by John Siwicki
He was toying with his moustache when he turned, and saw Esther. Looking as fantastic as ever! How are you?
Esther looked up from her desk. Hi, thanks, just busy working everyday. I haven’t seen you in a while, been on a trip?
I went to Japan.
Really, that’s great. It’s a long way from here; a long flight.
I just had to see it for myself. There’s a lot of history there, you should go if you ever get the chance.
I did, with Sam. We went to Tokyo, Kyoto, and Nara. We saw some of the oldest wooden structures in the world. Sam likes architecture. He took a lot of pictures. I remember talking to an old Japanese man who told us that Todaiji Temple was the center of the universe. Sam was pretty intrigued. The old man took us to a wooden door with a lattice where the light shone through. It seemed to release a magical energy. The intensity changed as we got closer. We couldn’t see what was on the other side. Sam put his face on it, and after that he had this strange look of bliss on his face.
You know, I think the same thing happened to me. I remember a door like that, and an old guy talked to me, too. Wouldn’t it be a coincidence if it was the same guy.
Well, you never know, she said.
I guess you’re right. Strange things happen all the time.
I see you’re still making necklaces and wrist bands. That’s a nice one you’re wearing.
Thanks, it’s turquoise variscite. I’ll make one for you. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small stone. I bet you’d like one made of this, he said. It’s called red beryl, and handed it to Esther.
It’s beautiful, she said. What’s it called, again?
Red beryl.
It looks like blood, she said, and held it under the light next to her computer. Never seen anything like it, she said, and handed it back to Holiday. Don’t go through too much trouble making one just for me.
No problem, no trouble. I like making them for friends. It’s fun for me, really.
Esther looked up and said, You don’t have to, and checked her cell phone after it buzzed.
I detect some ambivalence in your voice. I hear the same tone from my patients. No one likes going to the dentist. Anything wrong?
It’s Sam. He hasn’t called since his birthday party yesterday. Just sent me a couple of texts early today, but nothing since, and I’m a getting worried.
Sam came to my office a few months ago. He has nice teeth, no cavities. I didn’t know it was his birthday. How old is he?
Turned thirty, and when we were in high school, he always said thirty was old. Now he thinks thirty’s young, and jokes about it, saying, he’s forever young. You know after his name.
I don’t keep track of birthdays anymore, Holiday said. No point as far as I’m concerned because getting old is the last thing I want to think about. It happens soon enough without having it on your mind all of the time.
Sam was exhausted this morning because we stayed up all night. On top of that he had a long drive to a job in Ellsworth. He’s going to photograph a famous architect’s house, then go on to Chicago to photograph some architecture there. It’s a big chance for him, and could lead to more work. The magazine is paying him quite well for the work.
I used to live in Ellsworth, Holiday said. It’s a nice town, divided into an East and West side. There’s a small stream where I used to go to look for stones and fossils to make bracelets and necklaces.
Are you from Ellsworth? Esther asked.
Ellsworth? No, I’m from Four Corners. Left home at an early age. My grandmother raised me.
After moving to Chicago I got a scholarship, to UICD. Worked part-time till I graduated, and been a jaw bone ever since. What’s Sam taking pictures of in Ellsworth?
He went there to photograph Alan Roger’s house, and his architectural school. I don’t know much about Alan Rogers, but Sam said something about him, and how he disappeared under mysterious circumstances. I saw a plaque with his name at the park yesterday, where we celebrated Sam’s party. There’s a little story about him, and his work on the park. He vanished right after the ribbon cutting. It sure is a beautiful place next to the river.
I wouldn’t worry too much about Sam, he’s probably fine, Dr. Holiday said. He could have checked into a hotel to catch up on his sleep, or pulled over for a quick snooze.
You could be right, but he’s not calling, or emailing, and that’s what I don’t understand.
If anything did happen you would have heard?
Yeah, you’re probably right. How often do you come in?
Only once or twice a week, Holiday said. So, I’ll see you next week. Got to see some patients at my clinic.
Bye, Doc.
Esther finished her reports, changed clothes, and went to the parking lot. She got in her buckskin 67’ Plymouth Barracuda coupe. It was Sam’s first car, and a present from his mother when he was in high school. He bought the GTO later, and could only drive one at a time, so he gave the Barracuda to Esther.
She left the hospital parking lot, and drove to the supermarket, bought some food, then stopped by “The Cutlass” to see if Spratt had heard from Sam.
Esther walked in, and Spratt was behind the bar. Hey!
Esther, Spratt said. Here a little early, aren’t you?
Just wondering if you’ve heard anything from Sam, she said.
Sam? Spratt said, puzzled why she’d asked. What do you mean? We were with him yesterday at the party, and he was feeling no pain.
He left early this morning to do a job. I thought he looked tired when he drove off. He didn’t get much sleep. I made him some sandwiches, and he still had a cooler with beer left over from the party in the trunk.
No, I haven’t heard from him, Spratt said. He’d call you before me, I think.
He sent a few e-mails, but I haven’t heard from him since, and I’m getting worried.
I can call a few people to find out if he’s contacted anyone, but he’d definitely get in touch with you first, wouldn’t he?
