Kiss the Morning Star (12 page)

“Jesus, Katy! We’re stalled right on a railroad track!” I jump up, grab my pack, and squeeze past Kat into the aisle. “Pastor Shepherd, we’re on the tracks! We have to get off the bus!”

All around me, reading lights are snapping on and off, round white heads twisting toward me and then back toward the windows.

“She’s right, Pastor!”

“Oh, dear! Look at the tracks!”

“Why, there’s a blind corner!”

“We’ll be crushed!”

“We need to get off the bus in an orderly manner.” My voice is loud and surprisingly authoritative. “Orderly, but quickly.” I start down the aisle. The smell of oranges rolls over me; dozens of pairs of frightened eyes watch me make my way to the front of the bus, and my passing spurs them into motion, into gathering their things and standing up to leave.

Michael the bus driver prays, spitting out pleas from between clenched teeth as he turns the key again and again. For a minute or so the bus is quiet except for the grinding of the starter and the shuffle of people gathering their bags. Then Pastor Shepherd’s voice stretches to fill the space.

“The Lord is with us,” he intones. “Let us surrender to his will and trust in Him to deliver us from our adversity. Join hands, everyone.” He takes hands with two missionaries near him, and they all bow their heads.

Come
on
. Are they serious? “Don’t you get it? We’re in danger! We need to get off this bus!” I can see Kat, still on the other side of the prayer circle. Her eyes are uncertain, darting out the window toward the dark tracks and back to me. “Katy,
please
!” I can’t get off the bus without her. The air feels heavy and sharp.

“I can’t…” says Kat, looking helplessly at the sea of bodies and clasped hands blocking her from the door, from me. “I promised…”

“Let her through!” I scream, my voice rising hysterically. Is that a train whistle I hear? Pastor Shepherd’s voice intensifies.

“Praise Jesus!” he says, his voice crescendoing to a wail. “We call on you in Heaven’s name to help us in our time of need!”

The growl of the ignition is slower now, deeper in tone. The battery wearing out? The engine flooding? I’m sure I can feel the tremble of an approaching train shaking the rails below the bus, and I shout desperately to Kat again, begging her to push through the group and get off the bus.

“Katy, please!”

She hesitates, looks at me helplessly.

Please!

I can see the headline:
Train Collides with Bus—Missionary Survivors Say It Was God’s Will
.

I look out the back window and see headlights approaching. Pastor Shepherd points to them. “Hold on,” he says, and a semitruck bumps into the back of the bus, pushing us off the tracks and down the hill. Michael pops the clutch, but the engine fails to catch; the bus jerks and shudders and rolls to a stop again. He cranks the starter, but there isn’t any power left. Bump! The truck gives one more push and then veers around us, speeding off ahead. This time the engine catches, and everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

“Please sit down!” says Pastor Shepherd. He gives me a rather barbed look. “It’s a good thing we weren’t in the process of evacuating the bus when that truck bumped us,” he says, his voice layered with smugness. “In moments of crisis, we must strive to make our decisions based on faith first.”

“Tha-that’s ridiculous.” I’m so angry I’m stuttering. “You had no way of knowing the truck was coming. It could easily have been that train that got to us first.” I point out the back window, where everyone can see the headlight of a train approaching the intersection from around the bend. “We could have been killed.”

“It was not God’s will for us to die there,” he says. “We have a mission to complete.”

This is bullshit. I storm past him to Kat, still frozen in a half-standing position in her seat. I go to her, cling to her, hiding my sudden tears in her hair. “Why didn’t you come with me?” I press the words right into her ear, my arms tight around her neck.

“I promised them,” says Kat. “I can’t leave.”

“I can’t stay.” I pull back and look at her, searching her eyes. Pleading with her. I lean in and kiss her forehead; it lines up perfectly with my lips. I think it’s the only time I’ve ever touched her first. And then I march to the front and demand for Michael to stop. I jump down those huge steps and stalk up the dark, unfamiliar road, back the way we came, not even looking at the bus as I pass it but listening—listening closely for the sound of footsteps behind me.

“Anna! Anna, come back!” Not Katy’s voice, but
his.
Well, his voice may remind me of my father’s, but he isn’t going to sway me. “Anna, stop this nonsense! You can’t just walk back to Wyoming!”

I don’t look back. I keep walking, into the night, and eventually I hear the sound of the bus pulling away. There is no sign of Kat. My eyes sting, my shoes pinch, and I have no idea where I’m headed. The rhythmic slap of my rubber soles against the blacktop is all I hear, apart from a distant train whistle and the occasional low rumble of traffic, far away from this deserted road.

