Moses
TAG WASN’T THE ONLY ONE who made a habit of sneaking into my room for private sessions. Word started to get around about what I could do. What I could see. What I could paint.
Carol, a psychiatrist in her fifties who never seemed fazed by anything and was married to her work, had lost a brother to suicide when she was twelve. It was what had led her to work with the mentally ill. That same brother started showing me roller skates and a scruffy stuffed rabbit with a missing ear. So I told her what I saw. She hadn’t believed me at first, so I told her that her brother loved potato salad, the color purple, Johnny Carson, and could only play one song on his ukulele, which he played and sang to her each night before she went to sleep. “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” That was the song. She had taken me off the antipsychotics the next day.
Buffie Lucas was a no-nonsense psych tech who should have been on Broadway. She sang as she worked and could do Aretha Franklin better than Aretha Franklin could do Aretha Franklin. She’d lost her parents within three months of each other. When I asked her if her mom had given her a quilt made out of all her concert T-shirts before she died, she had stopped mid-song. Then she smacked me and made me promise not to hold anything back.
People came, and they brought gifts. Paper and grease pencils, water colors and chalk, and about two months into my stay, Dr. June brought me a letter from Georgia. I’d done something that pleased Dr. June, and I suppose she was trying to reward me. I hadn’t meant to please her. I didn’t especially like Dr. June. But she’d seen a picture I’d drawn of Gigi. I’d meant to hide it and then hadn’t been able to bring myself to put it away. It was a chalk drawing. Simple and beautiful, just like Gi always was. In the picture she was folded around a child, though I told myself the child wasn’t me. June had stared at it, and then raised her eyes to mine.
“This is beautiful. Touching. Tell me about it.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you what I see,” Dr. June said.
I shrugged.
“I see a child and a woman who love each other very much.”
I shrugged again.
“Is this you?”
“Does it look like me?”
She looked down at the drawing and then back at me. “It looks like a child. You were a child once.”
I didn’t respond and she continued.
“Is this your grandmother?” she asked.
“I suppose it could be,” I conceded.
“Did you love her?”
“I don’t love anyone.”
“Do you miss her?”
I sighed and asked a question of my own. “Do you miss your sister?”
“Yes I do.” She nodded as she spoke. “And I think you miss your grandmother.”
I nodded. “Okay. I miss my grandmother.”
“That’s healthy, Moses.”
“Okay.” Awesome. I was healed. Hallelujah.
“Is she the only one you miss?”
I stayed silent, unsure of where she was leading me.
“She keeps coming back, you know.”
I waited.
“Georgia. Every week. She comes. And you don’t want to see her?”
“No.” I suddenly felt dizzy.
“Can you tell me why?”
“Georgia thinks she loves me.” I winced at the admission, and Dr. June’s eyes widened slightly. I’d just given her a meaty, dripping spoonful of psyche stew, and she was salivating over it.
“And you don’t love her?” she said, trying not to drool.
“I don’t love anyone,” I responded immediately. Hadn’t I already said that? I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. It both pleased and bothered me that Georgia had been so persistent. And it bothered me that I was pleased. It bothered me that my pulse had quickened and that my palms were damp. It bothered me that at the mention of her name, I had immediately felt that rush of color behind my eyes, reminiscent of the kaleidoscope Georgia’s kisses had always created in my head.
“I see. Why?” Dr. June asked.
“I just don’t. I’m broken, I guess.” Cracked.
She nodded, almost agreeing with me.
“Do you think you might love someone someday?”
“I don’t plan on it.”
She nodded again and persisted for a while, but finally her time was up, and she’d really only gotten that one spoonful, which made me happy.
“That’s enough for today,” she said, standing briskly, folder in hand.
She slid an envelope from the back of the file and set it carefully on the table in front of me.
“She wanted me to give this to you. Georgia did. I told her I wouldn’t. I told her if you had wanted to contact her, you would have. I think that hurt her. But it’s the truth, isn’t it?” I felt a flash of anger that June had been rude to Georgia, and was bothered once again that I was bothered.
“But I decided to give it to you and let you choose whether or not you wanted to read it.” She shrugged. “It’s up to you.”
I stared at the letter for a long time after Dr. June ended our session. I was sure that was what she had expected. She thought I would give in and read it, I was sure of that too. But she didn’t understand my laws.
I tossed the letter in the trash and gathered up the drawings Dr. June had been flipping through. The one of Gi was there on top, and the intertwined figures made me pause. I pulled Georgia’s letter back out of the trash, painstakingly unsealed it, and drew the single handwritten page from inside without letting myself focus on the curving letters and the swooping G at the bottom that began her name. Then I carefully folded the picture of Gi, the way Gi enfolded the child in the drawing. The child that wasn’t me, not anymore at least. The child could be Georgia now, and Gi could look after her. Then I took the drawing and tucked it inside the envelope. I wrote Georgia’s address on the outside and when Chaz brought me my dinner that night I asked him if he would make sure it got sent.
