by Chana Keefer
I stopped walking as those words sunk in and memories of unloading intimate thoughts while propped on the pillows of my bed flew by at the speed of light. Feminine pride took a flaming nosedive.
Luckily, I knew there were no accounts of passionate love affairs in that book, but it was mortifying to consider how often I mentioned Sky.
I reached the barn and leaned on the corral gate. Esther Collins. An open book. Literally.
“Look,” he said, still stroking Sugar’s neck and directing his comments to her. “At first I just peeked in, curious to see how many other autographs you had. Some people make a full-time job of that activity you know.” He turned to me. “Sorry, but I was relieved to… no, grateful to find you actually were what you appeared to be.”
“Did you still think I would sell out or something?”
“The thought did occur to me,” he admitted, “but a few pages convinced me you weren’t the type.”
“So you kept reading because you couldn’t sleep or what?”
“Actually, the more I read, the more questions I had,” he admitted. “I found myself fascinated by the way you wrote as if you were talking to God. And, there were even times when He talked back.” He turned to me. “So I thought, ‘either this bird is insane, or she’s on to something.’”
I’d always been a bit shy talking about my faith. I’d never thought much about how I discussed every detail of my life with God in my journal. His attention to the tiniest flower here today, gone tomorrow, convinced me He cared about details. And how could I explain what it felt like to hear a voice in the silence? Most would call that “insanity.”
The silence broke once again with the throb of rotors. I moved to climb the fence, but Sky watched the helicopter’s approach with narrowed eyes. “Let’s surprise them this time.”
“What do you mean?” I shouted over the growing noise.
“I’m tired of this,” he said. “And I have a feeling you’re going to have to get used to dealing with it too. No time like the present.”
What did that mean? I had no time to ponder as the helicopter approached and the horses became frantic. I opened the corral and led the skittish Sugar to a stall while Lady took off to the other end of the pasture. She knew how to take care of herself.
Once again, the helicopter hovered over the house but soon, prey sighted, they thundered our way.
Sky motioned for the pilot to land. I couldn’t believe it! After avoiding them all day?
The open field, serving as an impromptu landing pad, became a small hurricane as the metal monster hovered lower and powered down—a welcome relief from the noise and dust.
Sammy wasn’t impressed. After barking the beast into submission, he gave the intruding contraption a once-over then hiked a leg on it.
We met Candy and Rick, the disheveled and apologetic reporter and cameraman who clambered out only when Sammy was secured, then introduced ourselves to Roland, the pilot. By this time, my dad joined us. He engaged Roland in some lively pilot banter while the rest of us headed toward the house and mom offered everyone something to drink. Southern hospitality smiles widest under pressure.
Those were a strange couple of hours. My mind buzzed with the possible meaning of Sky’s words to me by the corral while I also grappled with the idea that, on my current career path, I could soon be like Candy, whizzing over the country to chase the world’s movers and shakers.
She explained their tenacity. “Our news director is driving us crazy. ABC’s just slipped ahead of us in the ratings so... ” Candy rolled her eyes and shook her bobbed hair. “When she got the hot tip about Sky being here, she insisted we come back until we had something concrete.”
By this time dad fired up the grill. The coal fire ignited memories of lazy summer days swimming with friends until, weak with hunger, we would climb from the pool for a thick cheeseburger. It was “homey familiar” coupled with “mind-blowing” as our visitors who dropped from the sky lent a hand to set up tables on the back porch as a typical Collins family feast began to take shape.
When invited to eat, Candylooked at her watch then with longing toward the mounds of food. “I’m afraid, to keep my job, I’m going to have to report something other than a bar-b-que. And I have to do it now.”
Sky turned to my parents, “Do you mind if I give these folks a quick interview?”
Mom and Dad said they didn’t mind as long as their address wouldn’t be plastered on the screen, so Sky, Rick and Candy excused themselves for a two-shot with grazing cows as a backdrop.
Within ten minutes, after rounds of thanks, they started up their transport and roared back toward the Metroplex.
