Life Goes On (10 page)

A June wedding, I thought to myself. Outside. Maybe next to the Hodge's farm pond. Somewhere far away from electricity so Bea Majors couldn't play the organ. Dancing late into the evening to a chorus of crickets. The Sausage Queen, her dalliance with vegetarianism forgiven and forgotten, wearing her sash, twirling in the twilight.

W
e woke up the third Monday in October to a sunny, fall morning. It was my day off, a blank spot on the calendar with not one obligation.

“Do you want to do something today,” my wife asked at the breakfast table.

I have been married long enough to know that when my wife asks if I want to do something, she isn't asking if I want to do something. She is letting me know she wants to do something.

But I was feeling feisty that morning and wanted to pester her a bit. “No, not really, but thanks for asking.”

She picked up her dishes, walked over to the sink, and set them down harder than necessary.

“You know,” she said after a while, “we don't have to stay home all the time. There's a great big world out there to see.”

I decided to push her a little further. “I thought maybe we'd stay home so you could get caught up on the housework.”

By now, the vein on her neck was standing out the way it does
when she's mad, but doesn't speak for fear she'll lose control and choke the life out of me.

“Or,” I said, “maybe we could see if my folks would watch the boys after school and you and I could drive over to McCormick's Creek, eat lunch at the inn, and go for a hike.”

The vein in her neck began to throb less violently.

“Really?”

“Sure, why not. The laundry can wait until tonight.”

“You're all heart, Sam.”

The boys were less pleased. When I'd phoned my parents, I'd volunteered them to help my father rake leaves after school.

My parents have twenty-six large trees on their property. If you don't move quickly, it is entirely possible to be suffocated by falling leaves. My father has bought every leaf removal gadget known to humankind, without success. His life from mid-September to early November is one pitched battle after another. His yard resembles a battlefield, with the smoldering ruins of leaf piles and my father lying slumped against a tree, weary from combat. When not raking, he is peering frightfully out their parlor window, as a beaten general watches an approaching army, knowing his cause is lost but unwilling to surrender.

In contrast, I depend on the Lord for victory, letting my fallen leaves remain on the ground, trusting that God in his grace will send a wind that will blow them into my neighbor's yard.

It took an hour to reach McCormick's Creek. We went the back roads, striking out through the country in a northerly direction, through Greene County and up into Owen County, crossing the river at Freedom on the last ferry in Indiana, which runs in the
spring and fall, saving the farmers from having to drive their equipment twenty miles around to the bridge in Spencer.

My wife has never been fond of water and, while on the ferry, sat in the car with the seat belt cinched tightly across her lap, gripping the dashboard with whitened knuckles. The ferryman stood outside her window, pointing out half-submerged logs, undertows, and other natural dangers that could at any moment plunge us to a watery grave.

Despite the ferryman's dire predictions, the crossing was uneventful. Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the state park, paid our entrance fee, and drove to the inn for a fried-chicken dinner. We spent the rest of the day hiking, then at dusk made our way back to the car for the trip home.

We hadn't gone five miles when an animal darted in front of us and was punished for its poor timing with a solid whack from my bumper.

“What was that?” my wife asked, startled from her slumber.

I eased over to the side of the road. “I'm not sure. I think it was a dog. I wonder if I killed it.”

Whatever it was was lying by the side of the road, motionless. I could barely make it out in the dark, but it appeared to be a dog. Barbara came up beside me with a blanket.

“What is it?”

“I think it's a dog, but whatever it is, it has spots.”

“I hope it isn't a Dalmatian.” My wife is inordinately fond of Dalmatians, having sat through several dozen showings of
101 Dalmatians
with our sons.

“I'm not sure what it is. Let's get it into the lights.” I wrapped the
blanket around it and carried it to the front of the car so I could see it with the headlights. Barbara pulled back the blanket, gasped, and jumped back. “It's a bobcat,” she said, thoroughly amazed. “I didn't even know they were around here.”

“It was probably someone's pet. It's wearing a collar.”

She asked if it was dead.

I placed my hand on its rib cage. “No, it's still breathing, but just barely.”

“What do you suppose we should do?”

“Take it to a vet, I guess.”

At the next town, we pulled over at a gas station and asked directions to the veterinarian's office, which was closed. By then, the bobcat had expired.

“You killed it,” my wife said.

“Not on purpose.”

“If you hadn't been driving so fast, it might have lived.”

“I was only going forty.”

“What should we do with it?” she asked.