You’re probably right, thanks, but let me know if you do hear anything, Esther said. Well, I’ve got some groceries in the car, so I’d better head home. See you.
If you don’t hear from him by tomorrow call me, and we’ll get a posse together.
She laughed. Okay, thanks.
On the way home she swung by the old school playground, pulled over, and stopped. She had a clear view of the oak and the playground where they had met. Images of meeting Sam there at the bottom of the slide put a smile on her face, then a tear. In a gut wrenching whisper she said, Where are you, Sam?
ALONE
It was a long way up the steep rocky hillside. Sam felt like an ant looking up at a broken trail of trees, and pieces of his car strewn on the hillside. Can I make it to the top? he mumbled, and looked for the best place to tackle the hill. It seemed hopeless, and a tremendous task even for someone not injured.
Hopeless or not, I can’t stay here, he grumbled. I’ve got to try. I can’t give up. He headed for a spot that looked easiest to start the journey up.
One arm in front of the other he pulled and dragged his beat-up body, busted leg, and ramshackle bag of gear of odds and ends he’d collected that might prove useful. His body was weak, but his will strong. Hope failed many times as he landed face first in the dirt, again, and again, but shrugged it off as an annoyance. Compared to the pain in his body and leg, eating a little dirt just boosted his spirits, and made him more determined than ever. He didn’t enjoy Mother Nature rubbing his face in the dirt. There’s nothing I can do, he groaned, ramming his elbows into the ground for leverage, grunting and inching along. He tried shifting positions, finding the most efficient, and least painful way to crawl. Making his way forward toward his goal: the base of the hill. Progressing like sludge he rested his broken body many times. Struggling and worn out he inched ahead to the bottom of the hill.
Every time Sam stopped, he looked up to see how far he still had to go. He focused on the goal, but always loo
ked back, and checked to remind himself how far he’d just come.
Not very far, he whispered, out of breath. Still a long way to go.
The top of the hill was a long way off, and at the pace he was moving, wouldn’t reach it for a long time. He tried different crawling techniques: turning on his side, pushing with his good leg, lying on his back scooting toward the hill, rolling. Everything he tried was tricky and painful. He took a drink, closed his eyes, and rested to save strength.
After a time he noticed the insects. They’re crawling faster than I am.
Digging deep he dragged his body forward. If they can do it, so can I.
Moving ahead, elbows raw with pieces of skin hanging loosely, he took the pain, scraping at the earth. He was getting weaker, but convinced himself that he’d make it no matter what.
On, he said. On, got to move on.
Now he was going beyond the threshold of pain, and using it for strength, then in a whisper said, What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. Is that true or just bullshit? Repeating the mantra as he edged forward, but that only lasted a short time. I have to stop, need a drink, and to build up strength. Just a sip to wet my lips and mouth, quench my dry mouth, he whispered as he checked how much water was left. He didn’t swallow right away, and instead kept it in his mouth. Swishing it, savoring every drop, before finally letting it run down his gullet.
He was almost to the base of the hill, the first milestone in sight, and he was going to make this a reality. He crawled steadily, but his energy was spent.
Almost there, he thought. Goal’s in sight, then reached his hand out to clutch it. Holding it like a dance partner, spinning, jumping, and whirling. Made it! On the mark, he said. I’m there, he grunted. I . . . made it! Then breathing erratically he collapsed from exhaustion.
Thirsty for a drink he grabbed the water bottle, and held it up like a trophy watching the sun’s glowing prism form a rainbow in the bottle. He drank a well-earned reward, and dozed off.
His leg throbbed like a bass drum when he woke.
Maybe if I keep climbing it’ll take my mind off the pain. He checked his watch. Almost noon. I’m hungry. Is that a good sign? Now, how am I climbing the rest of the way?
He focused on a stump about ten feet up ahead up the hill. I can lasso it, and pull my worthless carcass up, he mumbled. It’s worth a try. He made a loop on one end of the rope, and rolled the rest in a circle.
Now, all I have to do is throw it around the stump.
He tossed it over his head, but it landed short. One more time, he said, as he pulled the rope down, and rolled it up to try again. Please, Sam moaned, this time make it, then closed his eyes, visualizing the rope landing on the stump. It can happen, it can happen, he repeated. And counted, One-two-three, and let the rope fly without looking whether he caught the stump. He got a grip, squeezed the rope in his hands. It’s there, I know it’s there on the stump. He pulled down hard, the rope was tight. It worked. He looked up the hillside smiling. The rope was around the stump. Now he could start.
All set, but not sure I’ve got the energy.
He checked the makeshift bandage around his leg, and the bag tied to his ankle that was filled with miscellaneous odds and ends he’d collected from the car. It had to be secure, there could be no mistakes, he could not climb back down. I’m ready, I guess, he said, and gave the rope one more jerk to see if it would hold.
If I had two good legs it would take me about ten minutes to climb up this hill, he thought. I wonder how long it’ll take crawling up on my belly. I’m not turning back. Up’s the only way out. This climb compares to an ultra- marathon like the one in Leadville, Colorado, where runners battled to be the king of the mountain. The only one to beat is me, he thought.
