Now and Again

by Charlotte Rogan

By the time Maggie found her way back to the church, her head was spinning and her forehead was hot. She set out food and some fresh water for Dino and only saved herself from collapsing by grabbing on to the communion railing. Kneeling and letting bits of colored light from the stained glass spatter her face as the sun made its way up the firmament, she prayed. She prayed for Lyle and Will, of course. She prayed that someday Tomás and George would walk the verdant paths of freedom and warm themselves before a fire in a sitting room with rough pine floors and a worn corduroy couch that bore a striking resemblance to her own sitting room floor and her own sagging couch. But now she also prayed that the men could bear their incarceration bravely, that they wouldn’t break on the wheel of American justice the way so many others had broken. She now knew that true Justice had been set far out of reach on some celestial shelf—more, she thought now, to taunt people than to teach them anything useful.

  But she also knew that there were small pockets of justice locked deep inside each person’s heart, so she prayed for the judges and the jurors—not only the ones who had convicted and sentenced Tomás and George, but for all judges and all jurors everywhere—good people, she knew, but people who had limited access to Truth, which reposed on the high shelf alongside Justice, people who pondered the facts as presented to them and who struggled with growling stomachs to put the pieces together the way, as a girl, she had put together the jigsaws in the forty-watt light of the lamp that sat on the game table in the lakeside cabin where the Rainbow Girls had gone together to spend the month of July and strive to understand Fidelity or Nature or Immortality or whichever of the bow stations was paramount that year.

  There were always pieces missing. There were always girls who thought it funny to conceal a piece of the puzzle up their sleeves so that they could return to the table in the bright light of a July morning, crawl about on all fours, and emerge from underneath the table with a triumphant, “Ah-ha! I found it!” and so be the one to complete the picture while the other girls, who had searched high and low and underneath the table and couches only the evening before, looked on with mounting suspicions about where the piece had been all night. In later years, so many pieces were truly missing, vacuumed up by the August cleaning crew or taken home and forgotten by someone who wanted the last quiet laugh, that it took the fun out of doing the puzzles and eventually they were all forgotten or thrown away.

  And, finally, she prayed for herself, but it had become a vague prayer. She didn’t know what to pray for. She prayed to be true to her promise. She prayed for strength. She prayed for hope. Sometimes she prayed for tolerance unless she prayed for intolerance, for she thought it was probably a sin to be tolerant of injustice and evil—if evil existed and wasn’t just a name people plastered on things they didn’t understand or agree with. As she prayed, it occurred to her that prayer was the only thing worth doing, the only truly good thing, because all actions had unintended consequences and because people who acted were always in the gravest danger of being wrong.

  But so, of course, were people who prayed. Perhaps it was wrong to pray for particular people or results. Perhaps the only thing she could do was to recite the words in the dusty prayer books that were tucked into the backs of the wooden pews. “Our Father,” she whispered into the cavernous emptiness of the old church. “Lord Jesus, son of God.” Or maybe the only good and true expression was a wordless cry to the heavens, a guttural sound of anguish, or a transcendental and meaningless “Om.”

  What was it she had meant to do? She had started off with such purpose, but then gone off track somehow. Tomás was only slightly better off than he had been before, since even if he was approved for a new trial, the process could take years and he could be reconvicted, which was sure to break what was left of his spirit. And she had forgotten all about the toxic munitions—or if she hadn’t really forgotten, she hadn’t done anything with the information that God had trusted her to act on. The answer lay in her soul—she was sure of it, but when she tried to concentrate on the holy places of her innermost being, all was airy and dark, like the empty high-ceilinged church that had lost both its priest and its congregation. Her body ached. Her stomach heaved. Her head and brain were on fire.