I slipped Georgia’s letter beneath my mattress where I wouldn’t have to see it, where I wouldn’t have to feel it, where I wouldn’t have to acknowledge it.
Georgia
HIS NAME WASN’T in the top left-hand corner but the envelope said Montlake and it was his handwriting that slashed across the envelope. Georgia Shepherd, PO Box 5, Levan Utah, 84639. Moses and I had had a discussion about Levan and her post office boxes, and apparently Moses hadn’t forgotten it. The only mail boxes anyone had at their homes in Levan were for the Daily Herald, a newspaper most of Levan subscribed to, if only for the Sunday comics and the coupon inserts. The Daily Herald was delivered by paper boys or families and it was delivered door to door. But the actual mail was delivered to the little brick post office on the main drag and distributed to the keyed, ornate boxes inside. My family had one of the lower numbers because we’d inherited our box as it was passed down through the Shepherd line.
“So your family is Levan royalty, then?” Moses had teased.
“Yes. We Shepherds rule this town,” I replied.
“Who has PO Box number 1?” he inquired immediately.
“God,” I said, not missing a beat.
“And box number 2?” He was laughing as he asked.
“Pam Jackman.”
“From down the street?”
“Yes. She’s like one of the Kennedys.”
“She drives the bus, right?” he asked.
“Yes. Bus driver is a highly lauded position in our community.” I didn’t even crack a smile.
“So boxes 3 and 4?”
“They are empty now. They are waiting for the heirs to come of age before they inherit their mailboxes. My son will someday inherit PO Box #5. It will be a proud day for all Shepherds.”
“Your son? What if you have a daughter?” His eyes got that flinty look that made my stomach feel swishy. Talking about having children made me think about making babies. With Moses.
“She’s going to be the first female bull-rider who wins the national title. She won’t be living in Levan most of the time. Her brothers will have to look after the family name and the Shepherd line . . . and our post office box,” I said, trying not to think about how much I would enjoy making little bull-riders with Moses.
When Mom delivered my letter, her eyes got tight and I could tell she wished she could just toss it and keep Moses away for good. But she didn’t. She brought it to my room, set it softly on my dresser, and left without comment. The best part of opening any highly-anticipated letter or package is the moment before you know what it is. Or what it says. And I had been waiting for something from Moses for months, praying for something. I knew as soon as I opened it I would either be filled with hope or crushed beyond repair. And I was too worn out for either at the moment.
I ended up going for a long ride, taking the letter along, tucking it inside my coat so it wouldn’t get wrinkled. It was February and we’d finally gotten a snow storm after a very cold, dry, couple of months. Rumor was that they’d found Molly Taggert’s remains near the overpass where Moses had painted her picture. People were talking again and people were staring at me too, all the while trying to pretend they weren’t staring. The lack of snow had made it possible for the dogs to work, to find her, but I was glad the dry spell was finally broken.
The empty white world was welcome, and when Sackett and I were far away from everything and everyone, I pulled the letter out and carefully opened it, as if I might inadvertently tear away something important. Maybe my own dry spell was finally broken. I pulled out a folded piece of thick drawing paper and carefully opened it, tucking the envelope back inside my coat. With shaking hands I studied the picture in my hands. I didn’t know what to make of it.
It was beautiful, but more abstract than I would have hoped. I wanted concrete. I wanted words. I wanted him to tell me that he was coming back for me. That he couldn’t stand being apart. But I didn’t get concrete. I got a picture. How very Moses.
It was a woman, but she could be any woman. There was a child, and it could almost be any child. The woman was created from swirls and suggestions, breasts, hips, embracing arms and folded legs, all enclosing a small child with a brief sweep of dark hair. I looked at it for a long time, not knowing what to make of it.
Was it symbolic? Was it pointed? Was he making a statement about the loss of his grandmother? Was he trying to tell me he understood what I was going through? I didn’t know how he could. And so I stared at the lovely, confusing bit of correspondence from the boy who had kept me guessing from the beginning. After a while, my hands grew cold and Sackett grew restless, and I headed back for home.
I framed the picture and hung it on my wall, determined to get some sense of peace from it, from the fact Moses had thought of me at all. But mostly I felt afraid and unequipped to tackle the days ahead, still unable to completely give up on Moses Wright. Mom had taken one look at the picture and turned away, and Dad just shook his head and sighed. And I settled in for a long wait.
