ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
It is a complicated business, and Cade has never really dealt with it, or maybe never been stuck in a place where it confronts him. I have been having a surprise of a weekend, and I hope it continues to be surprising.
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Creation: The Conclusion of the Lake Cycle
- Thread starter ChrisGibson
- Start date
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
AND A NEW WEEK BEGINS
Even Frey and his clan had headed back to Ashby, but Simon, Cade and May remained, and he found them all in one of the common rooms before a fire. In a normal monastery there would have been a guest house and a convent, but here they had all become the same thing. Donovan sat for a while with his family, and then he said, “I’m caught up in ideas,” and he went up to the string of little cells that were their almost suite, opened his laptop and begin working. He worked until he heard the others coming upstairs. He worked while, with his door open, he heard Cade in the next cell playing his guitar and writing his own music. He worked when Cade came in and kissed him on the cheek and went to sleep and then he got up, stretched and walked about the monastery.
But Saint Clew had the curious quality that none of it was ever entirely asleep, and as Donovan went down a small flight of steps, he passed into a lounge or a parlor, or a chapel, for there was the Virgin on an altar with pots of flowers from Walmart at her feet, and people were singing and playing the guitar, eating tortillas, tacos, some delicious food, and they welcomed him in. It was past midnight, the meat fast was over. They sang:
“Mi alma canta
Canta la grandeza del señor
Y mi espíritu
Se estremece de gozo en dios
Mi salvador
Mi alma canta
Canta la grandeza del señor
Canta la grandeza del señor
Y mi espíritu
Se estremece de gozo en dios
Mi Salvador!”
Logan Banford and Layla were there, and Layla called him over, and they sang together, drinking and swaying back and forth, and Logan gave him a winning smile, and he saw in it someone…. Who did not always win.
Logan drifted out of the chapel, and then Layla drifted out. The two of them had waved politely goodbye and disappeared unobtrusively, and now, one last taco asada, verde sauce hot, steak salty and good in hand, Don rose and headed down other halls. He heard the beginnings of the office of Vigils, and wondered if this was not where Layla and Logan had gone, but he heard another song, sort of Mexican, definitely Spanish, but something else. He couldn’t define it, so he ran to it.
“She changes everything she touches
Every thing she touches changes
She changes everything she touches
Every thing she touches changes.”
Oh, but he knew this. He had even sung it. The Wiccan song, the song that witches and hippies sang around campfires. But now it was here with drums and guitars and rattles in a room filled with candles before s statue that was Mary and not Mary, and the light shone on murals of goddesses with hands open, eyes closed, fruits and flowers, rivers falling from their hands.
They switched into Spanish now
“Ella cambia todo lo que toca
Todo lo que toca cambia
Ella cambia todo lo que toca
Todo lo que toca cambia.”
They moved in a round of Spanish and English
“She changes everything she touches
Every thing she touches changes
She changes everything she touches
Every thing she touches changes.”
And in the past midnight, early black morning of the Thursday after Ash Wednesday, Donovan Shorter heard a voice he did not know he had been waiting for say:
“All of these things that cling to you, let them go. Everything that is not you, let it go. All that you dread, let it go.”
Every time I let it go it comes back.
“You must let these things go every day…”
He remembered a friend who had joined a coven years ago. He wished he’d kept in touch with her. She said before they went into the circle to do anything, a knife was placed at each member’s throat, and then there were words.
“O thou who standest on the threshold between the pleasant world of men and the dread domains of the Lords of the Outer Spaces, hast thou the courage to make the assay?”
Knife to throat, the person holding the knife, the priest or priestess would continue, “For I say verily, it were better to rush on my blade and perish, than make the attempt with fear in thy heart.”
And then the witch with the blade to her or his throat would say: “I have two passwords. Perfect love and perfect trust.”
The priestess would drop the knife, kissing the witch and say: “All who have such are doubly welcome.”
Oh, but that was right. All he had ever sought to work, humbly, was magic. The very raising of Saint Clew that Anigel had done, that was magic. All he wished to live in and do was magic. The God he knew, the Christ he loved, was a nighttime Rover, a Dark Lord. The places he inhabited, were nothing less than the Outer Ones. The altar he longed for was the one of enchantments. He had no wands. Courage and trust were the tools.
As he moved on, he could hear the new rain of three in the morning, the soft rain falling in the cloister, and he could hear the chanting in the main chapel.
