Patient_Crew

by Hannah Kaplan

  “You were expecting me,” I said to the sketched picture of Momma that hung above the pellet stove. I felt safe. I didn’t feel threatened by whoever was doing these things, marking the path, cleaning the land and giving me flowers. I felt welcomed and wanted. I sat in the chair and sank into the down cushions. It was like sitting on a cloud. The cushions were made from heavy burlap that someone had finger-painted with die using all the colors of the rainbow. They looked like an Art Deco painting stuffed with feathers. I was sure Marla would love them.

  I started reading Momma’s journals where I had stopped when Jim came over. The entry on January 9, 1984, one day before her seventeenth birthday, was the last entry for two months:

  ****

  March 13, 1984

  I came home yesterday so happy to be home. I never want to go back to that house. NEVER! NEVER! Supper was good.

  ****

  March 30, 1984

  I went into town with Daddy, but people stared at me. I started screaming. Daddy said I should stay home from now on.

  ****

  April 15, 1984

  Daddy is moving me to Gram’s house on the land.

  ****

  “Gram’s house?” I questioned. This is her Grandmothers house? Pop didn’t build it for Momma. Who built it for her Grandmother and which Grandmother, Zeffie’s mother? The pages from that point on were filled with what some might see as the ramblings of a maniac, but I knew better. Momma had her own crew. She must have realized on her own that writing helped silence them.

  ****

  Sarah Michelle was hit with a rock her blood was splattered around three blocks the man with the hole in his hand did the deed if you understand. Jeremy Rockets said there were stones in his pockets and threw one directly to the head before he cocked it. Night comes before day, and then day before night the confusion sets in and we know not one from the other. 612398756473890576483023-04955677893-02847-58493049875-2417 south of 35 north of 20 east of 80.

  ****

  There were hundreds of pages in the notebooks just like this. They would have made no sense to her or anyone else. I opened another box and flipped through the books it housed. They were also filled with ramblings of words and numbers. I picked one from the box marked eleven and noticed a small penciled star next to some of the writings. I flipped through the books in box number ten and saw the same star. I thumbed through the first book I’d read and found just one star, next to a two-sentence phrase, and this one was dated:

  ****

  April 13, 1985

  Bobby G it seems is a very bad boy. He drank his Sunday whiskey and then at one, two, three he bashed his head into a tree. Drunken in a city on the shore and nowhere to go but home to the only one he adores. She left his heart broken without so much as a token of the love he thought was evermore.

  ****

  Written below the star in different color ink was:

  ****

  Bobby Garner died Sunday May 1, 1985 at 1:23 AM.

  ****

  She did know Bobby Garner would die. She’d written it before he died, and her voices had predicted it. Believing Momma’s voices told the future meant mine did too. Believing was like jumping off a cliff; you’re never able to turn back. I looked through the notebooks until the sun went down, and my stomach was growling to be fed. The coffee I’d brought with me had long since gone cold and I was wishing for a hot cup. My head ached from reading the journals and lack of nutrition. I put the notebooks back in the order I had found them, and closed the boxes. I thought about going back to the house in town and making something to eat but every time my body moved my head throbbed so I took the cushions from the chairs, laid them on the floor and cuddled myself on them.

  The smell of coffee and the ranting of The Preacher (serenaded by The Singer) abruptly woke me the next morning. The sun was breaking over the horizon, beaming in through the tree trunks and into the house. I saw a shadow of someone and got to my feet quickly. As I turned towards the kitchen, I saw the backdoor close. I ran to the door, opened it and stood on the back porch. A man wearing blue jeans with a blue cotton shirt turned to look at me. He tipped his brown hat and smiled. It looked as if he mouthed a few words, but the voices had taken over my hearing. It was the same man who had come to town seeking Pop’s help with his sick wife, I had no doubt; it was the way he tipped his hat.

  The crew was demanding attention. I went back inside to get my tablets and noticed that on the little dinette table was a plate of eggs and toast. Sitting in front of the plate was a glass of orange juice and a steaming hot cup of coffee. I took the coffee into the living room to search for my bag where I’d put my notebooks. On the table, next to the chairs were two new composition notebooks identical to Momma’s, and two pens. I had neither the time nor need to wonder who had made the breakfast and set out the notebooks, it was the man who tipped his hat. He was paying his debt to Pop. I set the coffee down and began to write.

  I was famished when the session ended. The breakfast had gone cold but was still delicious, and I ate every bit. After washing the plate and juice glass in the sink, I put them back on the table in the same way I had found them. I stepped outside the front door. The rose covered trees bathed the house with fragrance. I heard a tractor plowing the land and thought it must be Jim and he’d almost certainly seen my car. The sun told me it was still early morning. I must have written for at least an hour. The stiffness of my body as I bent down to sweep away the leaves from the entry confirmed it. I stretched, closed the front door and counted my steps to the backdoor. There were fifteen steps. From there to where the tree line thickens and the hills began was another sixty feet.