I have a gaping hole in the center of my chest, and I smile wryly as I recite my mantra. “I am empty and awake,” I say, over and over, feeling more empty and less awake all the time.

When my legs finally give out, they take with them the last of my resolve, and I collapse in a frightened heap at the side of the road. What am I going to do, all alone? I don’t even have my wallet anymore—no credit card, no cash. I can’t go back to our car, even if I could somehow get back to our car. Because it’s not
our
car; it’s Kat’s car. Kat. The hole in my chest threatens to cave in. How stupid am I? I think of her face, on the bus—how she hesitated.
I can’t leave,
she said. So I left her. Tears, tears bringing with them snot and hysteria, and I shake my head frantically to make them stop. Empty and awake. Empty and awake.

I take out my cell and wonder what I could tell my father. I haven’t told him about the car breaking down, or about getting sick, or heading to Mexico. “Hey, Dad, how’s the weather? So I’m running away from a religious compound in Utah because a crazy minister wouldn’t get a mechanic and relies on prayer to save us from oncoming trains. Can you come and get me now? Oh, by the way, I think I’m in love with a girl.”

Wait, what? In love?
God
, these stupid tears.

Then there’s the matter of my last text message, the one about how he
used
to be my hero. Kind of a shitty thing to say, but I needed him, and he was…gone—lost inside his own grief. It occurs to me that I haven’t heard his voice—even the hoarse occasional whisper that passes for his voice since the fire—since we said good-bye in Sterling Creek. It feels like a decade has passed, but it’s been only ten days.

I shove my phone back into my pocket and cover my face, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes to stanch the flow. Empty and awake. No. I’m alone, that’s what. And hungry. My stomach growls.

I’m not alone, though, not quite. Not according to my father or to Pastor Shepherd. When I was a kid, I prayed all the time—for things I wanted and things I hoped to avoid. I learned hundreds of prayers from my parents, but I haven’t said a single one since my mother died. It’s not like I haven’t tried, but every time I think I
should
, the words won’t come. My mind wanders. My heart doesn’t believe.

“Well, this time I’m just going to talk, and see what happens.” I say it out loud, just barely audible. Even so, the sound of my voice breaking into the silence startles me. I close my eyes. “Um, God? So it’s been awhile.” I pause. It’s not like I need to pull out a bunch of excuses; after all, doesn’t God know everything? So really, what’s the point of prayer, then, if God already knows what’s in my heart? “Yeah, I’m having a hard time, God, and I don’t really know what I need to do next. Like, I don’t know what to do in five minutes, and I don’t know what to do next week, and pretty much I don’t know what to do with the rest of my life.” I open my eyes. This is ridiculous. Who am I even talking to? “Can you just…give me some kind of a sign that you exist?”

That’s precisely when I hear it. The
slap slap slap
of feet. The feet are moving fast, much faster than my own exhausted pace, and hope leaps in my hollow chest. I wonder.

Slap slap slap
.

I know.

“Thank you, God. Thank you for Katy,” I say, breathless, and then I pick up my pack and run in the direction of those footsteps.

Hitchhiking is a lot less exciting than it sounds—at least, when there are no rapists or serial killers or cannibals. It’s actually a lot like walking, except more frustrating because I keep expecting the cars to stop and put an end to this endless slog. Only they don’t stop.

“I wonder how far we’ve gone so far.”

“I wonder if we’d get more rides if we showed some skin.” Kat pulls the straps of her tank top down and shimmies her shoulders in the dark.

“You are ridiculous.”

“It’s like my most endearing quality.”

We hike on, the night’s peace broken only by the familiar sound of our footsteps. The sky is clouding up, but a tiny bit of moonlight illuminates the road ahead—a dusty stretch of desolate land. Finally Kat breaks the silence. “So do we walk all night, or should we find a place to sleep?”

I wilt. How are we going to sleep out here? “We don’t have our sleeping bags, or our tent, and there could be rattlesnakes and…” I can’t go on without the risk of tears breaking loose.

“We could use our backpacks for pillows, and cover up with my jacket.” Kat laughs. “I don’t know, Anna babe, but it’s going to be okay, if we just…” She stops and pulls me in for a hug, but I twist free.

“No, don’t. Don’t be nice to me. If you do, I’ll end up sobbing.”

“It will be okay.” Kat’s eyes plead with me, looking for forgiveness. “Are we…okay?”