“Joyful is the dark, holy, hidden God,
rolling cloud of night beyond all naming:
majesty in darkness, energy of love,
Word-in-flesh, the mystery proclaiming.”
They would have to head back today. He couldn’t make Cade and Simon, who had traveled so much for him in the last few months, stay another night. But when he came back would he go to the office of Vigils, hear the long reading of scripture in three a.m. darkness, sing the words his lips moved to as he entered the cloister and sat under the awning watching the pelting rain?
“Joyful is the dark, shadowed stable floor;
angels flicker, God on earth confessing,
as with exultation, Mary, giving birth,
hails the infant cry of need and blessing.”
Even Frey and his clan had headed back to Ashby, but Simon, Cade and May remained, and he found them all in one of the common rooms before a fire. In a normal monastery there would have been a guest house and a convent, but here they had all become the same thing. Donovan sat for a while with his family, and then he said, “I’m caught up in ideas,” and he went up to the string of little cells that were their almost suite, opened his laptop and begin working. He worked until he heard the others coming upstairs. He worked while, with his door open, he heard Cade in the next cell playing his guitar and writing his own music. He worked when Cade came in and kissed him on the cheek and went to sleep and then he got up, stretched and walked about the monastery.
But Saint Clew had the curious quality that none of it was ever entirely asleep, and as Donovan went down a small flight of steps, he passed into a lounge or a parlor, or a chapel, for there was the Virgin on an altar with pots of flowers from Walmart at her feet, and people were singing and playing the guitar, eating tortillas, tacos, some delicious food, and they welcomed him in. It was past midnight, the meat fast was over. They sang:
“Mi alma canta
Canta la grandeza del señor
Y mi espíritu
Se estremece de gozo en dios
Mi salvador
Mi alma canta
Canta la grandeza del señor
Canta la grandeza del señor
Y mi espíritu
Se estremece de gozo en dios
Mi Salvador!”
Logan Banford and Layla were there, and Layla called him over, and they sang together, drinking and swaying back and forth, and Logan gave him a winning smile, and he saw in it someone…. Who did not always win.
Logan drifted out of the chapel, and then Layla drifted out. The two of them had waved politely goodbye and disappeared unobtrusively, and now, one last taco asada, verde sauce hot, steak salty and good in hand, Don rose and headed down other halls. He heard the beginnings of the office of Vigils, and wondered if this was not where Layla and Logan had gone, but he heard another song, sort of Mexican, definitely Spanish, but something else. He couldn’t define it, so he ran to it.
“She changes everything she touches
Every thing she touches changes
She changes everything she touches
Every thing she touches changes.”
Oh, but he knew this. He had even sung it. The Wiccan song, the song that witches and hippies sang around campfires. But now it was here with drums and guitars and rattles in a room filled with candles before s statue that was Mary and not Mary, and the light shone on murals of goddesses with hands open, eyes closed, fruits and flowers, rivers falling from their hands.
They switched into Spanish now
“Ella cambia todo lo que toca
Todo lo que toca cambia
Ella cambia todo lo que toca
Todo lo que toca cambia.”
They moved in a round of Spanish and English
“She changes everything she touches
Every thing she touches changes
She changes everything she touches
Every thing she touches changes.”
And in the past midnight, early black morning of the Thursday after Ash Wednesday, Donovan Shorter heard a voice he did not know he had been waiting for say:
“All of these things that cling to you, let them go. Everything that is not you, let it go. All that you dread, let it go.”
Every time I let it go it comes back.
“You must let these things go every day…”
He remembered a friend who had joined a coven years ago. He wished he’d kept in touch with her. She said before they went into the circle to do anything, a knife was placed at each member’s throat, and then there were words.
“O thou who standest on the threshold between the pleasant world of men and the dread domains of the Lords of the Outer Spaces, hast thou the courage to make the assay?”
Knife to throat, the person holding the knife, the priest or priestess would continue, “For I say verily, it were better to rush on my blade and perish, than make the attempt with fear in thy heart.”
And then the witch with the blade to her or his throat would say: “I have two passwords. Perfect love and perfect trust.”
The priestess would drop the knife, kissing the witch and say: “All who have such are doubly welcome.”
Oh, but that was right. All he had ever sought to work, humbly, was magic. The very raising of Saint Clew that Anigel had done, that was magic. All he wished to live in and do was magic. The God he knew, the Christ he loved, was a nighttime Rover, a Dark Lord. The places he inhabited, were nothing less than the Outer Ones. The altar he longed for was the one of enchantments. He had no wands. Courage and trust were the tools.
