The Book of Harold
Page 20
Stones Throw is invariably linked to the crimes of Blake Waterson. It was on this day that police discovered the red rain poncho in which Blake Waterson was last seen. The poncho was floating in Lady Bird Lake near the Shoal Creek tributary in Austin, Texas. Though no body was ever found, this discovery led many to believe that Blake Waterson took his life just days or weeks after the death of Harold. Others argue he is still at large.
On the morning of Stones Throw, Haroldians find a midsized stone and carry it with them in their pocket or purse. Throughout the day, they confess to the stone their sins, pains, and struggles. At sunset, believers gather near any local body of water. They then turn to one another and say:
“I am Blake. Forgive me.”
And answer each other:
“I am Harold. You are forgiven.”
Believers then cast their stones into the body of water
and state the following:
“I drown as Blake, for I am Blake.
I live as Harold, for I am Harold.
Let me give to God.”
Weather permitting, believers then participate in a brief swim. Otherwise, a bath or shower is adequate.
Today
That’s it. That’s what I remember. That’s my confession.
Hours pass in the Mole Hole with me on my back tracing the corners of the room with my eyes. Still no one. I haven’t eaten in over a day. I’ve moved past hunger. My body feels light, as if it might float, but I cannot move. My breaths are shallow and full of scratch. The sheets are wet from my sweat and urine.
I’m sleeping when the noises start, and the sounds clang into my dreams, above me, through the ceiling. Yells. Breaking glass, words I can’t make out. My eyes are open, but it still feels like a dream. Noises now outside my door. It continues for a few minutes, and then with a crack like a bat snapping in two, my door flies open and four men and a girl pour in. They’re young. Their eyes are young. One of them is Peter.
Peter is beside me, kneeling, grinning. I squeeze his hand.
“I’m sorry,” I say, but he’s talking and doesn’t hear me.
“We’re taking you out of here, Mr. Waterson. They can’t keep you locked up. We’re taking you away.”
“Last night . . .”
“I ran. I called the news, I called churches, everyone. Hundreds of people are here, just outside. Maybe a thousand.”
“No. No. They’ll hurt me.” My breath is almost gone. “Please don’t . . .”
He puts a hand on my head and I want to cry. “You’re the last of his followers, Mr. Waterson. The last one. After you, all we have is words. No one will hurt you.”
The other men and the girl pick up my cot and lift me to their shoulders. I sway in midair, the ceiling a close sky. It’s happening so fast, but I have no breath to protest. They carry me up the stairs, heads bobbing by my side, the pretty girl smiling at me. We walk through the church. I see some of the Pastels standing at a distance looking sheepish. Looking afraid.
As we reach the doors to the outside, I put up a hand. “Wait,” I ask between gasps. “Let me stop and write for a moment.”
The young people place my cot on the ground. Peter kneels beside me, a hand on my chest. I’m afraid. He nods. When did I become a child?
Over my wheezing, I can hear the crowds outside, like ocean waves. They will touch me. They will pass me over their heads, over the crowd, floating over all them.
I will see the sky. I am not afraid. Sky above, people below. I will bless them all even if they kill me. I will tell them the whole world is wet with God. Like I want my next breath. That’s all. It took me all these years to breathe and be blessed. It’s this breath. The one you are taking right now.
Acknowledgments
This novel would never have come to be if not for the friends, family, colleagues, and instructors who read and re-read my pages and offered wise words of guidance and encouragement. The list would fill another book, but allow me to at least thank Nancy Thomas, Russell and Cheryl Sharman, the faculty and my fellow students at Texas State University, and, of course, Jodi Egerton—my sweet, patient love. My kids, Arden and Oscar, didn’t read a word of this book, but they never fail to inspire. I owe a huge bulging bag of gratitude to Deltina Hay and the gang at Dalton Publishing for pushing this book to print. And my heart breaks into operatic praise for the editing, encouragement, talent, and friendship of Stacey Swann.
Thanks to Adam Lindsay Gordon (1833-1870) and his poem “Ye Wearie Wayfarer,“ from which this novel quotes.
About the Author
Owen Egerton is an author, performer, and screenwriter. His other books include the short story collection How Best to Avoid Dying and the novel Marshall Hollenzer is Driving. Egerton also co-wrote the irreverent Dadlabs Guide to Fatherhood: Pregnancy and Year One. He, his wife Jodi, and their two children live in Austin, Texas, where he was voted Austin’s favorite author in 2007 and 2008 by the readers of the Austin Chronicle.
Learn more about Owen Egerton at www.owenegerton.com.
Copyright © Owen Egerton 2010
This is a work of fiction. The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
eISBN : 978-1-593-76483-8
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