I have no idea
what
we are.

“I’m hungry and tired and dirty and lonely and scared and a whole lot of other things I don’t even want to begin thinking about.” I look up. “And here’s our ride,” I say, holding out my arm, thumb extended.

Kat howls, jumps up and down, waves her arms frantically at what appears to be a bright blue-painted school bus.

She plants a sudden kiss on my lips as the bus pulls over just ahead of us. “I love you, Anna!” she sings, and then she turns and runs toward the open door of the bus, leaving me with the words, cut loose like a fish released, the one who bites again regardless of the result. I hook my fingers behind the straps of my backpack and run after Kat, after the shiny lure of her smile. Together, we step into the unknown, true dharma bums at last.

When I was thirteen, I wanted to know what a tree looked like from the top, so I climbed an old, twisting cedar near the riverbank at the park.

“Annnnnnaaaa!” cried my mother, a small blue figure below with crossed arms and an aura of fear. “That’s far enough!” It really was, too. I knew this, but I tried to stand up, very slowly on shaking legs. The trunk of the tree tapered to a mere twig between my fingers, bending under my grasp. The river roared up at me as it churned around the rocks below. I held on and squeezed my eyes shut like a terrified kitten.

They didn’t need to call the fire department or anything. Eventually, I pried loose each finger and slithered down onto a lower branch, and then another, until I was back on solid ground with my mother’s arms wrapped so tightly around me that it made me feel dizzy and sick.

“Mom. Mom! I’m not a baby.” I shrugged her arms off and looked around to check if anyone had seen. “I only wanted to see what a tree looks like from the top.”

Her arms reached for me again, pinning my shoulders, crushing my head against her chest. “Anna, good grief. Trees look the same at the top as they do at the bottom. Branches and leaves.” She tightened her hold. “Did you even think for an instant about how terrified I would be? You could have been killed.”

The next moment is one that I wish I could erase, even though I hate the thought of erasing any memory of my mother. “I wish I had fallen out of the tree,” I said. I pushed my mother away with finality. “Not everything in my life is about you.”

I remember her face then, the way her tears seemed to halt in their tracks, the way her eyes flashed with danger. “Someday you’ll understand,” my mother muttered. “When you have a daughter, you’ll understand.”

If my mother were alive, she would have killed me dead for getting on that bus. Maybe most mothers would. Four boys, college-age with their dreadlocks and tie-dye and dirty feet—guitars and drums stashed around the vehicle—greet us with an enthusiastic cheer. I hesitate for only a second before following Katy and squeezing in beside her on one of the bench seats. A boy with a broad grin and beads woven into his hair closes the door behind us, and we’re off, moving fast, the sound of The Grateful Dead in our ears.

“Hey,” says Kat, with her usual confident smile. “Where you guys headed this evening?”

They all laugh, a nice friendly laughter; the whole bus seems soaked in good humor, a giant rolling teapot steeping in happiness. “We can go wherever you want us to go, and back again,” says the beaded boy. “We don’t really have a plan. We’re here to meet real people and learn new things and float the rivers and climb the mountains and smoke the good Buddha, love.” He grins even wider. “I’m Zane. This is Seth, Frankie at the wheel, and Bo riding shotgun. And you, my friends, are
on the bus
.”

“I’m Kat.” No Katherine for this crowd. “Well, really we’re in quite a predicament.” She nods. “Our car broke down in Gillette, Wyoming, this little town way the hell out in the middle of nowhere and so crazy far away from where we are right now. We kind of got…abducted.”

“Not abducted, not really,” I say, finding my voice. I smile at the two boys sitting on the bench across the little table. “We got abandoned once, and robbed, and then…I think…we were brainwashed.” I laugh to show it’s a joke, but I mean, it’s pretty much true. I can’t put my finger on it, but something about these boys, this bus—I feel strangely at ease. Maybe it’s back to the freedom of anonymity, but I almost feel like I could tell them everything. I shake my head and stick my index finger in my mouth to keep myself from spilling all.

“Exactly,” says Kat. “
Exactly exactly
.” She grins at me, and I know we’re okay again. Happiness fills the void in my center.

“Gillette, huh?” The quiet boy with a shock of white blond hair—the one called Seth—pulls out an atlas and twists the shade of the little reading lamp toward the page. “Well, that’s not so far.” He hands the atlas to Zane. “We’re heading up to Kalispell, but we’ve got lots of time. Festival’s not till the Fourth.”