“Have Ernie Matthews stuff it, so we can put it in the living room?” I suggested.

“Fat chance.”

“Then I think we should take it home and bury it.”

We transferred it to the trunk of the car, then drove home in a quiet mood, mulling over the brevity of life.

“Why don't you let me off at your folks and the boys and I can walk home while you bury it,” my wife suggested as we approached town. “That way they won't have to know their father is a killer.”

I dropped her off at my parents, then went home, and began rooting through the garage looking for a shovel. The phone rang before I found it. It was Bea Majors, telling me her sister Opal was in the hospital in Cartersburg and had requested my presence.

Opal Majors is a notorious hypochondriac and routinely imagines she has all types of exotic illnesses. In the four years I've been her pastor, she claims to have been afflicted with the bubonic plague, scarlet fever, jungle rot, and the Ebola virus. The drawback to being a hypochondriac is that when you really are ill, no one believes you. Opal had been sick for a month, but whenever she told anyone, they changed the subject.

Now she was awaiting emergency heart surgery. I left a note for my wife and hurried to the hospital. I found Opal propped up in bed, positively elated. “I've been telling everyone I was sick. Now maybe people will believe me. Three clogged arteries, one of them 100 percent. If Bea hadn't come along when she did, I'd be dead right now. No telling what all they'll find when they open me up. I'm probably full of cancer too.”

I prayed my standard prayer for someone about to be operated on, then sat with Bea while they wheeled Opal away to surgery. I was there most of the night before the doctor came out to tell us she'd come through the operation in good shape. I went home to get a few hours sleep, then left for the meetinghouse.

It had turned cold overnight, a harbinger of winter. The weatherman on the car radio was predicting lows in the upper teens, unusually cold for October, but not unheard of.

The day was a busy one, with three meetings, a handful of house
visits, and another trip to Cartersburg to visit Opal, who was sitting up in bed, ordering the nurse to check her blood for lyme disease, which she'd just read about in a magazine.

She brightened when she saw me. “Oh, Sam, I'm so glad you're here. Can you say a word of prayer for me? I have a feeling I'm not long for this world.”

“But Opal, your doctor said the operation went well, and that you'll be going home tomorrow.”

“Of course he's gonna say that. You think he's gonna admit he botched the operation? I tell you, Sam, something is terribly wrong with me. I can feel it.” She clutched my hand. “Promise me you'll have Miriam Hodge sing ‘Abide with Me' at my funeral.”

I assured her I would.

“And make sure Johnny Mackey gets me in the right plot.”

“I'll make sure of it.”

“Thank you, Sam, you've been a good pastor to me.”

“I'm glad you think so.”

“Will you make sure Sniffles gets a good home?” Sniffles was her cat.

“She can come live with us,” I promised.

She went over her funeral in great detail before I could make my escape. I got home just in time for supper, then played a board game with the boys, read them a story, and put them to bed. Barbara and I stayed up to watch the news from the city.

The newscaster led with the weather, advising people to have their furnaces checked, then related that day's mayhem, and closed by interviewing a man from the Department of Natural Resources.

It had been a long day, and I was half asleep. I only heard half the words. “…released near McCormick's Creek State Park wearing a radio transmitter collar…we've tracked it to Harmony…Cartersburg…the bobcat…and then back to Cartersburg…now somewhere near the town of Harmony. Persons killing an endangered species can receive up to a year in prison and a ten-thousand-dollar fine. If viewers see the bobcat, please phone the sheriff's department. Meanwhile, it is recommended that pets be kept inside.”

I was considerably revived by now and listening closely to the television.

“What did you do with that bobcat?” Barbara asked.

I tried to think how best to answer.

“Were you in Cartersburg today?”

I nodded meekly.

“Did you bury it?”

I shook my head no.

Thankfully, the phone rang, saving me from my wife's inquisition. It was Opal, calling from the hospital. “There's a bobcat on the loose. Go get Sniffles.”

I promised Opal I'd guard Sniffles with my life.

“Call the sheriff,” Barbara demanded, after I'd hung up the phone.

“Are you crazy? Did you hear what they said? A year in prison and a ten-thousand-dollar fine for killing an endangered species.”

“It was an accident. They won't do anything to you.”

“I'd rather not take my chances.”

“We have to do something. You can't carry it around in the trunk of our car.”

“I'll just have to bury it, I suppose.”

“And just where will you bury it that won't get someone else in trouble?”