The “wop, wop” of rotors died away as Dad calmly blessed the meal. We dug into corn on the cob, baked beans, potato salad, and piles of fresh “fixin’s” for the burgers while Sky and company blended with our family like old friends. Wally was even in a joking mood, His dry wit made our family clown John roar with laughter.
I picked at my food as I watched and listened, savoring the hero worship in John’s face, and Mom’s blush of pleasure at the compliments to her cooking. Jeremiah climbed onto his dad’s lap and leaned back with a sigh of contentment. Dad studied Sky as he answered questions about a lifestyle as foreign to a rancher as a walk on the moon. I reached down to stroke Sammy’s ears, concentrating on Sky’s voice, deep and melodic, even when speaking of schedules and agents.
A pleasant picture formed in my mind—lounging in bed, my head resting on Sky’s chest as he spoke, sharing what he couldn’t trust to anyone else, laughing together, kissing, loving. No guilt. No hurry. I looked up at the sound of my name, passed the sugar as requested, and realized Sky was watching me, smiling with sleepy, sexy eyes as if he was reading my mind as easily as he had my journal. My face flushed with heat and I stared, unseeing, at the food on my plate. When I dared to look up again, he had turned to John, talking about music, but Dad’s eyes were on me, narrowed and shrewd.
Just then, Mom produced the meal’s crowning glory of homemade pies. I hopped up, grateful for the diversion, to help serve our guests who exclaimed over the apple and cherry confections with mounds of ice cream or whipped topping.
Soon, John complained about his attempts to play the difficult guitar riff in “Changeling” and Sky told him to fetch the guitar. How John’s eyes shone when, after a couple moments of instruction, he had it and Sky started singing along, even tossing ridiculous lyrics into the mix as Wally grabbed mom’s hand and coached her to samba.
John a screamin’
Copter landin’
Horse a pushin’
Dog a snarlin’
Esther splashin’
Think I’m drownin’
It’s killin’ me
All this country
Hospitality
Sky was so relaxed, so happy, a little goofy in the football t-shirt but more appealing than ever.
Mom was flushed, dimples on display, as she danced. Dad slapped his knee and threw his head back to laugh out loud as John’s fingers fought to keep up on the guitar.
Jeremiah jumped up and grabbed Sammy’s paws forcing the dog to hop on his hind legs to the music as Sammy craned his neck my way with a forlorn expression.
Suddenly he bristled, showing his teeth and snarling. Jeremiah dropped the paws in fright and Sammy took off like a shot toward the field. A man jumped up from the grass and ran toward the road with Sammy nipping at his heels.
We followed them, Jeremiah and John cheering Sammy on with rebel yells; until we had a clear view of the road; and the line of cars along our fence; and the cluster of people, faces hidden behind cameras with monstrous lenses. The runner climbed the barbed wire, the barbs and Sammy yanking at his jeans, until he flopped across the prickly divide and sprawled into the ditch.
I laughed until the man rose with a long board in his hand. He swung it at Sammy as if wielding a baseball bat.
“No!” I screamed. “Sammy, come!”
But
an intruder with a weapon pushed Sammy to the viciousness of a rabid wolf. There was a “thwack” and yelp as the board connected.
I screamed and started to sprint to Sammy’s defense, but an arm held me back, pushing me toward the porch. There was another hit and yelp. “Sammy!” I shoved the arm off but my feet left the ground as Sky pulled me behind the house. The scene at the fence was mayhem. John and James yelled and ran toward Sammy who lay, motionless, on the ground.
“Let go!” I fought and kicked, ready to rip the board-swinging dude limb from limb.
But Sky’s hands were like steel, “No. Oof!” My foot connected with something vulnerable. He set me down, but kept a firm grip on one shoulder as he bent forward and grasped his knee with the other. “John and James will take care of it.”
“But Sammy could be… that guy hit him so hard.” The sight had pushed me over the edge. To stand there doing nothing was torture. “Please, God. Please, God.” I peeked around the side of the house. John bent over Sammy while James remained at the fence, yelling and gesturing at the trespasser. Some of the cameras clicked away, continuing to catalog the event.