“What kind of a festival?” says Kat. “Music?” She gestures at the instruments stashed about the bus. “Are you guys musicians?”

Seth runs a hand through his springy blond curls and ducks his head. “Strictly amateurs,” he says.

“We’re following this jam band on tour,” says Zane. “Have you girls heard of Selective Silence? We’re friends, sort of.”

“Well, Zane and Seth have a crush on the lead singer, if that makes them friends,” says Bo from the passenger seat.

“It’s not a crush,” says Zane, laughing. “It’s a straight-up obsession.”

“Is she hot?” Kat smiles, bemused.

Seth pulls out a zip-up binder full of photos, concert posters, ticket stubs, and such. He pushes it across the table, pointing at a photo of the band. The lead singer is tall and thin, with a piercingly interesting face framed by two thick, glossy braids. “The shaman,” Seth whispers, tapping the photo. “We love the shaman.”

I laugh, partly from his proximity, the clear gaze of adoration on his face. He leans in even closer. “So…Gillette?” he says.

“That would be awesome.”

“We’ll drive all night!” says Frankie from behind the wheel.

Kat pulls the album closer and peers at the singer’s face—her gaze intense. “God, this face. It’s so striking…it’s almost painful.”

“It’s indescribable,” says Seth, nodding vigorously. “And yeah, the shaman’s for real. I mean, for real a mystic. You’ll know it when you see the band perform. It’s like they put the whole audience in a trance or something.” He runs the edge of his thumb over his chin, where a little billy goat scruff is trying to grow. “There are stories…” he says.

“Stories about freaky shit. Talking to dead people, that kind of thing,” says Zane. “The shaman plays this drum, and it’s like, whoa…you can feel your heart rate changing, matching the beat, and then the shaman starts singing…”

“Minds are blown,” Seth finishes.

“Totally.”

“That’s not all you want the shaman to blow,” says Bo, laughing.

I blush, and Seth ducks his head and runs a hand through his curls. “It’s not like that,” he says.

“I want to meet the shaman.” My desire surprises me. I haven’t ever wanted to meet someone famous or important. Those hypothetical questions about meeting a famous person, living or dead? They make me nervous, contemplating fame. I know I would be tongue-tied and stupid. I’m afraid I would be boring and humorless. Still. What if…

“I bet we could get in to talk to the shaman at the festival,” says Zane.

“Come on, you guys haven’t really even met the shaman,” says Bo, making a scoffing sound. “I mean, getting a signature on your tickets as the shaman walks by isn’t meeting the shaman. Shaking hands in a line of fans isn’t meeting the shaman.” He laughs, dragging off his cigarette.

I pull the photo closer and peer at the shaman’s face again. Freaky shit. I don’t believe in that kind of thing, but…well, what would be the harm? “Do you think the shaman could talk to my dead mom?”

There’s a tiny awkward moment, but then Seth takes my hand across the table, and he says, “Well, we can ask.”

His eyes are calm and unwavering. I breathe in his strength and exhale my longing in a sigh.

“When is this festival? And where?”

“July Fourth. On somebody’s land, up by Glacier National Park. Will you come?”

Katy and I exchange a look. I shrug.

“Why not?” says Kat, nodding. “Fourth of July, in Glacier. We’ll meet you there.”

“So what would you have the shaman tell your mom for you?” Seth slides my cardboard cup of coffee and my candy bar across the gas station counter, including them in his purchases.

I slide them back. “I don’t know. It’s stupid really. A big stupid cliché.”

He puts his hand on top of mine, on top of my cup. “Stupid, how?”

I let him pay. “She died last year.” I hold the door for him as he gathers his stuff into his pockets. “It was…so dumb. Some kids were playing with matches under the stairs one night, and when the fire accidentally got away from them, they ran instead of telling someone. My home, my parents’ church, it all burned down. My dad and I got out, but she…didn’t.” We step out into the parking lot, but we linger there, not quite ready to rejoin the group.

“Oh, Anna, I’m so sorry.” He says what everyone says, but he’s totally sincere. “That’s not even remotely stupid.”

I shrug again, trying to stop there, leave it at that. Why am I telling him all this, letting this strange wandering boy hold these pieces of me?

I look away, but the words slip out anyway. “I thought…for a long time I worried that I had started the fire. Because I smoked in my room, and because we fought that night. But I know I put it out.” I sip my coffee and wrap my free arm around myself, holding everything in close. “I know I put it out, but I was so relieved when two little boys confessed that they had started the fire. And then I felt like an awful person for being glad that they did it. Those poor kids, to have that kind of mistake eat away at you for the rest of your life.”