I thought for a moment, then was struck with a brilliant idea. “In Opal Major's plot at the graveyard. She won't be needing it anytime soon. Besides, she loves cats.”

Fortunately, it was cold and the bobcat hadn't begun to stink. I found the shovel outside, leaning against a tree near where the boys had dug for treasure. I drove the back streets to the cemetery, keeping an eye peeled for any cars that might be following. I parked my car at the Co-op across the street from the cemetery and climbed the fence, the bobcat draped across my shoulders like a mink stole.

I removed the sod carefully, setting it aside for later use. I dug down three feet, then laid the bobcat to rest, the blanket protecting its body from the dirt. I filled the hole, replaced the sod, then dumped the extra soil on Albert Finchum's grave, who'd died the week before.

It never occurred to me to remove the radio collar, which is how the Department of Natural Resources found the bobcat two days later, after Opal gave permission for them to exhume her grave. She wasn't the least bit surprised. “That's what comes from having a funeral director who's blind as a bat. He's been burying people in the wrong graves for years,” she told anyone who'd listen. “There's no telling who they'll find in there.”

Dead Bobcat Found in Opal Majors's Grave
read the headline of that week's edition of the
Harmony Herald.
Bob Miles speculated it was the work of a deranged teenager who'd gotten caught up in a cult involving Satanic worship and animal sacrifice.

Letters to the editor flooded into the paper decrying today's youth and demanding jail time for anyone caught desecrating a grave. The fact that Opal wasn't in it at the time seemed to escape them. Pastor Jimmy at the Harmony Worship Center held a youth rally and brought in a Christian weightlifting team who spoke about the heavy burden of sin, then encouraged the youth to build up their spiritual muscles and bench-press for the Lord.

The last week of October, the sheriff went on television and offered amnesty to any teenager who confessed. “Basically, we're just concerned that this person, whoever he or she may be, get help.” He looked directly into the camera and made a personal appeal to the bobcat killer. “Right now you're probably scared and confused, but it's not too late. We can help you. Just turn yourself in before the urge to kill again gets stronger. Today, it's a bobcat. But tomorrow, it could be your own mother. Call us now, before it's too late.”

Having no intention of running over my mother, I ignored his plea. Ignoring my wife wasn't quite as simple. She reminded me confession was good for the soul. Although it might be good for the soul, it can be disastrous for the reputation. Instead, I took my counsel from the Bible:
There is a time to keep silent and a time to speak
(Ecclesiastes 3:7). And if this wasn't a time to keep silent, I didn't know what was.

H
arvey Muldock lost the town council election by one vote to Mabel Morrison and, from all outward appearances, was ecstatic. He sauntered into the Coffee Cup the morning after the election and instructed Vinny to pour everyone a cup of coffee, that the drinks were on him. Unfortunately, this did little to improve the mood of the patrons, who'd interpreted Harvey's loss as an affront to their God-given right to rule the town. As nearly as they could figure, there weren't enough women in town to ensure Mabel's victory, which meant several men had forsaken their commitment to the male gender. They'd spent the morning speculating who the traitors might be.

I hope they don't find me out. I hadn't gone to the polls intending to vote for Mabel, but the prospect of new blood on the town council intrigued me and at the last moment I found my finger flicking the lever over her name.

I've always had a fondness for Mabel Morrison, ever since I was a child and would walk with my mother four blocks to Morrison's
Menswear the last week of August to buy back-to-school shoes. Her husband, Harold, would measure my foot, then wrestle it into a Red Goose shoe, while Mabel looked on from behind the cash register next to the red goose on the checkout counter, which dispensed a golden egg with every shoe purchase.

I associate Mabel with that pleasant enterprise—reaching up and pulling down the goose neck, listening to the rumble of a goose egg as it made its way through the goose entrails and into my cupped hands: a large golden egg filled with toys, candy, and other secret treasures, all of them mine. I suppose voting for Mabel was my way of hoping she might offer our town one more marvelous surprise.

Well, it was a surprise, though whether it was marvelous depended on one's gender. The women in town seemed exceedingly pleased, while the men appeared despondent, except for Harvey Muldock, who was looking forward to having his life back.

After visiting the Coffee Cup, he stopped by Mabel's house to pass on the baton. They exchanged pleasantries, and then Harvey informed her she'd be taking over his duties—oversight of the water and sewer departments.

