“Don’t be sorry, just—I want a say before my whole history is paraded before strangers. That’s like an attack.” He sat at the breakfast table with Tom. He didn’t mean to cause a commotion, but he couldn’t let it go either.
Cory commenced washing dishes when the discussion started. His friend was enraged, his yellowish flicker was interspersed with dirty red flames, yet his voice was measured and soft. His affection for Tom trumped the old man’s actions. With anyone else, Micah would have been in his face and ready to throw a punch.
Micah stood and proceeded to put his arm around Mr. Dorsey’s neck as an act of forgiveness. “Thank you for thinking about me and considering my needs. I love you for that,” and then he walked out to do his chores. Cory smiled and followed.
The old man sat thinking. He felt Micah’s anger, but the boy controlled his language and his demeanor. Not only had he grown physically but Micah had matured emotionally as well.
Monday was a day for clashes. Micah went to school annoyed and stayed that way, ready to explode at the first opportunity, but he managed to control himself until track and the critique of Saturday’s races. Coach Britt was rough on Micah, but the boy said nothing until after practice, and he went to see the coach privately. “The 5K race should have been canceled. The track was in bad shape to begin with, and it was dangerous after the rain. My friend was hurt because of that track and the referees’ crappy job. They didn’t even take the time to walk or inspect it. Kevin could have broken an ankle.”
“Every sport has some risks. If you don’t like the hazards, don’t run.” The coach spoke in a matter of fact manner which pissed Micah off even more.
“When do the risks become unacceptable? Do I make that decision or do the officials? The runners depend upon you and the referees to make the competition safe. I think that Tom Dorsey would call that a fiduciary obligation, to act in the best interests of the athletes.” Micah simmered.
“You sound like an attorney.” Coach Britt half smiled. “But I get your point, and you’re right. But the track was in an acceptable condition for the race. We have tumbles all of the time. So if you’re expecting me to apologize, I hate to disappoint you.”
Micah stood. “My friend was hurt, and I feel somehow to blame.”
“Why would you be blamable? That seems screwy.”
“The only reason I won the race was because he fell. It should have been his win.”
“It could have been you that fell. Do you think he would have responded the same way if the roles were reversed? I doubt it.
“Yeah, Kevin would react the same way.” Micah was quiet for a moment and needed to defuse the conversation he initiated. “I heard that you’re going to St. John’s as their head coach?” Micah caught Britt off-guard, and he smiled to see the coach’s surprise.
Coach Britt’s eyes widened. “Where did you hear that? Keep it to yourself. I haven’t told Mr. Symington. My contract here is up at the end of the month. The offer from St. John’s is too good not to accept.”
“Mr. Dorsey and the Krigsmans want me to go there,” Micah answered. “I think they used you as a means to get me to agree.” Micah watched the Coach.
“Really? Did it work?”
“Maybe, but it’s not just me. They also offered scholarships to Cory, Dane and Tandy.”
Coach smiled. “The school wants good students. They pride themselves both on their academics and sports. They have one of the highest graduation rates in Texas, and the percentage of their students going to and graduating from college is outstanding. It would be good to have you boys in athletics again.”
Micah looked down at his letterman sweater. “Well, you are a big part of my decision,” and smiled as he left for boxing.
It was Fitness Assessment Day at boxing practice. This was their second assessment, and the coach was measuring them for improvements over the first month of training. The exercise took the entire period. Coach Ramsey said that everyone was progressing well, and that he was “proud” of their effort; but Guy was absent, and for him to miss was abnormal, because he enjoyed the physicality of the program. As he thought about his friend, he suddenly developed a crushing headache that almost dropped him to the floor. It lasted only a moment and then it was gone.
Cory and Micah sat on the porch near the creek after Mr. Dorsey had collected them from boxing practice. It seemed like summertime, the temperature that day hit 90°. Haze ran up to the barn from the pipeline and lay at their feet. The other coyotes followed. They did not reject their domesticated son, but Haze was part of Cory’s pack now, and evidently he did not want to leave.