“Anna.” He stands closer, shifting slowly so that he has his arms around me. I can feel the squish of his purchases in his pockets. “I don’t even know what to say.”

I laugh to comfort him. “Don’t worry, nobody does. People just sort of hover around me for a while and then get bored and wander away before they catch it.”

“Catch what?” He tightens his arms; for a moment I am completely tucked into his embrace, and I feel okay with it, almost, in a way that’s new and comfortable at the same time. Then he relaxes his arms—the embrace is over—but he doesn’t step back, doesn’t stop holding on to me.

“My bad luck.” I lean in the tiniest bit, willing my body to uncoil, the spicy scent of his shirt against my cheek, the light rapid beat of his heart behind the ribs I can feel through his clothing.

“Anna,” he says, and I look up. I think he’s going to kiss me.

I pull away at the last instant. I don’t know what to say, how to explain. “Sorry!” I disentangle myself from his arms, clumsy with coffee and apologies. My lungs feel funny, like I’m an amphibian learning to breathe out of the water. “I can’t…” I turn and walk unsteadily across the parking lot toward the bus, parked under the gas station awning. I see Kat waving from the doorway and quicken my pace. “Katy!” I call, and then I’m running.

Frankie drives all night, just as he said he would, and I sleep through most of it despite all the caffeine I consume. When we finally pull into Gillette, it’s nine thirty in the morning, and we all pile out of the bus to stretch our legs and say our good-byes.

“But it’s not really good-bye,” says Seth, keeping his hands to himself but not his smile—that irresistible smile. “Anna, I’m happy we met. I feel…well, it’s stupid.” He runs both hands through his curls.

“It’s not stupid.” I scratch a mosquito bite on my knee to keep my hands from reaching for him. “I’m really glad you guys stopped for us. I…you’re easy to talk to.”

He nods, the curls bouncing in time. “Seriously, talking with you is amazing. Like I’ve known you all my life.” He stops, looking away at last. “I wish…we could talk more.”

“Well, there’s always the festival, right?” I smile, both relieved and saddened to be free of the intensity of his smile.

He steps closer, takes my hands. “I know,” he says, when I open my mouth to protest. “It’s okay. I just…will you really come?”

I nod. “We’ll be there. I want to see this shaman for sure.” I see the look on his face and add quickly, “And you, too, of course. I mean, all of you.” I nod again, feeling stupid, fastening my eyes on the bus, so bright and gleeful in the morning light. “Don’t worry, Seth. We’ll be there.” I squeeze his hands with an air of finality and extricate mine from his grasp, walking purposefully toward our car—where Kat waits.

“Said your good-byes?” Kat asks, her voice bright and a little brittle.

I bite my lip, worrying about her tone, the layers of meaning. I glance back over my shoulder toward the bus and raise my hand to wave. “Are you all right?”

She nods and unlocks the door. “Everything’s fine,” she says. “Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go explain to Leroy about why we’re late and our money situation. We can get our bank stuff straightened out at the local branch.”

I lean over to put my backpack on the floor, and I see it.

“What the hell? Kat, look what’s on the floor of the car.”

Kat leans over me, squinting into the dim space next to the console. “Is that your wallet?”

I pick it up, sinking into the passenger seat to look through all of the compartments. “Everything’s here, Katy, except the cash. My drivers’ license, my ATM card, everything.”

“Those sleazy bitches,” says Kat, under her breath.

“Well, at least now we can pay for the car.” I hand her the bank card and drop the wallet into my backpack. “I don’t suppose there’s much point in telling Leroy about his sister-in-law. Casey will just call us liars.”

“Revenge,” says Kat. “But I mean…it worked out, so that’s sort of stupid. We’ll stop and mail the money to Shaggy and then head out. I just want to get back on the road.” She slips one foot out of her flip-flop and cracks her toes against the ground. “I…I’m glad it’s just the two of us again,” she says, without looking at me. She shoves her foot back into her shoe and turns away, heading into the garage.

The two of us. I watch her walk away, thinking about how much simpler things are when it’s only Katy and me. Those people from Pastor Shepherd’s church—I don’t know whether to admire them for their faith or pity their foolishness. The way they cared for a raggedy homeless girl with the stomach flu simply because it was the right thing to do. The way they trusted that prayer could keep their old clunky bus running all the way to Mexico. What I do know is that their extremes help to put my father’s faith into perspective, help me to remember his quieter, more sensible belief.