This was Sam’s ultra-marathon. He was a competitor in a race for one-legged broken-down contestants. He was stretching the strength he had left, finding the will to win, and the prize was life, and a future with Esther.
One more drink, he said, then he put the bottle in the make-shift case strapped to his leg.
He pulled and pushed with his good leg, inching his way to the stump above, gripping the rope, lugging and grunting. Electric impulses of pain blasted through his leg.
It’s heavy, feels like my skin and muscle are being ripped off my leg. I wish I had something to kill the pain, he mumbled. My leg is exploding.
Sam grabbed the rope with both hands, and scraped at the hillside with his good leg. He rammed his foot into the ground, digging, digging, and digging in the dirt like a scoop shovel. I can do this. I can . . . do this!
Catching his breath while trying to get a foothold, he took a short break. He held the rope in his raw, worn hands, and relaxed when he knew he was safe. He rested his head on the ground, the rope still in his hands, and closed his eyes.
Sam opened his eyes after hearing a fly buzzing around his head. Any other time he would have swatted it away, but he was alone and didn’t mind having a fly for company. He watched it prance up and down his arm. Its thin little legs tickled as it crawled down his hand, then it turned around, and flew away. It came back a number of times. Any sensation is better than pain, Sam whispered. How are you today, Mr. Fly? What are you thinking about? I’m climbing up the hill now, and you’re welcome to tag along, or meet me up there at the stump. Sam moved his hand, the fly disappeared. Well, if you change your mind, see you at the stump.
Sam made his way up the side of the hill, then thought, The fly probably likes the smell of my blood. Maybe he’ll bring his friends along, and they’ll have a feast. Hordes of them will come, and suck every drop of blood out of my leg. I’m losing my . . . mind. My leg’s stiff as a board, but I’m going to make it. I’m going to make it.
Sam inched his way up the hill.
I’m getting out of here, he mumbled.
He was stressed, and winced with every pull. The pain kept him going, comfort came knowing that if he could make it to the top, and find help, he’d get home.
Of course what’ll happen if I don’t make it crossed his mind. What’s the local paper going to say about me? What are people going to say? How will they describe my last moments clawing up the hill? Or the reason for the accident? Maybe I should leave a message. Write down my last words. Hell, can’t do that; haven’t got a pencil. What’s going to happen in the end? Will I float out of my body, and watch my own funeral? Stop thinking about dying, he yelled. Boy, that hill looks high and steep.
He turned to the echo of a shadow voice reverberating and repeating what he had just said. It resonated in the trees, was clear, and boomed to someone watching out in the distance. Sam scanned the valley, focusing on his wrecked car below, and the random chrome pieces shimmering in the sunlight. His eyelids flickered, it was light, dark, then bright.
I’m getting out, he yelled. Going up!
After the discharge of defiance Sam lost his grip on the rope, and slid down to where he had started. When he tried to stop, his leg in the makeshift splint twisted under his body.
Damn it!
The anguish echoed through the trees, and through the valley.
Man, you’d think someone would have heard that scream?
Then it was quiet again. He heard the breeze rustle the leaves, then a fly buzzed by and landed on the rope. His heart beat faster, and his breathing was hard.
Are you the same one that was here before? Sam asked. Probably not, he mumbled, and picked up some dirt, tossed it on the rope where the fly sat. It vanished.
Sam made it back up to the spot where he had slipped. While he rested another fly landed on the rope, then buzzed around his head. Under the sunlight it glowed like a diamond. What should I call you? Sam asked. You look like a flickering diamond. There are lot’s of diamonds in jewelry stores. I’ll call you the Jewelry Store Fly. Sam began to make-up a poem about the fly. Delirium was setting in.
This day is hot!
Heat from the sun
Penetrates its body
The jewelry
store catches its eye
Every jewelry store
Catches its eye
You might say—
He’s a jewelry store fly
Up to the window he goes
Looking at everything that glows
Long, long, long, long, long, long
Everything shimmers and shines
Diamonds and gold, rings and watches
Hands go round and round
Time ticking away on the face
Number by number, count the days
Long, long, long, long, long, long
It all shimmers and shines
Glass in the display, ice on a hot day
Black stones, green rocks, red gems
Silver chains, looking for treasure
This is what the fly does
Travels from shop to shop
Like a farmer checking a crop
Step by step, window by window
In displays appear—
Jewelry you can wear
On your hands and feet
Through the nose or ear
Around the neck
Chain link gold, a ton is sold
New design under foot for his eye alone
Color and tone, twinkling shone
A circle in the middle of a square
Rising up from the ground
Under his shoe it went
Eyes scanning people
A beam of light bent
Rainbows of color
Spawn reflections
Dent ripples of water
The edge of the shore
Keyhole and a seam of light
Catches dust from under the door
Hanging in the air
A floating candle flare
Burning so bright
Long, long, long, long, long, long
Waited to find this jewel
And there it was
Right under his shoe
Hands over face
Breathing room at last
Tomorrow search again
For a new prize never seen
More real than known
A wish, hope, and a new dream