  A bird flapped loose from the rafters and swooped through the nave. It was Justice, she thought, or Truth. Her mind had wandered from the prayer she had wanted to make, and if the prayer couldn’t even be formulated, how could it be sent? Was a vague feeling of supplication enough, or did she have to find the right words in order to make a connection across the universe to wherever the first principle was hiding? Could she use her own words, or did she have to chant official hymns and formulations? She didn’t know, but just in case, she concentrated on the word “good” and all it contained within it and all it entailed. After trying in vain to keep the letters glued together, she let them go, and she saw that God was inside the letters and that he was talking to her, but he was speaking in August Winslow’s voice.

  —Don’t you understand anything? Not that I owe you of all people an explanation. And not that you could understand it even if I did!

  Winslow was right. What did she know about the history of the world or the intricacies of the law or the demands of politics or the competing needs of populations? It had been arrogance to think that she could change anything or that any change she might make would be for the better. How could she chart a just and true course when she could not know anything for certain? Causation, correlation, coincidence—how could she, Maggie Rayburn, hope to untangle any of the threads?

  —You live in the greatest country on earth, said the voice.

  And then it was Sandra Day O’Connor who was before her, dressed in a black robe and sitting in a patch of stained light on her portable dais, smiling benignly, flanked by her smartly dressed clerk and the proprietor of the deli and holding something behind her back and asking Maggie to pick a hand. The trip to Phoenix hadn’t been for nothing after all, and Maggie strained to hear the words that the former justice had come to tell her.

  “You came,” Maggie said tentatively. “You came to see me after all.” Her words echoed strangely in the ancient acoustics of the church. Outside the high, translucent windows, the light was fading. Somewhere in the distance, a siren blared, and somewhere close by, the dog stirred. She must have fallen asleep, for everything outside of her and everything within went silent, vacuous, and dark.

  All through the night or a succession of nights, the voice called out to her, and whether it was God or August Winslow or the former justice trying to make contact, she clearly heard the word “Om.”

  —Om, said the voice, unless it was saying “home.”

  She fell back into a deep sleep, and when she finally awoke, clearheaded and hungry, Dino was gone. Even though she searched every corner of the church and then circled the block calling his name, she couldn’t find him. The one good thing she had accomplished had come to nothing after all. Everything was a circle, she could see that, and it both made sense and didn’t make sense that at the end of her journey she would find herself exactly where she had begun.

  11.6 Dolly

  Lord have mercy,” said Dolly. “This is a mighty fine young man.” She hefted the baby against her shoulder before swaddling him more securely and passing him to the mother, who was smiling tiredly from the bed. “Are you ready for your husband to come back in?” The mother nodded and said she was. Dolly straightened the bedcovers before opening the door to where the woman’s family was waiting in the reception area, with its pretty sheer curtains and comfortably upholstered chairs. “You can come in now,” she said.

  It was almost 5:30, but Tula, who was working nearly full time during the summer, had stayed late to help out. She was sitting at the desk, the stethoscope Dolly had given her as a present peeking from the pocket of her smock. When everything was clean and orderly, Dolly turned to Tula. “Even if things don’t work out for Danny and me, I’m saying a prayer for you and Will.”

  “So a
m I,” said Tula. “But something tells me Will and I will be just fine.”

  “You will be,” said Dolly. “You absolutely will.” She was remembering the Fourth of July picnic where she had met Danny and how she had known instantly that he was the one.

  “We argue a lot, but maybe that’s a good thing,” said Tula.

  “I wish Danny would argue,” said Dolly. “He used to go for days without saying a word, although now when I call him, I can hardly shut him up.”

  “That’s a good sign,” said Tula. “Talking’s always the first step in the healing process.”

  They talked for a little while about how some women could just feel things and how Dolly and Tula were like that themselves. Tula said she could sense a world of possibilities hovering and ready to descend: college, children, a little house of her own—hers and Will’s—all of it waiting for her, all of it one tick in time’s cycle closer to coming true. “I not only get feelings,” said Tula, “but I see honest to goodness signs. Just yesterday I was walking through the apple orchard where Will and I used to meet, and I saw him—he was sitting under a tree, plain as day. There wasn’t anybody there of course, but I saw him. It was his way of telling me he’s coming back.”

