Moses
I DIDN’T STOP TO THINK. I didn’t go back to Gi’s and tell Tag what I had found in the cemetery. I was filled with a thundering outrage that I wore to mask the quiet horror of the truth. I drove straight to Georgia’s and strode around the house to the corrals and outbuildings beyond. She wasn’t in the round corral anymore. The horse she’d called Cuss was in the pasture, grazing near the fence and his ears perked up as I approached. He whinnied sharply and reared up, like I was a predator. I found Georgia filling the water trough, and like Cuss, her head came up, her back stiffened and she watched me approach with trepidation.
“What do you want, Moses?” She muscled a bale of hay nearer to the fence and reached for a pitchfork to divvy it up to the horses that watched me warily, unwilling to approach, even if dinner was served. Her voice was harsh, loud, but underneath I heard the panic. I was scaring her. I was big and I was male, and I was feared. But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t the reason she was afraid. She feared me because she had convinced herself she never knew me. I was the unknown. I was the kid who painted pictures while his grandmother lay dead on the kitchen floor. I was the psycho. Some even thought I had killed my grandmother. Some thought I’d killed many people. I really didn’t know what Georgia thought. And at the moment, I didn’t care.
“What do you want?” she repeated as I took the pitchfork from her hands and finished the job for her. I needed the distraction. Her hands fell helplessly to her sides and she took a step back, clearly unsure of the situation.
“You had a son.” I continued to spear the bale of hay and shovel it over the fence in sections, not looking at her as I spoke. I never looked at the family members. I just kept talking until they interrupted me or screamed at me, or sobbed and begged me to continue. Usually, that was enough. The dead would leave me alone once I delivered the message. And I would be free until the next time one of them wouldn’t leave me alone.
“You have a son and he keeps showing me pictures. Your son . . . Eli? I don’t know what he wants exactly, but he won’t leave me alone. He won’t leave me alone so I’m here . . . and maybe that will be enough for him.”
She hadn’t interrupted me. She hadn’t screamed at me. She hadn’t run. She just stood with her arms wrapped around herself and her eyes fixed on my face. I met her gaze briefly and looked away again to a spot just above her head. The bale of hay was gone, so I leaned against the pitchfork. And I waited.
“My son is dead.” Her voice sounded odd, as if her lips had turned to stone and could no longer easily form words. My eyes glanced off her face once more. She had, indeed, turned to stone. Her face was so still it resembled the sculptures in my books. In the muted light of the golden afternoon, her skin was smooth and pale, just like marble. Even her hair looked colorless, thick and white and spilling over her shoulder in that long braid that reminded me of the heavy rope that Eli kept showing me, rope that spun in the air and fell in a sinuous loop over the horse’s head, the horse with colors on his back.
“I know he is,” I said mildly, but the pressure in my head increased exponentially. The water was rising, pulsing, and my levies were close to bursting.
“So how can he show you anything?” Georgia challenged harshly.
I swallowed, trying to stem the tide and met her eyes again. “You know how, Georgia.”
She shook her head briskly, adamantly denying that she knew any such thing. She took a step back and her eyes shot to the left, as if she was preparing to run. “You need to leave me alone.”
I pushed the anger back. I shoved it hard so I wouldn’t shove her. And I wanted to push her, wipe the denial off her pretty face, push her head into the dirt until her mouth was filled with mud. Then she could order me to go. Then I would deserve it. Instead, I did as she asked and turned away, ignoring the little boy who trotted after me, sending desperate images of his mother to my brain, trying to call me back without words.
“What does he look like?” She called after me, and the desperation in her voice was so at odds with her rejection that I stopped in my tracks. “I mean, if you can see him. What does he look like?”
Eli was suddenly in front of me, jumping up and down, smiling and pointing back toward Georgia. I turned, still angry, still defiant, but willing to go another round, and Eli was there in front of me again, standing between me and the horse corral. I looked at him and then back at Georgia.
“He’s small. He has dark, curly hair. And brown eyes. His eyes are like yours.” She winced and her hands rose to press against her chest as if to encourage her heart to continue beating.
