The Best People in the World (11 page)

The rusty spring securing the screen door whined. Pawpaw eased himself down the steps and into the yard. From his outpost on the porch, he'd heard my escape.

“You're sure up early,” was the first thing he said.

I didn't know who was being deceived. “I have to meet some friends,” I said. It was about half-past five in the morning.

“I see,” said Pawpaw. He patted his pants' pockets. “Let me walk you. I'll buy you breakfast.”

“I don't want them to have to wait for me.”

“I understand,” he said, then, softer, he repeated himself, “I understand.”

“I'm probably late already.”

We waited at the corner while a milk truck rattled past.

He said something under his breath.

“What?” I asked him.

“A window makes a novel door.”

I turned toward him. The muscles of his face were slack, as though they'd been severed from the bone. Still, I thought he'd live forever. I thought all of us would.

“I forgot my ciggies,” Pawpaw said.

We'd come about five blocks.

“You want me to run and get them?”

“No. No.” He wrapped me in his sinewy arms. “Your friends are waiting for you. Get going. Away.”

 

Despite their size it took forever to get anywhere in those New England states. It never dawned on those people that a road might be made straight. We headed up one hill and down another. Western Massachusetts was just one green headache. Separating the towns were rivers a person could have waded across.

I'd been traveling for three days. As far as I could tell, we weren't heading toward anything at all. I was ready for the traveling to come to an end. I was ready to arrive.

Our shadow raced beside us. The silhouette of the car, as simple as a child's drawing, the little trailer keeping pace. In that spare illustration anyone could recognize a family on a trip. The curve of the windshield projected a faint prism's rainbow in the dust and gravel of the shoulder, and for a moment the rainbow centered so perfectly over my head that I couldn't help but take it as an omen. I didn't bother seeking a witness, since the phenomena depended as heavily on them as on me. To try and capture it would certainly dispel it. And when the trick ended, I didn't cheapen it by trying to reproduce it.

 

We made progress. At some unmarked point we slipped across a border. The trees flashed their silver leaves at us.

“Now that's Vermont,” said Shiloh, pointing at a sway-backed barn.

“Completely Vermont,” said Alice.

Some guy in a red truck all cankered with rust. “Mr. Vermont,” I dubbed him.

“Exactly.”

These small little calving sheds at the edges of the fields: Vermont. A boulder-choked stream and its chalky water: Vermont.

The directions Parker provided relied on landmarks rather than street names. We ticked off the duckweed-covered marsh, the mailbox mounted on a wagon wheel. Every indication was that we were on the right course. And the challenge of decoding this imperfect document distracted us from that central question: what were we going to do when we found this place? What were we supposed to do when the voyage stopped, when we arrived? We'd come this far out of faith in each other and in the process itself.

We came to the last line of instruction:
When you come to the land of tiny flags, you're there.

We didn't anticipate anything other than being surprised.

Beside the road we saw a jumble of brightly painted rocks. A little ways on, a stack of I-beams rusted in the grass. Then Shiloh noticed how, through countless empty acres, color-coded tassels of survey stakes measured the wind. Alice lifted her foot off the gas. Tucked away on the hillside above us, half hidden from the road, a group of A-frame houses huddled together. From our vantage the sloping hill obscured the bases of the buildings. The pointed rooflines were as sharp as fence pickets. A dirt driveway led up toward the houses. By the side of the road, on a post, someone had built a mailbox to look like an A-frame house. The only markings on the mailbox were the initials DWG, which had been painted in white on the untreated wood.

“Drive already,” said Shiloh.

And we started up the hill.

Compared to the scope of the surveyor's stakes, the four houses were humble. They were arranged around a small pond, like hours on a clock face. In the center of the pond, there was a little island and on the island an empty picnic table. I thought I saw a couple of heads bobbing in the water, but then we were behind the nearest house and
I lost sight of the water. A sun-faded coupe rested on cinder blocks, the only car we saw.