  Dolly had been getting conflicting signs for weeks. Only that morning, a crow had landed on the new hand railing at the front steps just before the doctor had diagnosed inoperable tumors in a twenty-five-year-old woman. The doctor sent her home with assurances that he would make some phone calls to other specialists. That had seemed like a good sign, but as soon as the woman was gone, he turned to Dolly and said, “I know what you’re thinking. I know you’re thinking, What’s the point?”

  Dolly had been thinking, Hang in there, girlfriend! She had been thinking, You got to hold on to hope! Even though she knew the doctor was talking to himself, she turned to him and answered anyway. “The point is to let her know we’re doing everything we can. The point is to give a miracle time to happen.”

  “Miracles,” said the doctor. “Now there’s an idea. When’s the last time you saw one of those?”

  “Every blessed day,” said Dolly. Quiet Moments 1563 was one of them, as was her pretty apartment, as was any boy who held his pregnant girlfriend’s hand. The biggest miracle of all was sleeping in a basket near the reception desk because Dolly’s mother had been unable to babysit that afternoon. Every now and then Dolly or Tula would peek into the basket and catch her breath. “He’s perfect,” Tula would say. Or Dolly would say it, and Tula would reply, “He absolutely is.”

  New tumors had appeared on the woman’s body and throat virtually overnight. She would die within weeks if not days, yet she was making lists of baby names for a baby that would never be born. “What do you think of Verna?” she had asked Dolly while her husband pulled the car around.

  “Verna is nice,” Dolly had replied.

  “If it’s a girl, of course. Just Verne if it’s a boy.”

  The thought of little Verne or Verna just about broke Dolly’s heart, but she reminded herself that most of the babies were born healthy—that’s what she needed to focus on. But then she remembered the grapefruit baby and the baby with the whitish glaze, and while she believed in focusing on the positive, it didn’t seem right to forget them. But they weren’t forgotten. There was the website, and recently the doctor had been asked to speak on television, which was a major miracle all by itself.

  “You sure you don’t want to introduce him to Danny?” asked Tula.

  “I’m thinking about it. I just want to give it a little more time.”

  “He’s gonna need his daddy,” said Tula.

  “I know,” said Dolly. “I know you’re right.”

  “Do you ever think about what his life was like? When he was in the army, I mean.”

  “I try not to think about it. I try to focus on the positive.”

  “I do,” said Tula. “I’ve been reading about the war and trying to imagine what it’s like for Will. It makes me feel closer to him, and not just emotionally. Sometimes I even think I’m there.”

  “Where?” asked Dolly. She was half listening to Tula and half listening to the music that was softly emanating from some recently installed ceiling speakers. I Feel Like Traveling On was one of her favorites, and now she tried to decide if the song was telling her to go to Danny or if it held a darker message. She used to be so sure about things!

  Outside the window, the men Dolly had hired to spread the gravel were arguing over who would shovel and who would drive to the stone yard for another load. Their negativity carried in through the open window, and Dolly was relieved when the larger, gentler of the two men picked up a shovel and the lean one strode over to where the truck was parked in a patch of shade. The gentle man reminded her of her father—was it better to fight or to give in peacefully to the inevitable?

  The men were only halfway finished, but already the driveway looked fresh and welcoming, and Dolly could easily envision how lovely everything would be once she had filled the new planters with geraniums and ornamental sweet potato vines.

  “Speaking of sweet potatoes,” said Dolly, holding the baby up to her face and breathing in his milky fragrance. “You’re just about sweet enough to eat.”

  “Did you pick a name yet?” asked Tula. “You can’t keep calling him Tadpole.”

  “I’m thinking Danny Junior fits him. He’s the spitting image of his dad.”

  As she said it, the baby blinked its long eyelashes and gaped at them with the wisdom of the ages shining from his eyes. Miracles were everywhere—to see them, you only had to look.

