story. He turned to face Jim, the fire at his back.
Jim looked up, but could not see into Brad’s eyes.
Brad took a step closer. “If you told me you’d seen a shooting star, it’d be easy to believe you because I’ve seen them too. But I could only imagine the one you’d seen, not really see it. This is something I haven’t seen, but I can imagine it too. It’s just that every time I think of deer talking, it’s like a cartoon, a Disney movie with animated deer. You’re real,” he added.
“Like Mary Poppins,” Jim said.
Brad thought briefly of his childhood and shook his head, “Yes, like Mary Poppins with Dick Van Dyke in that amusement park dancing with penguins.” Brad rubbed his cheek and scratched his ear, turning slowly to face the fire again. “This is more real than that, Dad. I’ve always just believed you. You never played any games with reality when we were little. Not like other parents who lied to their kids in fun. You were always completely honest. This is hard for me, but I believe you.” Brad turned back to face his father. His voice cracked, “I never told you, but I believed that you talked with Connie after she died. I always believed you, no matter how much Mom didn’t want me to. I don’t know how I believe something this difficult to imagine, but I do. I’ve always thought that if a miracle could happen, it’d happen to you. You deserve it.”
Brad covered his face with his hands. Recognizing Brad’s movement for what it was, knowing what it meant, Jim felt touched, not so much because Brad believed in him, but because Brad became so emotional over the situation that he’d cry. Jim let Brad place his face in his shoulder and cry for a moment. “I love you, Brad.” Jim held his son.
CHAPTER 8
THE NEXT MORNING LIGHT FELL through the bedroom window and woke the two of them almost simultaneously. Together they made coffee and breakfast, then took turns showering. When Brad came out of the shower, Jim had packed most of their gear for the trip home.
“We’re leaving early?” Brad asked.
“No. I thought I’d try to pick up their trail. I just wanted to try one last time.” He looked at his son for an answer to an unasked question.
“Sure, I’ll go with you.”
“Thank you. I’d love to have you along. I don’t expect to find anything . . . “
“I know. I’d like to try with you, Dad.”
“We’ll head home after we’re through,” Jim said.
“Fine. I’m in no hurry. I just want to spend as much time with you as I can.”
Jim smiled. The man who was once his son had become a long-time friend. Jim only wished he had found this friend sooner, but that wasn’t the way it had happened. And after the miracle, Jim half-expected things to fall into place. He wasn’t always sure he’d like the way things fell, but he was positive that they would fall.
Brad threw most of the gear into the trunk of the car. Jim dropped a bag onto the passenger seat and stuffed another one inside the game pouch of his hunting coat.
“What’s that?” Brad wanted to know.
“What?”
“Those bags.”
“Oh,” Jim patted his pouch. “Lunch.” Then pointed inside the car, “Snacks for the drive.”
Brad laughed and started walking toward the woods.
“Wait.” Jim ran to catch up and noticed how quickly he tired.
The morning grew into warmth like a fire’s heat moves from paper to kindling to log. Overlooking the old farmhouse and barn, Brad commented on the barn’s apparent lean to the south. He also noted, for the second time in two days, how the house looked occupied. “If it wasn’t for how overgrown everything is.”
“You’re right,” Jim agreed, “Even though the snows have lowered much of the growth, what is standing looks neglected.”
“Maybe the barn, too, makes the whole place look neglected,” Brad added.
Jim shook his head and walked on along the stone fence, again turning where several weeks earlier he had climbed over the stone and taken a path up through the woods.
This day a greater silence fell between the two men than the day before. Conversation had been given up to allow each man to explore the woods in his own way. An understanding had grown between them, allowing years of togetherness and respect to rush along behind them, to let them know each other as they never had. When Brad was a child, his father was in middle age. Brad now recognized that man. And Jim knew the boy Brad had been and the man he had become.
Through short bouts of conversation, they traveled over and around the obstacles of their lives that at one time Jim felt belonged to Becky and him alone. Finding now, that Brad had been there too, Jim wondered if he had paid any attention at all during those years. He owed it to his family and himself to believe in their plight if he expected them to believe in his.