A gunshot brought everything to an abrupt halt. Dad’s voice cut the sudden silence.
“We’ve called the police. All but the trespassin’ fella, get outa here!”
And there was Dad doing his best John Wayne, rifle in hand pointed up in the air, closing in on the trespasser while the rest of the mob disbursed in record time, tires squealing. I yanked out of Sky’s grasp and ran to Sammy, mumbling the phrase, “Oh God, Oh God,” in a continuous loop.
Sammy was out cold, blood pooling under his head. I looked around for something to blot it, my eyes lighting on the sweaty, scared guy who stood on the other side of the fence, eyes trained on Dad’s gun.
“Give me your shirt,” I demanded. He glanced at Dad again and peeled the t-shirt over his head. I placed it beneath Sammy’s head, dismayed to see how quickly it was soaked in red.
“Vet’s on the way,” someone said.
I bent over Sammy, praying like crazy, not giving a rip for who might hear, asking God to heal him, stroking the tan fur, saying something about Lazarus and how “this should be a piece a’ cake after that.” Sammy’s chest rose and fell, just barely, but it was something. Someone brought a blanket and we lifted Sammy onto it and took him to the house.
The police came, the vet came, Sammy opened his eyes, thumped his tail, and licked my hand.
Then I cried.
Later, as Sammy rested on a cushy bed in the laundry room. I pondered whether to trash or wash my stained, white blouse. Dad and Sky looked toward the fields, deep in discussion, each with a foot propped on the fence. Was it too much to hope the sight of him leaning on our fence would become a familiar one?
In fresh clothes, all battle stains washed away and relieved by the vet’s words, I went out to join Sky who remained, staring out at the photographer-free fields. I climbed up and sat on the fence, breathing in the smell of wind that danced through wildflowers like an artist’s brush on an ever-changing canvas.
“Sorry I kicked you,” I began but Sky shooed away the apology and threaded his fingers through mine.
I watched his face, thoughts flitting just under the surface with so many mixed signals—contentment and anger, determination and dread. Mind reading must be a talent I didn’t possess so I gave up with a sigh and focused on a hawk spiraling higher and higher, riding the wind, using that push rather than fighting it.
Wally’s voice drifted through the screen door, talking about time and their flight and other things I didn’t want to hear.
Sky took a deep breath and gazed out to the fields and far horizon. “Time in a bottle,” he whispered.
He lifted me down from the fence and pulled me to his chest. What followed was a very confusing moment. The intense passion of our earlier embrace was gone, replaced by… what? The feeling was deeper than sadness. I wrung every sensation from that moment—the now familiar scent of his skin, the warmth of his chest against my cheek—even as I felt an icy grief seep into my heart.
For an instant, a picture appeared in my mind. I stood at the head of a valley gazing down a steep descent, green grass beneath my feet. However, the next step would be onto hard, cracked ground.
I lifted my head to look into his eyes and, for a brief moment, the loneliness of that valley was mirrored there. Then the connection broke. I searched his face but found only a smile as if blinds had been pulled down between us.
Without another word, we walked into the house to join the others. Wally brought in t-shirts and CDs as gifts for the family. John whooped with joy when Sky signed his copy.
“Jake has competition. You’re a good man. Sky.”
It would be several weeks before John’s feet touched the ground.
There were heartfelt goodbyes, with Jeremiah once again requesting I join the tour and James, looking quite serious, echoing the request. It was tempting to think of ditching a heavy class schedule to lark around the world but, if I had seriously considered the offer, the fact Sky remained silent about the issue would have squelched it.
Mom packed up the last piece of cherry pie for Wally and my dad gave him a couple books about the Civil War, a shared interest they obviously discussed in some depth.
Sky’s farewell was very brief and, honestly, disappointing. He drew me a few steps away from the others, gave a quick hug and whispered, “Trust me.”