  The hills between Sunny and Sweetwater are more like a series of humps above the earth and are made up of dirt, caliche and trees that lay on a forty-mile stretch of land. Between the house and tree line, was a small yard of overgrown grass and a fenced off area that looked as if it had once housed a vegetable garden. A chair made from braided vines and tree limbs sat next to it. I sat in the chair and listened to the birds as they sang and flew from tree to tree. I felt a sense of belonging on the land, in my mother’s house. I had heard stories about the hill people and how they lived in little communities of dugouts and how they played with snakes and drank poison. The two I had seen didn’t seem any different from the people in Sunny. I remembered Albee pointing at some family in town and telling me to stay clear of them because the hill people were inbred. I didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t sound good. As kids we would chalk it up to old people’s delusion. The hill people knew Momma and that was not a delusion. It was also not a misconception that they knew me. There was an obvious connection, but I had no idea what it was. I couldn’t help think the voices played a part in it all.

  I heard leaves rustle behind the trees. I could feel eyes on me, but saw nothing. Perhaps it was a squirrel burying an acorn. Just in case I said out loud “Thank you, for everything.”

  I’d decided to spend the rest of the day in my new house and maybe even the night. I needed supplies. I went back inside and made a list of the things I would need so that it would be a quick in and out. At that moment I realized that I hadn’t seen my cell phone since dinner with Jim on Friday. This was Monday; four days had passed without a thought of that phone. During the dust storm I checked it every hour in hopes Marla would call, but she never did. I didn’t have a computer, which made my phone the only Internet resource—to imply I had proper access to Internet is laughable.

  I was able to get in the car and start the motor before Jim saw me. He stopped plowing without killing the engine, took off his hat, and wiped his brow before bending to rest his hands on his knees and stare at me. He looked older on the tractor with his skin tanned from dirt and sweat. I stared back wishing he could read my mind and realize that more than anything I wanted to be able to share my life with him. I couldn’t share what wasn’t mine. He deserved much better than what the fates had given him. I started the car, backed out o
nto the road and headed to town. Within an hour, I had gathered my supplies and was back settled into the living area in my home, and my new favorite chair. I’d found the cell phone on the charger and tried to get online to no avail. There were no missed calls. I did however have music, which was a welcome relief from the mumblings.

  I thought it was time to get to know my house better since I had only been in the kitchen, Marla would call it an eat-in, and living room. Between those two rooms was a short hallway with two doors. One of the doors I’d already opened—the bathroom. It was a small but complete room with a toilet, shower and sink. Sufficient and efficient Tim would say. Across the hall from the bathroom was the bedroom. It was an empty square room with a window and only big enough for a bed and dresser. There was a corner closet meant for no more than a week’s worth of clothing. Both rooms had been cleaned thoroughly.

  I took the two bags of supplies I’d brought from town into the kitchen. It was a small space but would suffice. On the back wall was a door that opened up to a walk-in cupboard. Standing against the shelves was a shovel, spade and packets of vegetable seeds. I put the snacks and bottles of water on one of the lined shelves and took the tools and seeds outside to the garden.

  I pulled up weeds and spade the hard dirt, turning it over to the rhythm of the plow with a mumbling voice background. I didn’t think about the crew, Momma, Marla or even Jim, my mind was on the garden and my home. I was planning the move and how exactly to manage it. I needed my bed and linens, bathroom sundries and kitchen supplies. The living room was perfect the way it was. Most everything could be carried in the car, but the mattress would need a truck and that meant I needed Jim, again.

  The plow stopped, and the tractor engine ceased. The sun was dead center in the sky, lunchtime. I went inside and washed my hands and face in the sink. I had nothing but my shirt to dry myself. I got the bread and bologna I’d brought and made a couple of sandwiches, grabbed a couple of bottles of tea and went outside to the field. I was bringing the best peace offering I had. The tractor was in the middle of the field, and Jim was nowhere in sight. I could see his truck by the barn and thought he must have gone inside for his lunch. He knew where I was but had no intentions of coming to me. I sat on the dirt, ate my lunch, and the one I’d made for Jim. I was back at work in the garden for less than five minutes before I heard the tractor engine begrudgingly turn over. Jim and I worked until the sun was in its final decline. When the tractor stopped so did I. Jim had finished the field and I had planted two rows of green beans, okra and tomatoes. The next day I’d plant the peas and carrots.

  After drinking two glasses of water, I took a shower and put on the same dirty shirt I’d worn while working outside. I‘d brought food enough for a week, but not one change of clothing. I hadn’t planned on planting a garden. I hadn’t planned anything. My phone still had some power left so I listened to Alison Krause, lit the oil lamps and opened another box of Momma’s notebooks. I flipped through the pages but became bored with reading the ranting that meant nothing to me. I didn’t read my own sessions for the same reason. If these writings told of future events why doesn’t something stand out, anything? I read through the session I’d written earlier in the day to compare it with her writings. I started with what the left hand had written.

  The Singer sings: It could have been heaven for everyone.