The day wore on into lunch and sandwiches, and lighter conversation entered while they sat against a pine trunk in a small clearing. They r
oamed back and forth like a search party, looking for what they both intuitively knew they would not find. But, when twice they saw deer on their continued search after lunch, the look on Jim’s face, the way his eyes probed for intimate recognition, further drove home Brad’s acceptance of his father’s miracle. Jim was driven by his encounter. It showed in his movements, his expressions, in his eyes. Brad had to believe. It had been the truth. Yet Jim had to carry the burden of experiencing the miracle only once. He had to live with his own doubt, a much heavier burden than the doubts of others.
After lunch, Jim tired more quickly. Eventually his resting periods became almost as long as his walking periods.
Brad asked that they head home — back to the cabin, and then home.
“You had enough?” Jim asked.
“It’s not that.” Brad threw a bent stick he picked up at lunch to use as a walking stick. It flew, spinning into some brush a short distance from them.
“It is. You’ve become bored. I don’t blame you. This was a wild goose chase. Even if they did show themselves again, they more than likely wouldn’t do it with the two of us together.”
“I’m not leaving you here alone.” Brad anticipated Jim’s next suggestion.
“No, I didn’t mean that. I know Becky wouldn’t allow me to come back here alone either. It’s just over. I should accept that. Stop chasing rainbows,” Jim said.
“Dad.”
“No, it’s true. I know it. God knows I know it’s true. I’ve been thinking: here I am chasing a miracle down, trying to see it again, to feel it, when all along that’s not what’s important. It’s not being in the experience as much as it is what you do with the experience afterwards. I’ve tried to figure out why the whole thing happened, but always through the muddle of chasing it down.” Jim sat down after clearing snow from a small spot with his gloved hand. He looked up at his son, “You know, I used to look for deer to come out of that little strip of woods at the edge of the development. I’d take the long way to work in hopes of seeing the deer I met way up here somewhere along the highway. Waiting for me.” He lowered and shook his head. “I don’t know any of their names. I hardly remember what they said. I should have written it all down, but I was exhausted. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Dad, there’s nothing to do. You said that Ed told you that you were a giver. He agreed with what the deer told you. Maybe that’s it. I think you are too. Christ, I know you’ve had problems with Mom, but you’ve never given up. Not as long as I’ve known you.”
“I did once.”
“Once. Mom used to ignore you for days when you disagreed with her. And you’re worried about once. Besides, Connie used to be there for you. She took up the slack when Mom couldn’t. When she was gone . . .”
“But the deer,” Jim said, almost in tears. Then he lifted his face. “The one deer, the buck, said something about remembering that I was a part of everything, forever. It said forever,” he repeated. “Like Connie. That’s how she could be there, she always would be. It’s the deer again.” Jim stood and stared past Brad.
Brad thought that his father was making a true statement, that it was the deer again, standing behind him. Brad turned to look, but there was nothing there. For an instant he felt disbelief in the miracle. If Jim was seeing deer and he was not, it seemed logical that . . .
Jim spoke, “No, they’re not there. What I mean is the word: deer. Get it?”
Brad cocked his head like a curious animal.
“Singular and plural. Deer. Individual and universal. Connie, me, everyone. We’re all here, forever,” Jim explained.
Brad shook his head in affirmation, but made no attempt to speak.
“The voices,” Jim said. “When the deer appeared in the forest, all around, they said, one said—no, more than one—a whisper made loud by numbers, one and many. Get it? They said, ‘Become, Giver,’ like an order. What more can I do?” He looked to his son for an answer that wasn’t there. “The question’s for me to answer. It wasn’t directed at you. I’ll have to figure it out myself. And I will,” Jim promised. “And when I know what it is, if it’s any greater than what I have already come to, I’ll tell you.”
Brad stood still, listening to his father go on about the deer. Jim went over the story again, a more excited, but shorter, version.
“I just have to learn to be,” Jim said, “that’s all. To become. Even if I don’t know what that means. Even if I never know.”
“You are, Dad. You always have been and you always will be, for me, Mom, Connie, even Susan now. You’ve been around for my whole life; you’re a part of it all. What more can you be? What more is there?”
For a time, Jim was satisfied with that. “What more can you be?” Brad had said. And it was an excellent question. Even so, Jim wanted there to be more. At least with Becky and him. On the way back to the cabin, Jim planned a reunion with her. In his mind it went well, perfectly, even though he knew that wouldn’t be the case.
Before dropping Brad off at his house, Jim turned and thanked him for taking the trip.