Alice parked beside the wreck. Clusters of paper birches dotted a recently mown pasture.

I turned toward Shiloh for a clue as to how we should proceed.

He had just opened his door when I heard someone shouting a warning to us. Through the dusty glass of the back window, I saw a woman running toward our car. She waved her hands above her head, but I was more impressed that she was naked.

Then there was a crashing sound, like someone hitting the car with a sledgehammer.

Shiloh slammed his door shut and practically climbed over the seat back.

“It's a goat,” said Alice.

I saw the animal rise up on its hind legs and drive its bony skull into the quarter panel of the car. The sheet metal rang like a rotten bell.

The naked woman crouched behind the animal and wrapped it in her arms.

“He doesn't like people parking next to his car,” she said by way of explanation. The animal struggled in her arms. It had yellow reptilian eyes.

Alice moved her car a safe distance away.

“I wonder if they're nudists,” said Shiloh. “That would be like Parker, to neglect to mention something like that.”

Alice gave Shiloh a humorless look.

We had gotten out of the car and were examining the damage when a man's voice called out to us.

“You're the refugees from New York, I take it.”

When we turned around, his head eclipsed the noontime sun. He could have been seven feet tall. He had on tan logging boots and a black bikini. His body was completely hairless. Underneath the damp fabric, his unit looked like a baby's arm.

“Your goat attacked my car.” Alice rubbed her hand over the dent.

“No,” he said, “it is not my goat.”

Squatting beside us, he reached a hand inside the wheel well. He
used his hand like a mallet to pop the sheet metal back into place. The paint showed fine cracking, like spiderwebs.

I wanted him to put some pants on. He had this strange accent. Every word was a stone he dropped on our heads.

The goat had clambered onto the roof of its car. It looked immensely satisfied. I didn't see where the woman had gone.

“You are Parker's friends, yes?”

We introduced ourselves. The giant's name was Gregor. And the woman who had run out to help us? We could call her Magdalena.

“That's a beautiful name,” said Alice. “Is she your wife?”

This put a smile on Gregor's face. “She is more my sister.” Gregor seemed half asleep or maybe stoned. The way he spoke, I got the feeling that the voice inside his head wasn't speaking English.

“Is it just the two of you?” asked Shiloh. “We were under the impression that you had a thing going on here.”

Gregor pointed straight up. “It's the middle of the day. The others are out working. I am here only to greet you. Follow me inside, you will find out why Magdalena is here.”

With his booming voice it sounded almost like a threat. So when he swept his hand toward the nearest house, we stood fixed to our spot.

“She has made lunch,” said Gregor.

We followed him on a path between two houses and up onto a deck. There were window boxes balanced on the railing and painted gingerbread running underneath the roof's gables. Finally we'd come upon some people interested in keeping up appearances.

The big man hustled us inside through a sliding glass door.

Inside we found bare framing and exposed wires. Rolls of insulation had been stapled in between the ribbing of the steep roof. Where we'd entered, the roofline was the ceiling, but at the back of the house an open staircase led up to a second-floor platform. The whole place smelled of pressure-treated wood and spoiled milk.

“This is cozy,” said Shiloh.

Gregor seemed to take inordinate satisfaction from seeing our unfamiliar faces in his living room. He pointed at some chairs, indi
cating that we sit. In the darkest corner of the house, someone was shuffling dishes and pans.

He left the three of us alone while he went to see how things were proceeding in the kitchen.

“I hope he puts some pants on,” I whispered.

“If they ran out of money,” said Alice, “they didn't have much to begin with.”

“These houses are amazingly efficient,” said Shiloh. “The shape of the roof funnels the warm air upstairs.”

“I'd need a bit more privacy than this,” said Alice.

“No you wouldn't,” said Shiloh.

“Well, I'd prefer it,” she said, reaching over and placing her hand on my knee.

I imagined taking those back stairs with Alice.

