by David Athey
Jon spit into his hand and snuffed out his cigarette. He dropped the butt into a soda can beside the bed and jumped to his feet. "C'mon, Danny. If something horrible happens to Holly, you'll never forgive yourself."
I turned and peered out the window. Many acres away, out among the spring-green shoots of corn, my father and little sister were standing in the muddy field. We'd had two bad years in a row. Father and Holly were praying, hands raised.
"Okay," I said. "You keep an eye on Mom and Grandma. And I'll search Holly's room."
"I want to look with you, Danny."
"No. You won't be careful enough. She has nativity sets all over the place. You'll step on a baby Jesus, and that'll be the end of you."
Jon was surprised. "You've been in her room before? I didn't think she let anyone in there except for Mom and Grandma."
"Yeah, I've been in there. Holly and I have discussed whether or not to search your room."
Jon laughed and then slipped out into the hallway and down the stairs to spy on the ladies in the kitchen.
I snuck into Holly's room and searched her dresser and closet and under the bed. I peeked inside of shoe boxes and crayon boxes. I searched in the manger of the large nativity set and in her backpack. And I found nothing. It appeared that Jose hadn't sent anything through the mail. I breathed a sigh of relief and sat on her bed and thanked God, and then I stood and impulsively reached under the mattress. There was a stack of about ten cards and letters, tied with a red Christmas bow.
I untied the bow and examined the first envelope. It was expensive, ivory, scented with cologne. There was no return address, but the postmark was from Slow Creek, a small town about sixty miles away. My hands trembled when I opened the envelope and pulled out the card.
It was a Mother's Day card, with a scratchy handwritten note. "Soon, you'll be a mother. And we'll name the child Jesus. Love, your Secret Boy."
A few minutes later, when I showed the card to Jon, his face went ashen and he was quiet for a long while. Finally, he said, "We're driving over to Slow Creek in the morning. Bring your knife."
We ate breakfast with the family at first light. Jon and I nibbled dry toast and sipped some orange juice in silence. We let Grammy and Father do all of the talking as they debated the Resurrection of the just and whether or not those who rise from the graves will still have some of their earthly wounds, just as Jesus kept his.
Grammy adjusted her glasses. "The disciples needed to see those wounds, and touch them, in order to fully believe. But when Jesus ascended to Paradise, his wounds were healed."
Father shook his head. "In Heaven, we'll all be showing our wounds-to remind us of where we've been. Scars in Heaven will be beauty marks."
Jon and I excused ourselves from the table. We kissed Mother on the cheek, smiled at Holly, and waved good-bye to Grammy and Father, who were oblivious in their talk of new flesh.
We put on our sunglasses and went out to the utility shed and fired up Jon's motorcycle, a junkyard special that was part Honda and part Harley and really an accident waiting to happen. We rumbled down the gravel driveway and paused at the mailbox. However, instead of turning toward the rising sun and going to school, we went west, speeding toward our conjoined shadow. Jon wore his leather jacket and I was dressed in denim. He was seventeen and I was fourteen.
I never put my arms around my brother when we rode the bike, but that morning was different. I could feel the knife in the pocket over his heart, and I knew he meant business. The knife was a Rambo, cinematically deified in First Blood. With its long wide blade and secret compartment in the handle, the knife could do anything-give you true north, catch a fish, cut down a tree, start a fire, and scare the hell out of Jose.
My own knife, a Bowie, continued to rust in the shed. While praying through the night, I had sensed God telling me the weapon would not be needed.
We sped down the country avenue, and I wondered if Jon had prayed about this situation. And I wondered if he'd gotten a message.
"Let's sing," he said, his words rushing past my ears.
"Good idea!"
Jon cocked his head slightly. Even though I couldn't see his face, I could tell he was smiling, thrilled to be on a mission, speeding down a road of wild flowers and greening fields.
"Go Down Moses!" he shouted.
And we sang: "Go down Moses, way down to the land of Egypt. Tell old Pharaoh to let my people go. Go down Moses, way down to the land of Egypt. Tell old Pharaoh to let my people go."
