(2005) Wrapped in Rain (40 page)

I kicked the chipped brick out of its wedged position in front of the door and unhooked the muscadine vine. The door released, swung a few inches, and I squeezed through. The smell of bleach, fresh paint, stain, and glue flooded through the door. I walked into the sanctuary and didn't recognize it. The pews had been sanded and stained. The walls had been spackled, sanded, and painted pure white. The beams in the roof had been replaced by squared heart of pine some six inches across. A new aluminum roof had replaced the old, but the pigeon nests had not been disturbed. Several fat pigeons sat warm and dry and flying in and out of the freshly caulked windows that were open and airing the inside. The floors had been sanded and now shined beneath several coats of polyurethane. The rotten and waterlogged purple pad had been pitched along with the roach-eaten prayer book. Parts of the railing had been rebuilt or replaced, and the entire thing had been sanded and stained, as had the butcher's block altar. Jesus had been straightened and his head, knees, and arms cleaned and restained. He shined like he'd been rubbed with linseed oil.

I read Mutt's signature in every brushstroke and dovetail. In a lifetime of work, this was his masterpiece.

Mutt lay on the floor beneath the railing, curled up in his sleeping bag like a cannonball and facing the altar. I couldn't tell if he was alive or dead. He was covered in sawdust, spackling paste, and paint. I walked around the side of him and saw that he was blinking, his pupils dilated to the size of dimes; his eyes sped around his eye sockets, chasing the light, his face contorted and quivered, and his arms wrapped tightly about his shins.

I pulled the plastic box from my jacket pocket, broke the seal, popped the cap on the first syringe, and squeezed out the air. Mutt's arm was cold when I lifted his shirtsleeve and inserted the needle.

Mutt turned his head and tried to focus his eyes on me. "Tuck?"

"Yeah, pal," I said, my thumb resting ready on the top of the syringe.

"I didn't mean to let him hit her. I promise. I didn't want him to."

"Mutt, it's not your fault. Never has been."

"Why can't my heart believe you?"

"Because, like mine ... it's broken."

Mutt mouthed some words but uttered no sound. He recannonballed himself, and finally the words came. "`Love is a choice. It's a decision.' She told us, `It flows into, through, and out of each person like a river. If you try to stop it, it'll snake around until it finds another heart and breaks through.' Rex never made that choice. He built a dam that not even Force 10 from Navarone could have blown up. Nothing remains now but cracked mud, dust, and bones, and it would take Elijah to bring them back to life. But," Mutt said, swallowing hard, "she was right; love snaked around and found her. She had the love of ten people, and Rex the love of none. He was Salt Lake, and she was Niagara Falls."

The evening darkness crept across the floor, and lowflying, heavy clouds rolled in, blocked out the moon, and began spilling a soft rain on Mutt's new roof. I hadn't heard that lullaby in a long time. It started slow and soft, building like a symphony to a soothing rumble. Mutt dozed off, breathing deeply, and his eyes lay still behind his eyelids. I looked at the needle, the Thorazine still awaiting my thumb. Through clenched eyelids, I whispered, "Where does a man find healing amid so many broken places? How does he find love in the ruins and vine-wrapped shattered pieces of his own soul?"

Right here, child. Right here.

I slid the needle out of the meat of Mutt's shoulder, threw the syringe across the chapel, and watched it roll beneath a pew. I stuffed a corner of the sleeping bag under Mutt's head like a pillow, turned, and eyed the railing. Miss Ella's parallel lines were staring back at me. I sat down alongside them and leaned against the railing.

What's wrong, Tucker?

"Thirty-three years."

Child, he'd rather you shout in anger than say nothing at all.

Above me, the pigeons cooed, flapped, and fluttered about. I sniffed the air for the smell of Cornhuskers and tried to remember the words. "Miss Ella, I don't know where to start. Everything is upside down and has been for a long time. Sometimes I look at Jase and I hurt because I used to be just like him: so curious, completely trusting, full of wonder, so honest, so transparent, eager to forgive, quick to laugh, and willing to risk his heart on love-even the love of a father."