Moses
IN A SHALLOW GRAVE piled high with rocks and debris, fifty yards from where I’d painted her smiling face, the remains of Molly Taggert were uncovered. Tag said the truck stop nearby was called Circle A. The neon sign that marked the establishment was a red A inside a circle—just like at the top of Molly’s math page. I’d never noticed it at all in my travels back and forth across the ridge between Levan and Nephi. I’d driven by that truck stop a hundred times and never made the connection. Too lost in my own head, definitely not Sherlock Holmes. The back of the truck stop butted up to a stretch of field that led into the little hills that rose into the mountain ridge that stretched along the east part of town and continued south for hundreds of miles. A golf course was wedged between those hills, and every year fireworks were launched from the first tee around the fourth of July. The red A and the fireworks were both easily visible from the overpass where I’d painted Molly’s image, marking her resting place and not even knowing it.
Tag had cried when he told me. Big, wracking sobs that made his shoulders shake and my stomach tighten painfully, the way it had the night Georgia had told me she loved me. “I think you do love me, Moses,” she’d said, tears coating her throat. “And I love you too.” I didn’t do well with tears. I didn’t cry, so I didn’t know why other people did. And Tag cried for his sister the way I imagined I should have cried for Gi. But I didn’t cry, so I just waited until the storm passed, and Tag mopped up the tears on his cheeks and finished telling me the rest.
Tag had told his father about me. And for whatever reason—desperation, despondency, or maybe just a desire to placate his adamant son—David Taggert Sr. hired a man and his dogs to cover the area Tag had described. They’d caught her scent quickly, and they found her remains. Just like that. The police were called in and before too long, the police came to the loony bin, looking for me. I’d been questioned about Molly Taggert before, but now they had a body. A body that was found eerily close to my dramatic display.
Sheriff Dawson came with another man, a round, pasty-faced, red-haired deputy that couldn’t have been much older than me. The younger man sneered at me, clearly playing the part of the nasty sidekick on his favorite cop show. With his powdery complexion and his flaming hair, he reminded me of a scowling jelly donut.
Sheriff Dawson asked me all the same questions and a few new ones. He knew David Taggert was a patient at the institution where I was housed. He also knew what Tag had told his father and what his father had then relayed to the search team. And he knew it had all come from me. But when it was all said and done, Molly Taggert had been missing since July of 2005. In July of 2005, I’d been living in California with my uncle and his unhappy wife and their very spoiled children. In July of 2005, I served the entire month in a juvenile detention facility for gang related activities. And that was indisputable. As far as alibis go, mine was pretty airtight. Sheriff already knew that, from our conversation back in October, when I’d painted Molly’s face on the overpass and got hauled in for questioning. But I had known it wouldn’t stop him, or anyone else in law enforcement, from believing I was guilty of something. I’d told Tag as much.
“You had any further contact with Georgia Shepherd?” Sheriff Dawson asked as he closed his file and prepared to leave. The question felt a little strange at the tail end of all the questions about Molly Taggert.
“No,” I said. The sheriff didn’t meet my gaze but continued rifling through the thick pages in front of him. With his head tilted down and his hat removed, I could see his pink scalp through his pale hair.
“You and she were friends, if I remember right.” He kept his head down and turned another page.
“Not really.”
He glanced up. “No?”
“No.”
Sheriff Dawson shot a look at the pudgy deputy. The deputy smirked. Heat rose in my chest, and I wanted to pop his fat face in. I didn’t understand the look, but there was something ugly behind it.
“Hmm. But you were there the night she was attacked at the Stampede, right? You took her home, made sure she was all right.”
I waited, the heat in my chest spreading to my ears. He already knew all this.
“We never really figured out what happened that night.”
He paused again and suddenly slapped the file shut. “So you haven’t had any visions about what might have happened there, have you? Maybe painted a mug shot or a finger print on the side of some barn? You know, something we can use to hunt the bastard down? We don’t especially like people hurtin’ our girls. So it sure would be nice to bring justice to whoever hurt Georgia.”
I said nothing. I had hurt Georgia. I was sure that was what he was getting at. After all, she was the one who called the cops the morning Gi died. She was the one who stood outside and waited for the ambulance. She was the one who found out where I’d been committed and made a wasted effort to see me. But I didn’t think that was what the sheriff was referring to. He obviously thought I’d tied her up too, psycho that I am.
But I hadn’t tied her up. And I hadn’t had any “visions” about who had. So I stayed silent and seated as he rose, along with Deputy Jelly Donut, and headed for the door.
“Moses?” The younger man exited, but Sheriff Dawson paused, his hand on the knob as he placed his cowboy hat back over his thinning hair. “I hear you’re gonna be released in the next few days.”
I nodded slightly, acknowledging that I was. He nodded too and pursed his lips, considering me.
“Well, good. That’s good. Everybody deserves a fresh start. But I don’t think you should come back to Levan, Moses,” he said, stepping into the hall. “We’re all out of fresh starts and second chances.” He let the door fall closed between us as he walked away.