As he moved on, he could hear the new rain of three in the morning, the soft rain falling in the cloister, and he could hear the chanting in the main chapel.
“Joyful is the dark, holy, hidden God,
rolling cloud of night beyond all naming:
majesty in darkness, energy of love,
Word-in-flesh, the mystery proclaiming.”
They would have to head back today. He couldn’t make Cade and Simon, who had traveled so much for him in the last few months, stay another night. But when he came back would he go to the office of Vigils, hear the long reading of scripture in three a.m. darkness, sing the words his lips moved to as he entered the cloister and sat under the awning watching the pelting rain?
“Joyful is the dark, shadowed stable floor;
angels flicker, God on earth confessing,
as with exultation, Mary, giving birth,
hails the infant cry of need and blessing.”
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
He did not know how long it was before he realized someone was out in the cloister walk with him, and he turned to see Logan Banford. Donovan didn’t watch porn anymore, perhaps because his life was pornographic enough, but when he was young, when he was discovering himself, porn was a discovery too. And he did not look at bodies so much as faces. He had admired those stars. They put everything on the line. They showed everything. There had been a purity in Logan Banford, a sweetness and a sadness, an unwillingness to hide his desperation. Don felt like he knew him, and now he was here. Donovan did the dignified thing at three or four in the morning, and waved.
Logan came toward him and then sat on the bench beside him.
“I have been very foolish,” he said.
“How so?” Donovan said.
“I was afraid to speak to you.”
“Come again?” Don said, and for once, when he said that he meant it.
“You’re Don Shorter, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve read…. Well the first time I read something by you was a long time ago. But I’ve read so much by you. Canticle, Loose Skin…. There was one passage I used to read over and over again. Well, a lot of passages, really.”
“Really?” Don said, almost troubled more than flattered.
“Yes!”
The rain was falling softly and Donovan said, “Well, the funny thing is I know you too, and this is why I was so nervous.”
“I…. oh!” Logan clapped a hand to his head.
Donovan tried to say again what he had been thinking, and then he said, “I think this is why I was nervous. You had had so many feelings in front of me, and had felt them. To meet you in person was almost too much.”
“I used to think of myself as some stupid slut, and I would read in secret so no one saw. After I was thirty and had to wear glasses, for some reason I didn’t care,” Logan said. “And I would think, if the people that I read knew someone like me was reading them…”
“Oh, no,” Donovan said. “And trust me…. All sorts of people have read me.”
Then he said “I mean all sorts of people, but at the same time only fifteen, so I was surprised you had. Nowadays, the way things are, I publish online too, and I get into chats with people on story sites but, certainly I’m in no danger of winning a Pulitzer.”
“Well, if it helps, I’m not in any danger of reading a Pulitzer winning novel,” Logan said.
Then he said, “Is that what’s bothering you?”
“Huh?”
“Something is bothering everyone who comes here, and May had said something—”
“You met May? Of course you did.”
“She said something about you all looking for the next step. Or…”
“I’m almost forty-five.”
“Me too.”
“And I thought something would have happened by now. I am just waiting to go through the money I have left from the Plague, and the money from the family house I sold, and then what will I do? Because there’s nothing I want to do. I was waiting for some vision, some direction. Simon goes to work in city hall. Cade to take care of kids. I… thought I would be professor, but that didn’t last. Never intended to be a school sub, and then when that was over, did not have the heart to go back. Now I get up at ten in the morning and go to bed at four and write and write, and my life is in solitude, strange, and I don’t know how to enter the real world again, and it troubles me. I need to find out what I can do next.”
“But you just said what you’ll do next,” Logan said. “You’re a writer.”
“Yes,” Don allowed at last. “But I’m not getting my million dollar contract. In fact, there’s no way I’m ever going to get that. Writing… It’s not a living.”
“You look like you’re living to me.”
“I am living because of the money I told you about, and because of these men in my life, and also because we are going to rent out our home.”
“But you are living, so what does it matter?” Logan told him.
The taller man stretched his long, blue jeaned legs in front of him
“I spent most of my life doing something I thought was shameful, and a long time trying to do something else, and I changed… what people might say, horizontally, or maybe vertically, went from being in a movie, to being a hooker, to high priced escort or a model or directing, but I never did that thing where I leave and become a school teacher or a PhD. You see what I’m saying? I never grew up. I never became acceptable. And it hurt me for a long time because I thought that was what was supposed to happen. I think, Mr. Shorter, that’s what’s happening to you.”