What happened?

"Rex happened."

Then maybe it's time you start with Rex.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

If therefore you are presenting your offering at the altar and there remember that your brother has sinned against you, then leave your offering and go your way. First, be reconciled to your brother and then come and present your offering.

"I'm not sure I understand."

Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you that you may be sons of your Father in heaven. He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.

"How does that relate to me?"

You've always had a Father, Tucker.

I SHUT THE DOOR BEHIND ME AND WALKED DOWN THE path and through the rain to the barn. I slid my College World Series bat, a thirty-four-inch aluminum Easton, from the workbench, cocked it over my shoulder, and walked to my truck. The drive to Rolling Hills was short and the parking lot empty. Rex's room was dark, the Judge lay snoring, melted onto the bed, and Rex sat slumped in his chair next to the window. Food and spittle stained his pajamas, but his diaper smelled clean. His eyes were open, and he looked angry. He was fiercely trying to see something on the other side of the window, and his neck was a bulging bundle of veins and sinew plugged into his wrinkly, contorted head. He was a picture of torment.

I stepped in front of his chair, and his eyes darted up at me. A quivering bottom lip, stern top one, and narrow eyes framed his face. He was talking, mouthing commands, but no words came. In his mind, he was King Arthur, and the crow that caught his arrow was still flying high.

I knelt and touched my father for the second time in five years by placing my hands on both his knees. His Band-Aid had soaked through and needed replacing, and his blank eyes narrowed on mine. "Rex, how much am I worth? Ten million? Fifty million? I mean, at what point is my time worth yours? Am I worth a dollar? Your work at my expense is a disease. A sickness." I placed the bat across his lap. "For most of my early life, I tried to swing this and earn your praise. When you didn't offer it, I swung it in an attempt to obliterate your memory. When that didn't pan out the way I'd hoped, I thought that maybe if I filled my head with enough pictures, I could double-expose the one that contained you. Problem is, the new images won't imprint on scar tissue." I paused and tried to make eye contact. "All I've ever wanted is for you to ... to play catch in the rain, or at the very least, for you to walk me into your office, introduce me to your secretary, and ask her to bring me some hot chocolate and a coloring pad. Maybe take me to a board meeting and say, `Ladies and gentlemen, this is my son, Tucker."' I leaned against the wall and sat down. "Everything I know about love I learned from a little old black woman from south Alabama, a little kid named Jase, a girl named Katie, and a boy named Mutt. And everything I know about hate, I learned from you. You tear down; you don't build up. You drain rather than fill. You eat at rather than satisfy. Worst of all, you sacrificed us at the altar of you. Miss Ella keeps trying to tell me that the only way to tear away the scar tissue is to tell you that I forgive you ... and mean it. She's always telling me to cut away my coffin. Maybe this is what she's talking about. I don't know. Sometimes, I don't understand a word that woman says. I'd be lying if I said I really forgave you, but maybe if I say it with my mouth, my heart will follow. I don't know how long that'll takethat passage from my head to my heart. Maybe that's the `infinite migration' Miss Ella was always talking about. Whatever the case, here today, I'm saying it with my mouth. And every day from here on out, I'm saying it. Because there's more at stake here than just you and me." I placed my finger against the windows and drew streaks in the condensation from my breath. "There's a girl, and she has a son." I laughed. "Maybe two sons, and no, in case you're wondering, I'm not the father of either one, but that doesn't matter. Why?" I paused and whispered to myself, "Because love's springing up through the rocks."

I stood, leaned against the window, and let Rex watch my back. "You are the root of most everything evil in me." I leaned the bat in the corner of the room and stood over Rex. "The sins of the father stop here ... and my love begins."