“His hair is too long. It’s curling in his eyes. He needs a haircut.” The little boy brushed a droopy curl out of his eyes as if he understood what I was telling his mother.
“He hated haircuts,” she said softly, and her lips tightened immediately as if she wished she hadn’t contributed to the conversation.
“He was afraid of the clippers,” I supplied, Eli’s memory of the buzzing around his ears making my own heart quicken in sympathy. Eli’s memories were shot with terror and the clippers were twice as big as his head. They resembled the gaping jaws of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, proving that memory wasn’t always accurate. Then the image changed to something else. A birthday cake. It was chocolate with a plastic horse in the center, rearing up. Four candles flickered around it.
“He’s four,” I said, trusting that that was what Eli was trying to tell me. But I knew. I’d seen the dates on the grave.
“He would be six now.” She shook her head defiantly. I waited. The child looked up at me expectantly and then looked back at his mother.
“He’s still four,” I said. “Kids wait.”
Her lower lip trembled and she bit into it. She was starting to believe me. That, or she was starting to hate me. Or maybe she already did.
“Wait for what?” Her voice was so soft I barely caught the question.
“Wait for someone to raise them.”
The pain on her face was so intense, I felt a flash of remorse that I’d cornered her like this. She wasn’t prepared for me. But I hadn’t been prepared either. It was aces as far as I was concerned.
“He would have been waiting a long time for you,” she said softly, taking a few steps toward me and then stopping, her stance aggressive, her hands clenched. The grieving mother was gone. She was the wronged woman now. And I was the man who knocked her up and left town.
“That’s how you want to play this?” I gasped hoarsely, all my anger back in full force, so angry I wanted to start ripping fence posts from the ground and flinging barbed wire.
“Play what, Moses?” she snapped. And I snapped too.
“The fact that you and I had a son. I had a son! We made a child together. And he’s dead. And I never knew him. I never knew him, Georgia! I never knew a damn thing about him. And you’re going to spit that shit at me? How did he die, Georgia? Huh? Tell me!” I knew. I was almost sure I knew. Eli kept showing me the truck. Georgia’s old truck, Myrtle. Something happened to Eli in the truck.
Anger zinged in colorful zags and streaks behind my eyes. I felt the water start to part, separating, splitting, and the colors from the other side started to seep down the channel. I pressed my hands into my eyes, and maybe I looked as crazed as I felt, because when I pulled my hands away, Georgia had jumped the fence and began to run, her legs eating up the distance swiftly, as if she thought I would kill her too. And instead of making me pause, her flight just made me angrier. She was going to answer me. She was going to tell me. And she was going to do it now. I went after her, over the fence, arms and legs pumping, rage narrowed on her slim back and on her pale hair falling out of her braid, running away from me like I was a monster.
When I pulled her down, I wrapped myself around her and took her weight on mine. We hit hard, her head bouncing off my shoulder, my head bouncing off the ground, but it didn’t slow her down any. She fought me, kicking and scratching like a wild animal, and I rolled on top of her, pinning her arms between us, pressing her legs down with my own.
“Georgia!” I roared, pressing my forehead into hers, controlling every part of her. I could feel her gasping for breath, crying, resisting me with all her strength.
“Stop it! You’re going to talk to me. You’re going to talk to me. Right. Now. What happened to him?” I felt the ice in my hands and flames at my neck, and I was reminded that Eli was there. I knew he was watching us, watching me restraining his mother. And I was ashamed. I didn’t want to see him and I couldn’t let her go. I needed her to tell me. I shifted so I wasn’t crushing her, but I didn’t lift my brow from where I pressed it into hers, controlling her head. When a horse gives you her head, she’s yours. Georgia’s words whispered in my memory. She wasn’t giving me her head. But I was taking it.
“Talk.”
Georgia
“MOM! I’M GOING!” I yelled as I strode through the kitchen and swiped my keys from atop the fridge.
“I wanna come too.” Eli jumped up from the floor where he was carefully building a corral out of Lincoln logs and ran for the door, sending the little logs flying in all directions. I’d already bathed him and put on his favorite Batman pajamas, even attaching the little black cape so he could save Gotham between repairing corrals. I caught him up and swung him around, his little legs locking around my waist, his arms around my neck.