Donovan didn’t want to speak because the sound of the rain was so beautiful, but he said, finally, “That’s exactly what’s happening to me. Thank you. Logan. Thank you.”
“Now,” Logan continued quietly, “if you ever need money, feel free to call me and I’ll send some scripts your way. You could write the next Middlefuck.”
“Middlefuck?”
“It’s a gay pornographic version of Middlemarch. There’s also Jude the Long Dong and Return of the Nutter, because we’re branching out to Thomas Hardy.”
“You’re kidding me. You’re not kidding me.”
“No, apparently the BBC had some huge sale from their costume dramas, and we bought a ton of shit. We’ve got like a thousand top hats, and we’re trying to see if they will stay on during a rough sex scene. We’re cutting the asses out of half the pantaloons and breeches, And wait till you see what happens with the riding crops!”
MORE IN A FEW DAYS
Logan came toward him and then sat on the bench beside him.
“I have been very foolish,” he said.
“How so?” Donovan said.
“I was afraid to speak to you.”
“Come again?” Don said, and for once, when he said that he meant it.
“You’re Don Shorter, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve read…. Well the first time I read something by you was a long time ago. But I’ve read so much by you. Canticle, Loose Skin…. There was one passage I used to read over and over again. Well, a lot of passages, really.”
“Really?” Don said, almost troubled more than flattered.
“Yes!”
The rain was falling softly and Donovan said, “Well, the funny thing is I know you too, and this is why I was so nervous.”
“I…. oh!” Logan clapped a hand to his head.
Donovan tried to say again what he had been thinking, and then he said, “I think this is why I was nervous. You had had so many feelings in front of me, and had felt them. To meet you in person was almost too much.”
“I used to think of myself as some stupid slut, and I would read in secret so no one saw. After I was thirty and had to wear glasses, for some reason I didn’t care,” Logan said. “And I would think, if the people that I read knew someone like me was reading them…”
“Oh, no,” Donovan said. “And trust me…. All sorts of people have read me.”
Then he said “I mean all sorts of people, but at the same time only fifteen, so I was surprised you had. Nowadays, the way things are, I publish online too, and I get into chats with people on story sites but, certainly I’m in no danger of winning a Pulitzer.”
“Well, if it helps, I’m not in any danger of reading a Pulitzer winning novel,” Logan said.
Then he said, “Is that what’s bothering you?”
“Huh?”
“Something is bothering everyone who comes here, and May had said something—”
“You met May? Of course you did.”
“She said something about you all looking for the next step. Or…”
“I’m almost forty-five.”
“Me too.”
“And I thought something would have happened by now. I am just waiting to go through the money I have left from the Plague, and the money from the family house I sold, and then what will I do? Because there’s nothing I want to do. I was waiting for some vision, some direction. Simon goes to work in city hall. Cade to take care of kids. I… thought I would be professor, but that didn’t last. Never intended to be a school sub, and then when that was over, did not have the heart to go back. Now I get up at ten in the morning and go to bed at four and write and write, and my life is in solitude, strange, and I don’t know how to enter the real world again, and it troubles me. I need to find out what I can do next.”
“But you just said what you’ll do next,” Logan said. “You’re a writer.”
“Yes,” Don allowed at last. “But I’m not getting my million dollar contract. In fact, there’s no way I’m ever going to get that. Writing… It’s not a living.”
“You look like you’re living to me.”
“I am living because of the money I told you about, and because of these men in my life, and also because we are going to rent out our home.”
“But you are living, so what does it matter?” Logan told him.
The taller man stretched his long, blue jeaned legs in front of him
“I spent most of my life doing something I thought was shameful, and a long time trying to do something else, and I changed… what people might say, horizontally, or maybe vertically, went from being in a movie, to being a hooker, to high priced escort or a model or directing, but I never did that thing where I leave and become a school teacher or a PhD. You see what I’m saying? I never grew up. I never became acceptable. And it hurt me for a long time because I thought that was what was supposed to happen. I think, Mr. Shorter, that’s what’s happening to you.”
Donovan didn’t want to speak because the sound of the rain was so beautiful, but he said, finally, “That’s exactly what’s happening to me. Thank you. Logan. Thank you.”