I walked to the judge's bed and pulled the covers up around his neck. Under the glow of the fluorescent nightlight, his eyes cracked open. He whispered, "I'm proud of you, son." I opened the drawer, slipped the cedar sleeve off a Cuban, and lit it, turning it over and over in the flame to get an even burn. I placed it next to the Judge's lips, and he breathed slowly and deeply. For an hour, I held it while he inhaled the entire thing and wrapped us in a haze of nicotine. Satisfied, he nodded, and I set the smoldering nub in the ashtray next to his bed, angling the fan so it wafted across his nose. Somewhere around two in the morning, I walked out of Rex's room, empty-handed.

"Tucker." The judge's bloodshot eyes spotted the bat leaning in the corner. "If you leave that thing, the orderlies are liable to thump me in the head and I'll be dead by morning. You sure you want to do that?"

I looked at the bat, then at Rex, and nodded. "Yeah, I'm finished with it." The judge closed his eyes, lifted his nose into the last traces of cigar smoke, and smiled.

I walked past the receptionist desk, where an orderly slept, drooling on a comic book. He jerked when I walked by, causing spit to spew out of his mouth like a bull in a rodeo. I waved, and he wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve, looked at his watch, and said, "Happy New Year, sir." When I started the diesel and shoved the stick into first, the thought of living through another year didn't bother me at all.

The rain had let up by the time I pulled around back of the house and parked next to the fence. Mist covered the windshield, but a new moon was breaking through the clouds and scattering in dim spotlights across the pasture. Black and brilliant specks of shiny flint covered the pasture like a rhinestone blanket. I pulled my collar up, stepped through the fence, and trudged through the soft dirt, picking up arrowheads. Halfway across the pasture, my hand was full.

I looked around me while the moonlight and rain sewed themselves into my shoulders. At the edge of the pasture, I stood and looked into the pines where Mutt's cross rose like a coastal lighthouse.

The night had grown cold and dry, my steps were silent on the pine straw, and the air smelled of turpentine. On the edge of the forest, I cleared away the pine straw and dug my hands deep into the dirt. It felt cold, gritty, and moist. I walked closer, weaving in and out of the cathedral of pines. Circling twice, I reached out and placed my hands on the beams, and the black dirt sifted through my fingers, spilling around us. I wove my fingers beneath the patchwork of vines and felt the smooth, slick wood beneath. The deep vertical grain rose up from the darkness below me and wound upward like candle smoke toward the moonlight above. I followed it. Reaching higher, I fell, pressed in, and rested my forehead against the beam. Not knowing where to start or even what to say, I whispered, "Touch my lips with the burning coal, light me, and let it rain."

DAYLIGHT SPARKED THE TREETOPS AND SLOWLY BURNED off the fog. The sun rose, broke through the clouds, and found my face staring into it. The rays felt warm after so cold a night. Around me, the rest of the world was waking up too. Off to the east an owl hooted, from the west a gobbler answered, in the north a dog barked, and somewhere south of me a rooster crowed. I breathed deeply.

Tires squealed on the back side of Waverly, Katie screamed, a high-powered engine revved, and a vehicle sped down the driveway. The only sound higher than the whine of the engine was Katie screaming, "Nooooo! Not my baby!"

At the end of our driveway, the driver could only turn one of two directions, so I pushed off the cross, gambled, whistled, hit Glue's back on a dead run, and kicked him all the way down the side of the pasture. Glue pulled up at the fence, and I soared over and started running east alongside the fence toward the elbow in the hard road. I cleared the thorns, hit the pine straw, and dug as deep as my lungs and flailing arms would let me. The car still had a mile to go, and I had about four hundred yards. I heard the squealing turn, the whine again, and knew they had cleared the gate. A half-mile and I still had a hundred yards. I reached a barbed-wire fence, dove beneath it, sliding on my stomach, mucked through the cattails that lined the highway, and climbed the incline. When I reached the top, I jumped as high as the break in my back would let me.

I don't remember the car hitting me, cracking the windshield, flying back over the fence, or hearing the car lose control and spin sideways into my neighbor's pasture, flinging mud like Katie's Volvo. But I was conscious enough to know that car wasn't going anywhere. Dressed in black, the driver dialed his cell phone, pulled Jase from the car, and began dragging him screaming and hollering down the road and into the woods.