“Has Dane and Tandy said anything about St. John’s?” Micah asked Cory.
“Nope, they are waiting for you. They’ll go wherever you go. It’s school, so they don’t really care. You know, six of one and half dozen of the other.”
“Their parents’ don’t have a problem?”
“Guess not,” Cory reached down to scratch Haze’s ears. “They understand in some off-the-wall way that the four of us are connected. Tandy’s mom likes you, and Dane’s dad wouldn’t care if he was in boarding school a 1000 miles away; it’s not a good home. Dane is hurting.”
“We’re gonna loose him.” Cory could hear sadness in Micah’s voice. “He’s at the end of his rope. He’s been staying here more often than not. His dad seems to go out of his way to upset him. That thing with Puckers was bad. He hates his dad more than his stepmother. He…”
“He wishes that he were dead,” Dane finished the sentence as he walked around the corner of the barn. “I’ll be okay. You don’t need to worry about me,” He joined his two friends on the concrete steps. “It’s only a few more years and then I can get away.”
“Anyone want to run?” Dane was ready to go. Micah and Cory put on their shoes and headed to the old hospital.
As they approached the crumbling building, they saw heavy equipment parked in the rear yard. The boys went to the front, and the door to the residence was open and obviously vacant, the caretaker gone.
“They’re getting ready to knock it down.” Micah’s voice was melancholy. “Things come and go. That’s the way of life.”
“God Bucky, it’s only a derelict building,” Cory flashed his irritation.
Micah ignored his friend’s reproach but took-off, followed by his buddies, into the ruin for the last time, flying up the stairs to the roof. He surveyed the old chimney where he once perched high above the ground to gaze over the night shrouded prairie, seeing himself stand on the narrow height dancing to his gods: Sky, Moon, Earth, and to the Black Mother who surrounded him in peace. He climbed the 12 feet to the top of the chimney, to his abandoned alter for a final time and raised his arms in adoration of the Mysteries. In the distance, the Shadow Choir mingled with the night song of the coyote chorus in a serenade.
Cory and Dane watched the celebrant circle the chimney above them. They too were engulfed in Micah’s ecstasy. Deep within their heart they frolicked with an evangelical presence, enigmatic and unfathomable. As their brother-shaman twirled on the narrow brick stack above, they weaved in and out of splendor below. Micah stopped and jumped onto the roof. They stood together quietly before heading out of the building and into the dark steppe, their run an extension of their praise to an elder and unknown pantheon, and they sprinted silently and madly following no trail and having no destination. Yet they ended up back at the barn unplanned and accidently.
Micah lay on his bed still sweaty from exertion and gently falling into sleep. He always had eccentric and vivid dreams, visions of another place, an imaginal kingdom that was fluid and symbolic. And the dream he had this night was just as bizarre and as off the wall as any he ever had except this one was extremely physical. He struggled to describe it. The boys sat at the breakfast table with Mr. Dorsey as Micah told his dream story. It was difficult because much of it was embarrassing (and funny and gratifying). As he got into the more sordid details, Cory and Dane had big grins, and Tom look
ed down at the table.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Tom stood up. That’s a normal kind of dream boys your age have. It’s part of the growing up process. It’s not something you should be talking about.”
“Why? If it’s normal, we should be able to talk about it. I don’t understand.” Micah was playing with the old man, who got easily embarrassed.
“Well I don’t want to hear it, so get your legs in motion and do the chores.”
The boys laughed as they worked. “Yeah, JJ told me about wet dreams,” Dane reported.
Cory piped in, “I’ve had wet dreams for ages. You’re just playing catch-up.”
Micah and Dane looked at one another and tackled Cory and started to depants him. He fought like a maniac, throwing punches and making contact a couple of times. The boys stopped and fell to the ground laughing while Cory rebuckled his belt. Then they heard the bell ring for first period.
“Jeeze, we’re late,” Dane flew toward the school followed by the others. They took their seats in Math class 15 minutes late. Mrs. Stein leered at the boys, but she did not send them to the office.