We sang spirituals, hymns, and Dylan songs until we reached the city limits of Slow Creek. The town was small and yet stretched, as if reaching to be put on a map; and the moment we zoomed past the welcome sign, a mongrel dog began chasing us.
"Good boy!" I said.
The dog suddenly turned toward the morning freight train as if the cars were full of bones or other treats.
Slow Creek seemed desolate as a ghost town. Not a soul in sight, until we saw a mulleted mailman ambling down the sidewalk.
"He's a sign from God," I said.
"Maybe," Jon said, slowing down.
He steered the motorcycle over the curb. The bike bounced and rattled as if breaking apart, and I was nearly thrown to the ground. Jon drove into the grass between the road and the sidewalk, put down his leg for support, and reached into his leather jacket.
The mailman's eyes were wide. "Don't rob me. It's just a Tuesday. I don't have many paychecks."
Jon said, "We're not here to rob you. We need your help."
The lanky mailman stared quizzically. After a few moments, he seemed to believe that we weren't bandits. "I think I've seen you before," he said. "At the state fair."
Jon pulled out the ivory envelope. "Do you recognize the handwriting? Do you know who wrote this?"
The mailman squinted. "Hmm. Maybe."
"Who is it?" I asked. "Is it a boy named Jose? Is he really sixteen? Is he nice?"
The mailman shook his head. "Can't tell you. It's against the law."
"Tell us who this creep is," Jon threatened, "or else-"
I covered Jon's mouth and said, "We respect your rule of secrecy, but our little sister, Holly, is involved in something that could be dangerous. We're just trying to make sure that she's safe. You might have a young sister, or a daughter, so maybe you can understand how we feel. We're afraid she could be involved with a stalker, or even a rapist. Please understand, this is urgent. Will you tell us who addressed the envelope? Is it really a boy named Jose?"
The mailman held his breath for a moment. He sighed and shook his head. "Can't tell you. I could lose my job. I have three children at home."
My hand still covered Jon's mouth. He bit into a finger and freed his lips. "One of your children," he said to the mailman, "could become a victim of the creep. We're doing you a favor by confronting him."
The mailman ran a hand through his mullet. "I'm really sorry, but I can't tell you whose writing is on the envelope. But I can tell you that we have a hog processing plant. It employs many immigrants, legal and illegal. You could probably find someone named Jose among the butchers."
"You're a good man," Jon said, "and a good father. Now, which way is the processing plant?"
The mailman pointed. "Go six blocks to the last street in town, and turn left. Then just follow the smell."
"Thank you," I said.
Jon revved the motorcycle, and we sped away.
The hog plant was a hulking cement building that squatted over an oversized parking lot recently paved with new tar. Despite the noise of the motorcycle, we could hear shrieking pigs when we pulled up beside a large truck. Pink snouts were poking through the breathing holes.
We jumped off the bike. Jon muttered, "Poor things."
"Maybe we should set the pigs free," I said. "They could help us by causing a diversion."
"We don't need a diversion. Listen, Danny. Things could get ugly inside. Stay behind me, okay? Follow my lead with everything."
Inside the plant, we we
re immediately confronted by a short man in a white smock. His nametag said "Mark Taylor, V.P." He looked us over and demanded to know, "What is your business here?"
Jon gave him the ivory envelope. Mr. Taylor slowly opened it, and smirked.
Jon said, "The man who signed the card is trying to have relations with my little sister."
There was another smirk.
Jon spoke with a threatening voice, "Mr. Taylor, if one of your employees is doing anything illegal, or is perhaps in the country illegally, you could get some bad press. Or big fines. Maybe even get shut down."
Mr. Taylor's smirk got angry. "You son of a sow," he said.
Jon, who was over six feet tall, glared down at the V.P. "What did you say?"
"Son of a sow," Taylor repeated, putting the card back into the envelope. He shouted, "Olsen!"
Through the sounds of breaking bones and ripping flesh, a voice replied, "Yeah, Boss?"