“No, baby. Not this time. You’re gonna stay with grandma and gramps, okay?” Eli’s face crumpled and his eyes filled right on cue.
“I wanna come!” he protested tearfully.
“I know, but I won’t be home until late and it won’t be fun for you, buddy.”
“It will be fun! I like to stay up late!” he squeezed his legs tighter and his arms were like a vise around my neck.
“Eli, stop,” I laughed. “Grandpa said he would watch John Wayne and the cowboys with you. And I’ll bet Grandma will make popcorn too. Okay?” Eli shook his head vehemently, and I could see he wasn’t going to cooperate. I’d left him too often lately.
“MOM! Help!” I projected my voice so that my mom would hear, wherever she was.
“Go on, George! We’ve got him.” My dad’s voice came from the back of the house and I walked with Eli in my arms until I reached my parents’ room. My dad was stretched out on the bed, remote in hand, boots off, his cowboy hat still perched on his head. He greeted us with a smile and patted the bed, coaxing Eli to join him.
“Come on, wild man. Sit by Grandpa. Let’s see if we can find a good cowboy show.”
Eli released my neck and slid from my body reluctantly, falling in a forlorn little heap on the bed. He hung his head to let me know he wasn’t happy, but at least he was accepting. I kissed his head quickly and pulled back immediately so he couldn’t grab me again. His arms could be like sticky tentacles.
“We’re watching cowboy shows, Mommy. No mommies allowed.” Eli pouted, excluding me like I was excluding him. Then he crossed his arms and sniffled, and I met my dad’s gaze with a sigh.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said softly and he winked at me.
“You heard him. No mommies allowed. Get out, girl,” he repeated with a smile.
I flew through the house and out the back door, side-stepping chickens and my mom’s two guinea hens, Dame and Edna, flipping back my hair and yanking open the door to Myrtle in a matter of seconds. When the door closed, I turned the key, and the old truck roared to life, blaring Gordon Lightfoot’s “If You Could Read My Mind” from the speakers. I loved the song and paused for a second, listening. This station always played country oldies. I felt like a country oldie myself sometimes. I was twenty-two years old, but lately I felt like I was forty-five. With a big sigh, I slumped forward and rested my head on the steering wheel, letting the song wash over me, just for a minute. I hated leaving Eli. It was always an ordeal. Right now, I just needed to catch my breath. There was no silence in my life. Ever. No time to breathe.
Tonight I just wanted to be young and beautiful and maybe dance with a couple of cute cowboys and pretend I had only myself to worry about, even pretend I was looking for a man like the other girls were. I wasn’t. Eli was the only man in my life. But tonight, it would be nice to be held for a little while. Maybe the band would even play this song. I would request it.
Gordon finished wishing for a mind-reader and the next song in the line-up was about mommas not letting their babies grow up to be cowboys. I laughed a little. My baby was already a cowboy. Too late.
I sighed once more and raised my head from the wheel. I checked my rearview mirror, flipped down the visor and looked at my reflection, and finally slicked on some gloss and smacked my lips together. Then I put the truck in reverse and began to back out. Time to go. The girls would already be there, and I was running late, as usual.
It felt like hitting a curb. There was a thump and a bounce. Not even a very big bounce. Not even a very big thump. But something. I swore, and checked my rear-view again, wondering what in the world I’d run over.
I stepped out of the truck, and my eyes were instantly drawn to the tire. A black piece of something was wrapped up around it. A trash bag? Had I hit the trash can? I slammed the truck door and took one step. Just a single step. And suddenly I knew what it was. It was Eli’s cape. Eli’s Batman cape was wrapped around the tire.
Eli’s cape. The cape Eli was wearing. But Eli was inside. Eli was sitting with my dad, watching the cowboys. I fell to my knees, scrambling, desperate, knowing I had to look. I couldn’t look. I had to look . . .
Moses
WHEN SHE FINISHED, I rolled off of her and sat up. She didn’t move. She kept her arms crossed over her chest where I’d kept them pinned while she’d talked, her voice a harsh whisper in my ear. Her hair had come completely loose from her braid and was spread around her head in wild disarray. She looked like the painting I liked by Arthur Hughes. The Lady of Shalott – Georgia looked like the Lady of Shalott, hands folded, hair fanned out around her, eyes blank.