“Shirley Finchum called this morning,” he said, as he handed over the key to the wastewater treatment plant. “The pump went out at the lift station last night and sewage backed up in her basement. I told her you'd be over today to give her a hand cleaning up.” He presented her with a thick stack of papers. “This came in Monday's mail. They're the new government regulations on water standards. You'll need to read 'em before the next meeting. Anyway, congratulations on your victory. I hope you find public service a rewarding experience.”

“Why do I have to clean Shirley's house?” Mabel asked. “Don't we have insurance for that kind of thing?”

“We sure do, but there's a two-thousand-dollar deductible. Which, if we take that out of the water and sewer budget, won't leave us enough money to open the swimming pool next summer. Trust me when I tell you never to close the pool. That upsets the mothers something terrible.”

“I didn't run for office to clean up sewage,” Mabel said.

“None of us did. It just kinda worked out that way. Anyway, best of luck to you, Mabel. If you have any questions, feel free to ask Clevis.”

“The same Clevis who just last month was at Grant's Hardware plotting to have me arrested?”

“Yeah, well, sometimes he gets a little carried away during elections. But he's 100 percent behind you now.”

“I don't want him behind me,” Mabel said. “I want him in front of me, where I can keep an eye on him.”

Harvey smiled, shook Mabel's hand good-bye, then walked down the street toward the meetinghouse, where he stopped to visit.

I was on the phone, so he settled himself into a chair opposite my desk to wait. He spied a paper clip on my desk, picked it up, and began straightening it out. I cut the phone call short and greeted him.

He said hello, then asked if I'd voted for him.

“I thought voting was supposed to be secret.”

“That's what people always say whenever they didn't vote for you.”

“Sorry about that, Harvey. I just thought a change would be good for the town.”

“Don't feel bad, Sam. I voted for her too.” He leaned back in the chair and sighed. “Boy, am I glad to be done with that. Don't ever run for public office, Sam. It's a thankless task. People expect you to be at their beck and call. The least little thing goes wrong and they call you to complain. And the meetings. If I never go to another meeting, it'll be too soon.”

“I can't imagine having a job like that,” I said.

Harvey has never appreciated irony, and my comment sailed directly over his head.

“How's the missus taking it?” I asked.

“Oh, she's upset. She told me I had to find something else to do on Monday nights, that she doesn't want me hanging around during her euchre club.”

“Funny you should mention that. Dale's been thinking of starting a Monday evening Bible study. Think you'd be interested?”

Harvey glanced at his watch, “Oh my, look at the time. Eunice wanted me home fifteen minutes ago. Sam, it's been good seeing you. You take care now.”

And with that, he was out the door.

This has been the usual response since Dale had announced the Sunday before that he'd be starting a Bible study. Like most people of his theological persuasion, he is convinced we are living in the final days, that Jesus will soon return to ransom the elect, which always, conveniently, includes him. He has been citing various events to bolster his argument that the end is near—an increase in earthquakes, wars in the Middle East, global epidemics, and Mabel Morrison running for town council.

I've been encouraging people to volunteer for the class, just to keep Dale off our backs. So far, no one has signed up, which fills me with dread. After four years of pastoring Harmony Friends, I've discovered life is easier when Dale is occupied with some noble venture that occupies his time.

It would only take two or three disciples to make him feel important. Two or three folks willing to absorb his lunacy without taking it too seriously. People who aren't susceptible to agitation or causes, who will nod their heads in agreement, then go home and forget everything he said. Maybe some kindly soul who is hearing-impaired.

My wife had driven to Cartersburg that day to buy winter coats for the boys. The prospect of eating lunch by myself held little appeal, so Frank and I knocked off work at noon and walked over to the Coffee Cup for a bite to eat. On the way over, we discussed the election. I could tell he felt uneasy.

Halfway there, he blurted out that he'd voted for Mabel. “I had no idea she'd win. I just didn't want her to not have any votes. Then she had to go and win by one vote. One measly vote, and it's all my fault.”

I looked at him and shook my head. “I hope you've learned from this.”

“I don't know what I was thinking,” he said. “I never thought she'd win.”

I put my arm around him. “Let's look on the bright side.”

“What bright side?”

“At least we know who to blame when the town falls apart.”

He frowned. “So who'd you vote for?” he asked.

“I thought voting was supposed to be secret.”

“You rat! You voted for her too, didn't you?”

“No comment.”

“I won't tell on you, if you don't tell on me.”

“Deal,” I said, reaching over to shake his hand.