It was a good day, and it flew by. He walked out of track, damp and fresh from the shower, bouncing into the truck next to Tom who was sullen and gray. Micah instantly became engulfed with dread. “What’s up?” He asked, but the old man only shook his head without looking at him. The boy’s guts twisted in pain; his emotional agony became physical discomfort.
They pulled into the driveway at the ranch house. His mom’s car was parked near the barn. Micah ran into the kitchen. Isabella and his mother were at the table, their eyes moist and red. Millie motioned for her son to come closer and she embraced him tightly.
“Micah, Guy Derocher died yesterday evening. There was an auto accident. I am so sorry.” Both his mother and Isabella started weeping again, and Micah sat stunned and detached.
Guy had been his friend when he had no other. They were ski buddies; they hiked together. Guy was born on May 2nd and Micah on May 3rd. He was numb and unable to say a word as he walked out of the kitchen and headed to the barn. He loaded Puckers with some supplies, and then saddled Nellie. He wrote a note for Tom, “Gone to the 287 Bridge campsite. See you tomorrow night. Don’t be mad.”
By the time he got to the old encampment, it was starting to get dark. First securing Nellie and Puckers, he collected enough firewood to last through the night and then tossed his sleeping bag down and lay in the open prairie uncovered, his mind blank. He was asleep before the sun set having never started a fire.
Micah woke in the dark with a light drizzle falling. He was damp and crawled into his bedroll. His mind was in conflict. Guy’s death created a paradox. He knew intuitively that death was not a finale. In fact, it was freedom, a cause for celebration. Yet his whole body wept, and he did not understand his grief.
The light rain enhanced the odor of the range. It had a wild smell, a masculine tang. Nobody ever mentioned an aroma associated with a feeling or a person, but Micah was always surrounded by different scents, a fragrance for every person: the Black Mother with jasmine and roses; Harry with a nauseatingly sweet aftershave smell. And when Micah was contented, Mr. Dorsey said he would smell lavender and sage—that was his odor (but Tom also said that he smelled like a goat, which caused him to chuckle).
“Guy has a smell?” Micah thought back to their trip to Ute Lake. “A peppery scent, that’s what Guy has,” he said quietly, grinning as his mind roamed. This is what he missed, why he needed to be alone sometimes, to let his thoughts wonder. He closed his eyes and returned to sleep.
He awoke with the sun up and uncertain of the time. It appeared to be midmorning. There was a cough behind him and he jumped. Tom Dorsey was watching him from his horse. Micah stood with head downcast but smiling. “Am I in trouble?”
“You did what I wanted to do, so no, you’re not in trouble. I appreciate the note. You’re disappearance upset your mother and it took a while to get her calmed. I called school and told them that you might be out the rest of the week.” Tom paused for a moment. “I am sorry about Guy. Loosing someone you love is always traumatic.”
“I don’t understand that, a trauma. It should be a celebration. My thoughts and my feelings contradict each other.”
Tom smiled. “That is a kind of selfishness. I am not trying to be mean when I say that. Guy is not going to be in your life, and you’re feeling that loss. You will miss him. You are also hurting for his family. If you weren’t mourning, I would be concerned. That is why they have funerals. It is not for the dead. It is for the living, for family and friends to say goodbye.”
Micah was quiet for a moment. Then he stood and started packing up for the ride home.
~
Mr. and Mrs. Derocher stood behind the priest who greeted the people as they came into St. John’s Chapel. Micah followed his mother and Isabella into the church, and as he stepped through the door and past the cleric, Mrs. Derocher enfolded him both with her arms and her grief, sobbing uncontrollably; he became a momentary surrogate for her son. Micah almost collapsed from her pain.