But her eyes weren’t blank now. They were closed and tears dripped down the sides of her face. Her chest rose and fell like she’d just run a marathon. I put my hand on my own thundering heart and turned away from her, unable to climb to my feet. Unable to do anything but rest my head on my knees.
And then Eli showed me the rest.
Georgia’s head lay against the wheel of an old pick-up truck and music poured out the windows. I was looking at her from an odd angle, as if I sat on the ground behind the rusted bumper. Georgia’s hair was sleek and long, shiny and clean like she’d just blown it dry and was heading out for someplace special. She opened her eyes and popped down the visor to check the color on her lips. She rubbed them together and shot the visor back into place. My view changed as if the eyes through which I saw altered their position. I was staring at the back of the truck, at the tailgate that was hanging down. It was still so high. The picture bobbled as if I were attempting to climb. The engine roared and the view changed yet again, abruptly, awkwardly. Wheels, undercarriage.
And then Georgia’s face, peering beneath the truck. The horror on her face transformed it. She looked hideous—gaping mouth and crazed eyes. She looked otherworldly, and she screamed, Eli, Eli, Eli . . .”
I felt her scream reverberate through me as the connection was suddenly severed and the feed in my brain went black. But Eli didn’t leave. He just tipped his head to the side and waited. Then he smiled softly, sadly, like he knew what he’d shown me would hurt me.
And I put my face in my hands and cried.
Georgia
IT WAS ONE OF THE MOST terrible sounds I’d ever heard. Moses crying. His back shook in a parody of awful laughter, his head was cradled in his hands like he couldn’t believe what I’d told him. Strangely enough, when he rolled away from me his expression was blank, frozen, like a granite wall. And then he tipped his head ever so slightly like he was listening to something . . . or thinking about something. And then he’d let out a horrible, wrenching cry, covered his eyes with his hands and lost it. I wasn’t even certain why he cried. I meant nothing to him. Obviously.
He’d always been so remote and detached, able to pull away without the slightest indication that he was bothered by the separation. He didn’t know Eli. He’d never known him. I had tried to tell him. I’d visited that damn facility week after week until they told me in no uncertain terms that I was not wanted. I’d written him a letter that no one would deliver. And then he’d just disappeared for almost seven years.
He’d never known Eli. He was right about that. But that should have made this news easier to bear. And from the way he cried into his hands, heartbroken, it wasn’t easy at all.
I didn’t dare comfort him. He wouldn’t want my touch. I was the same as his mother. I hadn’t taken care of my child, just like she hadn’t taken care of Moses. I loathed myself almost as much as Moses loathed me, and I had felt that loathing coming off of him in waves. But that didn’t stop me from crying with him.
I was always amazed that my tears kept coming. Day after day. There was a limitless supply. My grief was a deep, underground spring constantly bubbling up and spilling over and I cried with Moses, tears flowing, looking up at the true blue October sky above my head. It stretched endlessly and disappeared behind the mountains that ringed my town like silent sentries, keeping none of us safe. Beautiful mountains. Useless mountains. October had always been my favorite month. And then October took Eli. And I hated her. October gave me sunflowers—a peace offering, I suppose. I put them on his grave, and hated her again.
Now the sunflowers lined the grassy field where I lay beside my old lover, not moving, my eyes fixed on the empty blue of another empty day. Moses stayed bent beside me, mourning for a son he had never known. He grieved openly, desperately, and nothing he could have done would have surprised me more. His grief seeped through his hands and spilled into the ground beneath us, and his grief softened my heart. Eventually, he rolled to his back beside me, and though his lips trembled and his breath was harsh, his sobs quieted and no more tears fell.
“Why are you here, Moses?” I whispered. “Why did you come back?”
He rolled his head slightly and found my eyes. The anger was gone. Even the loathing, though I wasn’t sure if it had simply been temporarily washed away. I met his gaze steadily and he must have seen the same thing in my face. No anger. Despair, acceptance, sorrow. But no anger.
“He brought me back, Georgia.”