  The Poet says: The Earth remains stoic. Her boarders lament themselves only for the end homesick. Never in living do they delve. Their arrogance shines bright the credit they take away its truly Floras limelight from creation to this day. She asks not for permission from those who lease her land, or a time to change a season a notion they can’t understand. Must there always be one right and always many wrong? Akin dogma unchanged plight. Succeeding verse of matching song. They were created with bless’d choice then go about devising destruction. They extinguished their own voice. Proving themselves the laymen. Hopes turn into bygone dust reclaims its matter as time for fresh tenure dawns the foreman now the latter the earth remains stoic. Her boarders lament themselves only for the end homesick. Never in living do they delve.

  I read the right hand tablet.

  The Singer sings: They created an abyss made from their own undoing.

  The Preacher says: Make no mistake his will is done. All are judged with wise love. Created by the same maker are those who scorn life. With plans crafted in prevenient grace the blood of their brothers they spill in that month of a thousand deaths.

  The Hippy says: Man, bitching wild ride. Finneaus Albert the groove to move, with big brother programming how to fight the rap machine? When the wicked becomes the one there is no motto left to trust.

  The Professor says: Nations hold to an invisible faith not adequate explanation of fact. Even if human mass is constant each with unique will and destiny the silence is resounding. They are destroyed from within.

  Joseph says: With rhymes and riddles irresolute we must now speak the truth. The thousand will perish within a moon while 4X4 are all destroyed through faith for Finns success. Through the comrade no resistance will this grave provide. She did it all for him and the children lost. They weep out of ignorance for the house on Jacob lane. Their plans were displayed for the world to know. When will their lives end?

  Mother says: She liked to draw pictures on the wellspring of knowledge.

  Ok now what? What did it all mean? Were they trying to say something? Not to me, it meant nothing to me. Should I tell someone? Who should I tell? If these writings were predicting death was I at fault if I burned the books and did nothing? I blamed my sudden need to scream on reading the session. It caused more confusion and more questions without answers.

  “I need some help here,” I begged the universe. “I wish I didn’t know this any of this. Make it go away. Give it to someone smarter. Someone who knows what to do with these writings, I don’t want this. I can’t do this.” That was it. If the voices wouldn’t go away on their own, I’d make them go away. I would burn them. A knock at the door almost made me jump through the ceiling. It must be Jim no one else knows I’m here but what if it’s not Jim, my thoughts raced. I walked stealthily to the door.

  “I’ve got a gun,” I threatened.

  “Good. Give it to me so I can blow my brains out. I told myself while I was plowing your field I should just hold a gun to my head and get it over with. It’d be a lot easier than turning this hard ass dirt,” Jim said from the other side of the door.

  I opened the door—relieved—and there he stood dusty from the land. He smelled like fresh turned earth, pure and masculine.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I’m doing charity, he said. What are you doing here?”

  “I was just hanging out, and it got late so I thought I’d…you know…camp out a while that’s all.” I felt like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “I planted a garden. Want to see?”

  He stepped inside and shined his flashlight around the room that had become quite a mess. Dinner sandwich crusts lay on the floor alongside some coffee cups and bags of chips. Notebooks were opened and scattered around the chairs. He let the light linger on the sketch of Momma. It was his first time in the house. “Hang out? It looks as though you moved in,” as the words escaped his mouth he lit up my face with the light. “Are you all right? I thought I heard someone yelling.”

  I shook my head to avoid his questions. He took the light off my face and stood silently. Neither of us knew what to say.

  “Come over here,” he said. He wrapped me in his arms and swayed while humming lightly in my ear. “Everything’s going to be fine,” He whispered in my ear.

  Would anything ever be fine again? I let myself feel the sway of his body. I breathed in his smell, allowing only the melody of his hum to enter my mind. No more questions no more thinking. This could have lasted an eternity and it wouldn’t have been long enough for me. He raised his head and I followed with mine. Our lips joined with animalistic want and need.
I pulled away for a breath but he wasn’t allowing it—not this time. I pushed harder. He pulled me back with control. I gave in to him.

  “I don’t want to stop,” the breath from his words embraced my ear.

  “Then don’t.”

  9.

  I fumbled around in my bag and finally found what I was looking for. “See I told you I brought candles.” When the room was lit up, I could see regret in his eyes. We both knew what just happened should not have. I sat on the chair next to the bed of cushions we had just tainted with our questionable act. It was so easy to be with him that it had to be wrong. Anything this good was doomed from the start.

  “I love you,” he said. “I will always love you. There’s not a damn thing I can do about it—it’s just a fact. I need to figure out how to deal with it because I sure as hell can’t change it.”

  “You don’t love me,” I said. “You love the memory of us ten years ago. As soon as the sun comes up and burns off the smell of love reality will set in and you’ll remember that I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you.”

  “Let’s go,” he said abruptly, got up and started dressing.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You’re going home.”

  “I am home,” I said, standing my ground.

  “Not without a lock on the door and not fully exposed the way you are now. Come on let’s go. We can leave your car here, and I’ll bring you back in the morning.”

  “I don’t want to go. No one knows this house exists. There is no need for a lock trust me on that.”

  “How do you think I knew you were here? I saw your car.”

  “If I go back, it’s only to get my stuff. I’ll need your truck to move the mattress tomorrow.”