The election was the talk of the Coffee Cup. Kyle Weathers was holding forth at the liars' table, underneath the swordfish, offering various conspiracy theories. “You take a look at the voter registration. I bet they got half those names from the cemetery, like they did up in Chicago and got JFK in the White House. That's how those Democrats work. I wouldn't give you fifty cents for the whole lot of 'em.”

“Don't they have to do a recount when it's that close?” Vinny Toricelli asked.

“Don't have to,” Owen Stout said. “Only if Harvey asks for it.”

“I say we demand a recount,” Kyle blustered.

“You can demand it all you want. But they only have to do it if Harvey requests it in writing.”

“I don't think that's going to happen,” I said. “Harvey stopped by my office this morning and he seemed pretty happy. He's already given Mabel the keys to the sewer treatment plant. He told me so himself.”

“So who'd you vote for, Sam?” Kyle asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Who I voted for is a private matter.”

“Traitor,” he hissed, with a withering glance.

It went downhill from there. Kyle wanted to phone the White
House and demand an investigation into voter fraud. Frank said that would be like asking the fox to guard the hen house, and the battle raged. I sat there listening, eating my hamburger as quickly as I could and wishing I had gone shopping with my wife. That's how bad it was.

After lunch, I drove out to visit the Hodges. Miriam had gone to visit her sister, who was sick, so I helped Ellis bring in the last of the corn. He ran the combine while I drove the truck to the elevator in Cartersburg. It was pleasant work, driving the back roads through the country on a bright autumn day, the trees hugging the creek banks off in the distance across the stubbled fields.

The leaves had succumbed to the autumn chill, except for those on the sycamores and oaks, which are always the last to surrender. Not unlike certain people in our town, who see change coming and tighten their grip, unwilling to let go. They fight a losing battle, a contest whose result has already been determined.

When I was in Miss Fishbeck's sixth-grade class, she told a story I've never forgotten, of Japanese soldiers on isolated Pacific islands who, never having learned of the combat's conclusion, continued waging a war whose end had been decided long before. Miss Fishbeck said that when some of the soldiers were told they'd lost, they didn't believe it and fought to their death.

At first, I thought she was making it up and I didn't believe her. Now that I'm older, I don't doubt it a bit. There are people in this town who want things to remain as they were in the 1950s, people still upset with Mabel Morrison for closing down the menswear store after Harold died, and don't vote for her for that reason. They
want Ike to be president, and school to begin with prayer, which won't ever happen again, and they can't bear it. So they load their rhetorical guns to fight for a cause that is already lost.

Dale lives in a world that science disproved two centuries ago. He believes earthquakes are a sign of God's displeasure, not shifts in the earth's tectonic plates. Kyle thinks women are unsuited for leadership, which explains why no woman will marry him. They are oak leaves hanging on through spring, unwilling to make way for new life and fresh forms.

I thought about this on the way to the grain elevator, driving along in Ellis Hodge's grain truck, which doesn't have a radio and thus encourages reflection.

It took forty-five minutes to reach the elevator, and another half hour to unload and do the paperwork. I hadn't been there since I was a teenager and worked for Ellis on the weekends during the harvest. It hadn't changed much. A half dozen old men were clustered in the office, yellow flypaper speckled with last summer's kill hung from the ceiling, and a Sunny Morning heating stove occupied the center of the room. License plates dating back fifty years were nailed to the walls.

It is easy to understand the appeal of a place like this. These old men settle in their chairs at night, watching news of an alien world they no longer understand. The elevator is their last fraying link to a world they knew and understood and wished they could reclaim, but can't. They are old soldiers, making their last stand while the enemy circles outside.

Driving back to the Hodges' farm, I wonder if this might be
God's way of nudging me into the future. I picture myself old and embittered, at odds with the world, and the thought appalls me. If statisticians can be believed, my life is half lived. I don't want to spend this last half trying to recapture the first half. I want to stretch and grow and do bold things, like vote for Mabel Morrison and question what I've been taught and generally alarm people with my broad-mindedness.

By the time I made it back to the farm, Miriam was home. Ellis had finished the last field and was driving the combine into the equipment shed. They invited me to stay for supper, which I declined. I wanted to go home and see my sons and hear about their day.

The march toward winter has whittled down the daylight, and it was almost dark when I pulled into our driveway. My sons were watching for me from the kitchen window and came hurtling out the door, swarming around me like a great cloud of gnats.

It was a good way to end the day, surrounded by life and vigor. These spring-leaf sons of mine, bursting out and growing, reminding me that life isn't to be found in holding on and looking back, but in letting go and looking forward.