Taylor pointed at the source of the voice and said, "There's your man. You can ask him your questions, as long as you do it after work."
"Okay," Jon said. "But can we just talk to him now?"
"Well, all right. I'll give you two minutes. That's it. We have pork chops that need chopping."
Olsen, a fat forty-year-old with boils on his nose, frowned when we strode over to his cutting table. "Get away from me," he said. "I have work to do, and you boys are breaking federal regulations."
Jon was seething, too angry to speak. So I asked the butcher, "Have you been sending cards and letters to someone named Holly?"
Olsen scratched his nose, inflaming the boils, then spit on the floor.
"Speaking of federal regulations," I said.
Jon pulled out the envelope. "Did you send this to my little sister?"
Olsen took the envelope in his red hands and glanced at the handwriting. He removed the card, read it very slowly, and smiled. "No," he said. "I don't think I wrote this. My Ls are much more elegant."
He shoved the bloody card back into the envelope and handed it to me. "You boys go home now."
Jon went berserk. He lurched toward the cutting table and pounded his fists into the hunks of pork. "You messed with the wrong family!"
Olsen laughed and grabbed a knife.
I tried to pull Jon back to safety, but he wouldn't budge.
Olsen spit on his blade as if for luck. Some of the spit hit Jon in the face and, in an angry flash, the Rambo knife appeared.
I yanked Jon back a few feet-it took all of my strengthand whispered into his ear, "Cut me."
"What?"
"Cut me. It'll scare him. Just do it."
Many times before, I had asked my brother to hurt me, believing that suffering would inspire me to write a spiritual. But Jon had always refused, telling me I was crazy.
Olsen, his face crimson and sneering, said, "Bring it on, hero. The winner gets to kiss your sister."
Jon turned and slashed down on my chest with the Rambo knife, and I didn't flinch.
Olsen trembled.
Jon shouted at him, "Admit that you sent the card!"
"It wasn't me," his purple lips lied.
Now a crowd of meatcutters had formed. Knives of all shapes and sizes surrounded us. The cutters could have ended the situation, but they allowed the scene to play out.
My brother leaned over Olsen's table. "You claimed to be a teenager named Jose! You were going to rape her!"
Jon's eyes were animal-wild. In the next moment Olsen would be dead.
We've taken too much into our own hands, I thought. We never should have come here. Now I'm bleeding and somebody is about to die.
Jon tried to stab Olsen's heart, but I pulled him back just in time. We wrestled until my body was between Jon's and the cutting table. I could feel Olsen's furious panting convulsing out of his nose and mouth; and I could see the murderous glint in Jon's eyes. His knife was already familiar with my skin, and I wondered if he would cut me again, this time deeper.
He gritted his teeth. "Danny, what are you doing?"
"Saving you."
My brother put his knife to my throat. "Saving me? Or saving him?"
My head was swimming. The strain of the fight and my bleeding and the stench of carcasses caused me to sway and nearly faint. Just then two meatcutters grabbed my brother and Olsen, and several others helped to wrest the weapons away. There were shouts for 9-1-1 and bandages.
Suddenly I was down on the floor, passed out and dreaming, and someone brought me back to my senses by pouring cold water on my face and chest.
Mr. Taylor appeared with disinfectant and a towel. He helped me get my T-shirt off and dabbed at my chest. "Sorry if this stings, but it doesn't look like you'll need stitches. I don't know what your brother was trying to prove, but at least the cut is superficial."
Jon, being restrained by several butchers, kept saying, "I'm sorry, Danny. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Eventually, the sheriff's deputy arrived. He questioned everyone and then made a few phone calls and took Olsen into custody.
"I didn't do anything!" he shouted. "That girl wrote to me!"
The next day, the deputy visited our farm and asked Holly to turn over the correspondence she'd had with the fictional Jose. After that, for the entire summer, she moped around the farm, suffering her first and only broken heart. Yet she still kept handing out Christmas presents every morning.
Jon leaned back in the booth and sniffed the air wafting through Kate's Home Cookin'. "Pork still smells good," he said, "even after that day in the hog plant."