“You don’t need to thank me, Dad. I wanted to go. I’m sorry we didn’t do it earlier.”
“Me, too, but it’s done now.”
“No, it’s started. If you need to talk with someone, I’d like to be that person. I can learn a lot from you. I’m willing to. Don’t make it too late.”
Neither had mentioned Jim’s cancer the whole trip. The only times they came close were moments like this.
“The deer told me to hold on. I remember that, too. Now. The words. ‘Hold on,’ they said.”
“Then hold on, Dad. Do it for them, for us, for you, but hold on.”
CHAPTER 9
THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, every time Jim tried to get close to Becky it didn’t work out. She’d hold him or kiss him, but only as a long-time married partner, not as a new-found lover. Then, after a few more treatments, came the news that the cancer was in remission. When Becky found out, she kissed him with such sensual aggression that Jim felt the old spark inside himself. Just one kiss opened new doors.
Becky organized a party. Everyone knew about the remission anyway. It seemed odd, but Jim wanted to share the news formally. “It’ll be a reason to bring everyone together. Personally, I think that’s a good reason.”
“We don’t want people coming out of pity, though.”
“We’ll only invite those who would come no matter what,” Jim said.
“Good idea,” Susan confirmed — it was her interest that swayed them — “close friends and family.”
It was settled.
That Saturday Mel and Ed and their wives visited Jim, Becky, Brad, and Susan. Some friends of Becky’s showed up too. While Becky and Susan prepared food and punch for ten people, Jim and Brad made remission posters: Welcome Remission, The Joy of Remission, For Whom The Remission Tolls.
The house grew loud with a crowd of people in the living room eating food and drinking beer. Jim had tuned in an easy-listening station on the radio. The announcer’s voice added to the confusion of voices in the room. The party rode along gaily, reminiscent of past Christmas or New Year’s parties. Until, that is, Mel asked Jim to speak. “Speech!” he yelled.
Ed chimed in, too. “Speech!”
Eventually the room quieted and the small group separated to give Jim the floor. He didn’t know what to say. In a way, he wanted to cry. Suddenly, he felt as though the party were a sham. How long did he expect to stay in remission? It was a death party and he had nothing to give, no insight, no profound statement. Nothing.
Pushed by an invisible, yet overwhelming force, Jim stepped into the middle of the room. He turned until he could see everyone, then backed up. The evening was nearly over. Some of them had had too much to drink. Could they even hear what he said? Could any of them understand how he felt, even if he could explain it? Probably not. So, what was there to say? “I . . .” He lowered his head. “You all know me. There’s nothing to say that you don’t know.”
&
nbsp; “How do you feel?” Ed asked.
“Blessed.” That was an easy question to answer.
“Does the remission give you a new lease on life?” Mel offered.
Jim thought for a moment. The people stood still and quiet. All eyes were on him. Out the window, darkness had fallen so close to the house that the windows looked painted over. He wanted to turn off the lights, to open up the outside world once again. The magic of physics, he thought. Then, he checked himself. His mind had wandered. He felt nervous. What did they want from him?
“Come on, Jim. Just say something.” Becky’s voice sounded cruel, as though he was purposely stalling, but he wasn’t.
“Okay, fine, I feel more than blessed. I have for a while. Ever since the deer. You all know about them, I’m sure.” He looked accusingly at them all. Some heads turned away. He noticed that Brad’s did not. Brad actually stood taller.
“What deer?” Bob, the husband of one of Becky’s friends, asked.
“Shush,” his wife scolded.
“I talked with deer,” Jim said.
“Oh, good God.” Becky left the circle, and Jim saw someone reach for her hand to comfort her.
“It doesn’t matter. It was a miracle. No one has to believe me. Not any more. But I’m not crazy. It happened, and some day, I believe a miracle will happen to each of you, even if it’s only moments before you die. That’s when you’ll believe.”
“The deer said that we’re all part of everything,” he continued speaking straight from his thoughts, no translations. “Here,” he reached out and touched Bob’s hand, “I’ve touched your life, not just physically, but now that way too. It’s there forever. It’s permanent. You can’t change it. I’m part of everything I touch. So are you. The deer said that and more. We’re all, each of us, individual and universal. If you love someone, that love goes everywhere, whether you like it or not. In fact, everything you do is everywhere.”
Terry Persun's Magical Realism Collection Page 51