He sat at the back of the sanctuary next to the center aisle by himself until Cory arrived with his parents. The two boys were left alone. Micah was grieving, and so was Cory who was distressed for Micah—that is why he came. The casket rested at the front of the church, a white lacquered box closed and draped in a pall. Stands of blue dyed carnations and red roses stood at the foot of the coffin, and a portrait of Guy graced its head. Micah read through the Order of the Service. Such a thing was alien to him. On the opposite side of the leaflet was the Responsorial. He saw his name next to it. He would read that in front of all of these people. Kevin Derocher asked him to recite it as Guy’s friend, and Micah would never say no:
O God, my God—
It is you I seek!
For you my body yearns;
For you my soul thirsts,
From a land parched, lifeless, waterless,
I stand within your temple,
To receive your succor,
To behold your brilliance.
I bless you in life;
I am blest by you in death.
My raised hands proclaim your name.
My soul is satisfied in your praise!
You are my liberator, my redeemer.
I am joyous in your presence.
My soul clings to you forever
And forever.[6]
Micah read it over and over. He was nervous, unprepared. Cory explained how he would say a line; wait for the congregation to read the response; and then continue.
He heard Kevin reading a Bible verse. Micah looked up and stared at the grieving boy, who held unto the lectern within a fine vapor that extended from the coffin. Cory handed him a kerchief; tears dribbled down his cheek unknowingly while he listened to Kevin’s voice breaking.
Micah crawled into his quiet and safe place for a moment, until Cory shook his arm, “Go!”
Micah rose and walked to the lectern. He beheld the congregation. The Derocher family sat in the front row near the casket, an icon of the Bleeding Heart of Jesus stood beneath him. Guy’s school mates filled half of the room; the other half family and friends. Micah looked down and quickly refocused his mind. His voice deepened as the prayer echoed across the room: “O God, my God.” He listened to the congregants recite the response before continuing, his voice virile, controlled, and resonating. He paced the reading like he would a 5K race, repeating each verse slowly and determined, so that his words would hang in the air to become living as the mourners captured their meaning. “For you my body yearns.”
The atmosphere was ethereal as he ignored the white box that enclosed his friend lying below him. He felt very small and alone in front of the mourners. At the back of the chapel, the air seemed to vibrate, then a bright light flashed and Guy formed out of nothingness, making a face causing Micah to grin. The dead boy seemed physical, cupping his hands to his mouth and speaking directly into Micah’s ear fro
m across the room before fading away. At the end of the reading, he paused and then stepped down, walking to the parents and sharing a private message with them. He returned to his seat next to Cory.
“What did you say to Mrs. Derocher?” Cory inquired.
Micah would not answer but sat relaxed and relieved. A peppery aroma drifted through the sanctuary. As the priest read the homily, Guy stood next to his casket. He was dressed in his red ski trunks and a plain white t-shirt. He waved; Micah and Cory raised their hands. Both boys looked around to see if anyone else noticed the dead boy. Guy smiled and leapt onto the pall covered box and did a little jig, and then stood on his two hands summersaulting and laughing. Immediately Guy stood next to them screaming the words he had whispered to Micah earlier: “I live!” Only the two friends saw him, and they were the only ones that heard his shout.
~
He walked into the dressing room to change for the track meet with Vega. Micah hung his borrowed suit in the locker, slipped on his shorts and jersey, pulled on his running shoes. He expected to be somber following the funeral. But he was animated and happy. Guy reminded him that in reality, it was he, Micah, who was truly dead, enslaved within a falsehood called reality—a fact that he knew but sometimes forgot.
“Sherwood, a moment,” Coach Britt called him into his office. “Are you ready for this? Sometime we forget our priorities. Are your priorities straight?”
Micah was totally confused at Coach’s words. He looked closer at the man. “I was reminded of my priorities today but I am fine. Thanks for your concern but it’s misplaced.” The coach brightened up, nodded his head and the two went to the field for warm up.
The Vega team was already suited and making ready for the meet. In the stands, he saw Tom Dorsey and the track team from Tierra Verde. Lindy was in the center of the field jumping and cheering. Sitting alone at the far end of the bleachers was Monsignor Mathias dressed in his pastoral garb. Micah jogged over to him.
Willow Wood Road: Lavender and Sage Page 23