I nodded, although I disagreed. And then I changed the subject. "If Holly were alive today, what would she be?"
Jon smiled. "A musician and an artist, and everything she already was."
"I think Holly would have gotten into some kind of church work, maybe youth camps and things like that. She would've inspired a lot of kids."
Jon and I both teared up, and I was beginning to feel very close to him again.
A muscular woman strode out of the kitchen and overshadowed our table. Her blue sleeves were rolled up. "What's with the weepy eyes?" she said. "Did I cut too many onions?"
"We were just reminiscing," my brother said, "and wondering how things might have been different."
Kate looked puzzled for a moment. She ran a hand over her hairnet, found a few loose ends, and yanked them out. She winced. "Hey, I know you. Jon and Danny. How are you?"
Before we could answer, Kate leaned over the table, reached out with her strong arms and forced a group hug. Everyone in the cafe stared, including Dot, the waitress. She shuffled over, saying, "Hey, aren't you guys part of the Gospel Family?"
"We used to be," I said.
Dot beamed. "I saw your family play in Iowa City one summer on the Fourth of July. It was better than the fireworks."
Kate nodded and said, "I have a great idea! Why don't the Gospel Brothers give us a little concert-something inspiring on this gloomy night?"
Jon shrugged, deferring to me.
"We don't have our musical instruments," I said coldly. "Jon sold them at the auction."
Dot grinned, oblivious to the tension. "In the middle of your concert, everyone left the circle of torches except for you two. Remember? You stood arm-in-arm and sang, "I've got a song, you've got a song. All of God's children got a song."
Dot paused, waiting for us to join in. We didn't, so she continued. "When I get to heaven, I'm gonna sing a new song. I'm gonna sing all over God's heaven."
Jon applauded politely, but I sat motionless. "C'mon," Kate said, "sing one song for us. And I'll cook for you, free of charge. I'll even pay for my own ,) tip.
Dot, who was not a small waitress, began jumping up and down. "Please, please! Sing! I love those old songs, like `That Old Time Religion.' They don't make songs like that anymore. Please sing for us. Please?"
The look on my brother's face suggested he'd be willing to perform, but I was hesitant. For years now, I felt like it was all over-the singing, the shouting, e
verything.
After Holly and Grammy were buried, the Gospel Family mourned, and then regrouped and started performing again. That's when the audiences began to sing along. We had lost two voices and gained thousands. But when Mother died, I thought the band was finished because her harp had been the heart of our music. At Mother's burial, my father could barely stand, slumping near to the grave. My body was tense and electric, and my ears were ringing with expectation after the final amen of the service. Dad was going to say something, or perhaps pray something more, or maybe softly sing to his wife's memory. Raising himself to his full height, shoulders straight, he tilted his head heavenward. Half smiling, his eyes narrowed into the blue-gray sky, and he whispered, "If you kill us all, who's gonna sing for you?"
The customers in Kate's cafe were waiting, not eating their food, not drinking their coffee. Eventually, Jon stood and said, "Thank you for remembering us. But my brother and I don't sing anymore, at least not together. We haven't seen each other since last year. And we're just going to have some dinner now, if everyone would kindly respect our privacy."
Dot was not giving up. "But you're the Gospel Boys. That's your gift. You sing for people."
"Sorry," I said. "We are not the `Gospel Boys.' Once upon a time, we were part of the Gospel Family. But those days are over. Understand?"
Dot did not understand. "God gave you a gift, and you're supposed to share it. Just like the song says: `Hide it under a bushel, no! I'm gonna let it shine!"'
Jon's eyes darkened. He glared. "Find someone else to soothe your soul. We're not in that business anymore."
Dot burst into tears and retreated into the kitchen.
Kate shook her head at us. "This is why people don't believe in Christianity. Because people like you pretend to be followers of Jesus, but deep down you're just selfish and mean."
Jon stood and grabbed my arm and pulled me from the table. "I'm sorry, Kate," he said. "Danny and I are trying to work out some issues. But that's no excuse to be selfish and mean. I apologize."