  11.7 Lyle

  Lyle tried calling Maggie at work, but it was the attorney who answered the phone and said he hadn’t heard from her in over a week. “May I inquire who’s calling?” he asked.

  “No, no,” said Lyle. “I’ll call back.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” said Lily. “You can try her again tomorrow.”

  Some nights Lyle slept on Lily’s couch, but most nights he slept in the truck. He had a few leads on jobs, but if those didn’t work out, he’d go to Phoenix. There’s nothing stopping me now, he thought. Nothing he could put his finger on anyway.

  He’d had an interview at McKnight’s earlier in the week. The manager had said he’d get back to him in a day or two, but it was already Friday and he had heard nothing. He knew by now to talk in terms of the interviewer’s interests, but it was hard to know what those might be for the pencil-necked man with the rash of acne who had beckoned him in from the waiting room. Lyle had mentioned cars, the war, and the Texas-OU rivalry in quick succession, and then he decided to turn the tables and ask the manager right out.

  “What are your interests?” asked Lyle, and when the manager just stared at him, he added, “What is it you want most in the entire world?”

  “I’d kind of like a cheeseburger,” said the manager. “Can you get me one of those?”

  “You need to be thinking bigger,” said Lyle. “You need to be thinking of your career, which is something I can help you with.”

  “O-kay,” said the man, smiling for the first time.

  The interview had lasted only ten or fifteen minutes, but it got Lyle thinking about the munitions plant and how when it came to bosses, you couldn’t do much better than MacBride.

  “I know the manager,” said Lily as she headed off to work. “I can put in a good word for you, but you still oughtta go on over there today and see what’s what.”

  “Good idea,” said Lyle. “I guess I will.”

  It was almost noon when Lyle got in the truck and started it up, but instead of driving toward the chicken farm, he found himself in the part of town where Tula lived. The houses on Ash Creek Circle had once been identical, but over the years their owners had made additions and improvements. The Santos house was one of the few without a second story or a sunroom added on. A dilapidated swing set squatted in the dusty yard, and the spokes of an ancient wash rack clattered in the wind.
Over the past weeks Lyle had driven by several times, but except for once when a load of washing was hanging out, he never saw any signs of either Tula or her mother. He wanted to know if Tula had heard from Will, but he hadn’t seen her since the day of the high school graduation.

  Now he got out of the car and knocked on the front door; he didn’t expect anyone to answer it and no one did. His reflection in the glass panel startled him because it looked like someone else’s face, and he couldn’t help thinking about killers lurking in the dark and waiting to attack him.

  After checking behind the house, Lyle returned to the truck and drove along the creek before circling back toward town. He had just turned onto the Main Road when the sheriff’s pickup pulled him over and Hank Conway got out and swaggered over. “What did I do?” asked Lyle. “Is my taillight out again? And I’ve been meaning to get that muffler fixed.”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” said the sheriff. “I’m just wondering where you’re headed, is all.”

  Lyle knew he didn’t have to say anything. He knew a man’s thoughts were his own and nobody had a right to force them out of him. He knew it wasn’t legal to pull people over and interrogate them without just cause, so he didn’t say anything, only waited for the sheriff to continue.

  “I want to show you something,” said the sheriff. “Something you might appreciate. Something that might make you sleep a little better at night.”

  Lyle unbuckled his seat belt, got out of the truck, and walked with the sheriff around the back of the glossy pickup. The sheriff ran his hand along the truck’s flank where COUNTY SHERIFF was painted in gold letters outlined in black. He pointed to a gun rack bolted to the reinforced frame of the truck, drawing Lyle’s attention to two hunting rifles and two military-style weapons, and then he waved at a pile of SWAT team vests that were stashed in the cargo bay and also at a locked box that contained, he said, a thousand rounds of ammunition. “We’ve got the exact same gear as Will’s got in Iraq,” said the sheriff. “Only some of it’s a different color. And when the current conflict ends, where do you think all that surplus military equipment is gonna go?”