Gregor returned with a plate in each hand and another balanced in the crook of his arm. He handed them to us. There was some brown meaty thing and mashed potatoes and carrots, and covering all of it a thick gravy. Our host returned to the kitchen. He came back with two more plates. Magdalena trailed behind him, carrying a tray of jelly jars and a pitcher of water. She had put on a sack dress. Her lips were drawn into this line, as if she didn't intend to speak. I was glad I hadn't gotten a better look at her before.

“What beats this?” Shiloh asked, scooping a pile of potatoes into his mouth.

Instead of eating, our hosts lowered their heads.

“Pardon me,” Shiloh said, out of the corner of his mouth.

Gregor dismissed his apology. “Our Lord is certainly sympathetic to hunger.”

Shiloh pointed his knife at the hunk of meat. “What are we having?”

“It's pheasant,” said Gregor.

“Did you make all this, Magdalena?” asked Alice.

“I cooked it.” The woman blushed. She whispered something in Gregor's ear.

“She can't remember your names,” said Gregor.

“I don't think we told her,” I said.

Gregor slapped his forehead. “I am no good at introducing people to people. My talent is introducing people to God.”

“He turned God on his head,” bragged Magdalena.

Shiloh shifted in his seat. For a moment I thought Shiloh might say that he had turned God on his head, too.

“People seek us out all the time,” said Gregor. “They tell me where they've been and who they know. These are very persuasive people. But I turn them away. I turned away Bob Seger's brother, an ordained priest. He offered me ten thousand dollars just to live in one of these houses. What did I say?” He turned to Magdalena.

“You asked for fifty thousand,” she said.

“This is true. Now did I want that money? No. It was a principle. He was only willing to part with what he could part with easily. Ten thousand to him was what? Ten dollars for you and me. He called me a Judas. Can you believe that?”

The three of us couldn't believe it.

“Even if he had paid, it would have been the greatest bargain of his life. He would have gotten a home, a family, a job, and a purpose. How many folks do you know who have those four things? But what is their purpose? Is it gaining access to paradise? Or is it gaining a headstone at Paradise Acres?”

“Are you saying that you can guarantee passage into heaven?”

When Alice asked this Magdalena perked up in her chair.

“I am not selling tickets for some elevator ride,” said Gregor. “I introduce people to a pathway.”

“Do you believe in saints?” asked Shiloh.

Gregor put his plate down and walked to the sliding glass door. “What is a saint?” He looked out at the property. “Most people think a saint is a person who performs miracles or acts of grace. How can they do this? I would like to think that there's a fragment of God inside them, a little crumb. Then the next question is, why does God put that crumb inside them? Perhaps there is a crumb of God inside all of us?” Now he turned around like an attorney addressing the jury. “Does it surprise you that some people believe I am a saint?”

“That's not what I meant,” said Shiloh.

Gregor shrugged his huge shoulders. “Let's ask Mags what she thinks.”

The woman sucked on her lower lip. “A lot of people are looking for answers. But what they should be looking for are better questions.”

For some reason I found her logic very exciting. Like flushing the toilet with rainwater, it suggested that we were on the road to some higher understanding.

“If you ask me why,” said Gregor, “I won't be able to explain myself, but I'd like for you to join us here, the three of you.”

“You mean,” said Shiloh, “we can just move into one of these houses?”

“Well,” said Magdalena, “all the houses are occupied for the time being. But in the fall…”

“In the meantime,” said Gregor, “you should come by, meet the family.”

“We get together every Thursday to share a meal,” said Magdalena. “Friends are always welcome to stop by.”

“Once the crops are harvested,” continued Gregor, “we're going to concentrate on improving the facilities, like more of these houses and possibly a barn. If we have time there are some other projects we might get around to. We have blueprints. You probably saw how things are already staked out.”

“Parker said something about an amusement park,” said Alice.

“The previous owners, that had been their intention,” said Gregor. “I only wanted the land, but they made me take it all, lock, stock, and barrel. It worked out okay. Now we're a fully licensed educational nonprofit.”