Elisha’s Bones (35 page)
I spot a blur of purple not far away, half under the van between Espy and me, one of the bones poking out from a separation in the cloth. The bundle draws my attention—a magnet for emotions running wild. I field a sudden urge to destroy them, to vent my anger on the ancient, brittle relics. And I feel brave enough, or maybe despondent enough, to recognize that it would be as close to punching God in the nose as I can get. Maybe the reason I accepted this job—this task that could only result in either the proof that He is a figment of human rationalization, or that He truly exists—is because of the opportunity it offered for a moment of reckoning. Either He steps up to the plate, or I am justified in giving Him no thought whatsoever. Or maybe it was so that I could stoke an anger I never thought possible, from which I could rail against a capricious being that revels in the misfortunes of others—who would take first a father, then a brother, then a friend, and now a woman I once loved so much I had to leave her.
My strength is going as I reach for the bones. My fingers brush the fabric and then fall away. I strain again, my pointer finger almost hooking the cloth. When it slips off, a curse leaves my lips. It’s vehement and ugly and aimed straight toward heaven. It’s a dare of sorts, uttered by a man who is maddened by the presence of these bones, and his inability to secure something so tantalizingly close.
With one last wrench of my body, I fall away from the van, coming down on my side. I stretch out my arm, and my fingers come to rest on the purple fabric, the bones held safely within. I’m not sure what I’m thinking, but there’s a small part of my fading mind that clings to some kind of newfound faith—a belief system espoused in earnest by my father—and the person of a God whom I’ve never wholly forgotten.
I’m falling into a dark tunnel. With my dying breath, and with a faint sound that is neither a curse nor a prayer, I nudge the bundle until the exposed bone—yellowed with age, its marrow dried and dead—touches Esperanza’s lifeless hand.
I
wish I could have watched as life returned to Espy. She’s tried to describe what it was like when she returned the favor, but she hasn’t been able to find the right words; only that there was nothing overtly magical, like bright lights or music or angels— just an absolute knowledge that she witnessed something otherworldly.
That was two weeks ago. Two weeks of trying to clean up the messes we’ve made.
When Espy and I walked into the office of the consulate general of the United States in Melbourne, I was convinced that we were bound for long jail terms. We’d left a trail of bodies behind us, two of them prominent members of the business and political communities. We had little going for us, beyond the fact that the two men killed at Jim’s house would eventually be identified as drawing from the Manheim payroll. That, and the discovery that the younger Manheim had powder burns on his hands, and the gun found with his body was determined to be the one used on the father. Still, I thought the odds were good that I would have a long tenure within the Australian penal system. About all I could hope for was that our respective embassies would provide gratis legal assistance, and a way to shield us from at least a portion of the punishment we were sure to receive. We decided, together, that we could not tell anyone about the bones—no matter the cost.
Then it just went away. One day the Australian Federal Police were interviewing us, for the twentieth time, and the next day we were free to go. No explanation. I would find, days later, that none of it had wound up in the press. Not a single mention, beyond the murder/suicide that killed a prominent family in Ballarat, and the death of an elderly couple in a house fire near Laverton. I am angered that the story surrounding Jim and Meredith was spun to be a lie; I have my suspicions about who made it happen. I wonder when the people of the oblong
S
will come calling—looking for the bones to hand over to the next caretakers.
Espy sits next to me in the Humvee. She’s quiet. She has been this way since the police let us go. I think, though, that it’s not a bad quiet as she’s going over in her mind everything that has happened, and I imagine it will take some time. I know how she feels. There is much that I need to ponder in the coming days, much of it related to responding to a God who has proven himself to be something other than fiction. For the first time in years, maybe I can do it without artifice, without cynicism. But I sincerely hope that’s not a spiritual prerequisite, because I might be sunk.
Right now that’s not important. There’s only one thing that is.
The wind feels warm against my cheek and I squint to keep the sand from entering my eyes. The sun is in that place just above the horizon where it seems to hang forever before beginning a grudging descent, as if having second thoughts about allowing the moon to replace it in the sky. For a few moments I stand and watch the dunes form and then re-form themselves, the grains of sand as fluid as water, making the desert an inconstant thing.
The Humvee is behind me, packed with enough water and food to last two weeks, along with extra gas, a radio, a tent, and anything else I could think to add to the manifest. But the most important item is the shovel, which I hold in my hands. It’s old, pitted and worn, and seems appropriate to the task.
While the sun disappears, I dig a hole in the solid ground beneath the sand cover. It is hard work, but I don’t mind. It’s a penance of sorts. I dig it deep, each shovelful of earth like an offering. And when I’ve finished, when the desert air has turned cool and sweat runs down my body, I pick up the bones, wrapped in burlap, and drop them in the hole. And as the disturbed dirt falls back on them, I do not feel any guilt, no sense of loss. I work until the earth is packed down.
When I return to the truck, I toss the shovel into the back and then take Espy’s hand in mine, and we stay there until the light is gone.
Many people deserve my heartfelt thanks for helping to make
Elisha’s Bones
a reality. But I’m going to start with those who have the power to say yes or no to more books! I’m grateful that Dave Long decided to bring
Elisha’s Bones
to Bethany House, and especially thankful for all the hard work he did to make it a better book. Luke Hinrichs did the same—editing this thing until it became respectable. Thanks, Dave and Luke, and everyone else at Bethany House, for all the effort you put in. I’m looking forward to doing it again!
I signed with my agent, Les Stobbe, in 2004, and he spent the next four years sending out one manuscript after another. Thanks, Les, for sending that last one out, and for your constant encouragement through the process.
Almost fourteen years ago I wrote a book with my friend Rob Heidel and, while that one never found a publisher, working with Rob taught me a lot. Thanks, Rob. It’s quite possible I wouldn’t be sitting here typing up an acknowledgments list if we hadn’t written that first page.
Back in 2004, Michael Snyder all but dragged me to a writers’ conference, where I met and signed with my agent. A year or so later, he introduced me to a little online community called Faith in Fiction, where I first met Dave Long. So I guess it’s fair to say that if you don’t like the book, Mike bears almost as much blame for that as I do. Thanks, Mike—especially for the countless critiques I’ve asked of you over the years.
If anyone has waded through more of my writing than Mike, it’s Ryan Burkholder. Ryan has slogged through one manuscript or short story after another and has offered needed encouragement, advice, and a literary perspective. Thanks, Ryan.
Sarah Wood, Angela Fox, Jerry Fox, and Chris Ude have also been helpful critics over the last few years. Thanks, all, for reading the pre-published stuff.
Thanks to the Laufer clan—Chris, Patty, Matt, Lisa, Bill, Kathy, and Tim—and Russ Gullekson, and Dave and Mary Ferrini, for late nights and much laughter.
Thanks to author par excellence Jeanette Windle, who was kind enough to say some nice things about a very poorly written book of mine (not this one!) years ago. Encouragement like that can make a guy keep writing until he gets it right.
Mike Rajczak was the first person who encouraged me to become a writer, way back in middle school. Thanks, Mike.
Thanks to Mandy Peitz for contributing to the cover artwork.
Finally, to Alyssa and Aidan—thanks, kids, for making it a whole lot of fun to be a dad. I love you.
Don Hoesel
, when not writing, works in the communications department of a large company. He holds a B.A. in Mass Communication from Taylor University and has published short fiction in
Relief Journal
. Don lives in Spring Hill, Tennessee, with his wife and two children.
Elisha’s Bones
is his first novel.
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