Next thing I knew, they were pulling out of my parents’ drive and I was left feeling like I had been thrown from a speeding train.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was surreal to see the man I met only the day before lounging against our fence on the evening news. I left the family discussing the newscast and headed back to my seat on the fence.
Where was all this going? I had no idea. I started to worry my way through the possibilities, but realized my head hurt and I had no control over the possibilities so what was the point?
How I wished for my journal that always helped me sort out jumbled thoughts, or at least Sammy who would lean his head against my knee and never interrupt my ramblings. Instead, I unloaded to the air.
Anyone watching would have assumed I had lost my mind, but I knew someone was listening. My mind grew quiet as first one star and then another appeared in the wide, calm sky.
I began to fold, too exhausted to think anymore. So, as the season’s first fireflies rose, miniature fairies from the deep shadows, I stumbled back to the house, grateful for pillow and bed.
~~
I opened my eyes to darkness and a deafening roar. I raced out of bed, frantic. Where was everybody? Where was Sammy? I ran to the fields, scanning the sky for something I’d lost. What was it? Why couldn’t I remember?
I turned toward my childhood home to discover, barreling toward the house, the largest tornado I’d ever seen. They need to be warned.
More wind came from behind me. I turned to find another tornado moving quickly out of the east. Another barrelled in from the north, also on a path to collide over our house.
Where was everybody? Were they all asleep in the house, about to be destroyed?
I realized I stood in a tornado’s path, too. What was that rule? Lie low in a ditch or something, right?
I dove into mud as the deafening sound of a freight train filled my ears.
I woke with a start to the distant sound of a train passing in the night. Ever since my close encounter with tornadoes as a child, I’d had recurring dreams of them. Sometimes, I was merely fascinated as a tornado came closer, hypnotizing me with its awesome power. But often, as in this night’s dream, I was left with feelings of helplessness.
I’d often grappled with the possible meaning behind these dreams, had even perused one of those books that give meaning to certain elements in dreams, but hadn’t found much help there. I finally concluded the dreams usually preceded a crazy-busy or overwhelming time. If that was the case, this one was a bit tardy. I couldn
’t imagine any set of circumstances more overwhelming than the past two days.
I looked at the clock. Two a.m. I had still been with Sky at this time yesterday.
Would time forever be reckoned that way now? B.S. and A.S.— Before Sky; After Sky? I’d have to watch that.
And, how often would the question, “I wonder what he’s doing now?” pop up in my mind? From now on, I would pray for Sky when he came to mind. There, that had to at least be a healthier alternative to worry. So I knelt in the floor of my childhood bedroom with the light of an almost full moon filtering through the curtains and said a quick prayer placing Sky in God’s hands. That done, I located his white sweats from the night before, curled up with them under the covers and fell back to sleep.
I woke to sunlight coming in the window, the sound of mom working in the kitchen, and the smell of breakfast.
I washed up and got ready for services. As a child I had loved sitting in the old wooden pews, gazing at the beautiful stained-glass windows and listening to the huge pipe organ that filled an entire wall of the sanctuary. I learned the fine art of acting like a well-behaved child while my mind rode a flying carpet swooping over Egypt.
Not until the summer of my fourteenth year did church became something more than a boring hour to survive each week.
It happened at summer camp during a few days of heat, campfires, swimming and marveling at girls like Marti who dazzled the boys.
On the last night of camp, there was a play set to music in which God—represented by a tall, skinny kid with curly red hair—got separated from this girl and guy who went through all kinds of pain because there was a wall made up of all these things that hurt them. Other kids were the barrier, acting out the parts of anger, fear, addiction, etc.
The production was crude, no Oscar nods were earned, but when the kid who represented Jesus spread his arms wide on the wall and slumped in death, it was like someone plugged me in to a live current. I didn’t know if I was going to puke, laugh, or cry so, as the red-haired, skinny “God” came through to embrace the girl and guy and the music swelled for the big climax, I bolted out the door and ran, not stopping until I was alone on a rocky hill looking up at a cross made of driftwood silhouetted against a fiery sunset.