“Now,” Logan continued quietly, “if you ever need money, feel free to call me and I’ll send some scripts your way. You could write the next Middlefuck.”
“Middlefuck?”
“It’s a gay pornographic version of Middlemarch. There’s also Jude the Long Dong and Return of the Nutter, because we’re branching out to Thomas Hardy.”
“You’re kidding me. You’re not kidding me.”
“No, apparently the BBC had some huge sale from their costume dramas, and we bought a ton of shit. We’ve got like a thousand top hats, and we’re trying to see if they will stay on during a rough sex scene. We’re cutting the asses out of half the pantaloons and breeches, And wait till you see what happens with the riding crops!”
MORE IN A FEW DAYS
CharmedFan28
JUB Addict
That was a great portion! I am really glad Donovan and Logan had their talk. It seems like they got a lot out of it. All the religious and witch stuff was good too. Excellent writing and I look forward to more in a few days!
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
AND NOW THE BEGINNING OF OUR LAST CHAPTER
WATER AND FLAME
“Probably, you did what you could do.”
The next day is like the first day of creation.
They take the winding road until it meets the main road. There is the toll road, and then there are the main roads, and then, under trees and passing farms, going through towns and by long stretches where there are cemeteries or lonely ranch houses under huge stretches of high trees, there are those other roads and these they take in order to sneak back into Wallington and catch it unawares. The weather is spring weather. Donovan insists that this Lent he is going to believe in Jesus. He will read the devotionals and the Mass parts every day. Something will happen. There is a road to travel and at the end of it is Jerusalem, He doesn’t know exactly what that means, but he wants to be there.
And so the evening and the morning come, of the first, the second and the third day. Friday is chilly. Friday night was the Sabbath for his grandfather and for Frey’s, twenty miles from each other, they light candles and the rain begins and turns to snow. Their hearts are not frozen but they realized that all of life is faith and faith is more than believing, it is working and both of them work to reach the truth they lived in on Ash Wednesday.
It was such a long time when Isaiah Frey and Donovan Shorter did not see each other. They aren’t getting younger. Sometimes it feels like they are, but they aren’t. Frey comes with DJ and Josh and with the word that Javon and Pat are coming down here to stay, down here meaning Indiana, possibly South Bend. Frey is there in time for Latin Mass from the church in Chicago. In the altar room that more modern people would call the meditation room, some candles are lit and Don burns a bit of frankincense. He and his cousin are more of less solemn, They are also semi somnolent from roast chicken. May sits in the rocking chair, knitting and thinking of Riley, and Simon, who had been more put out by church that he knew, sits in the other corner, eyes between reading a book and hearing the mass.
The priests come before the high marble altar with Joseph and Mary on either side and the Sacred Heart, arms spread out, heart burning, in an alcove above the tabernacle. They swing their smoking white incense and sing:
“Invocabit me, et ego exaudiam eum;
eripiam eum, et glorificabo eum,
longitudine dierum adimplebo eum.”
The choir in the loft chants the Kyrie and, at last the priest chants: “Oremus!” Let us pray.
Frey, who took Latin all through high school, can make out the words, if not their tenses, their cases. It hardly matters
“Concede nobis,
omnipotens Deus, ut,
per annua quadragesimalis
exercitia sacramenti,
et ad intellegendum Christi
proficiamus arcanum,
et effectus eius digna
conversatione sectemur.”
Hear us… almighty God… in our yearly Lent…..give us the minds of Christ…
It is like hearing words on the wind, hearing this Latin. The wind is the Spirit, and the Spirit is a woman and Don remembers the magic of Ash Wednesday, the drummers and chanters
She changes everything she touches.
Everything she touches changes…
The early spring is like a memory, and it is frigid and snowing for days. Every morning is intentional. Every time you get up to live in the day is a decision to not give in, not stay in bed. He remembers to not forget this is Lent time, but what does it mean?
The sermons say it is about turning from sin. The sermons talk about going back to God. The essays in the little devotional talk about going back to right belief, away from all the selfishness and foolishness, all the sensuality and crookedness. But this means nothing to Donovan.
On the third Sunday of Lent Jesus tells the woman at the well, “You Samartians worship what you do not know, but we worship what we do know, for salvation comes from the Jews.”
“In this respect, I am not Jew,” Don decides. “For I do not know what I worship.”
For a long time he was a Christian with no questions asked, and then he began to be a metaphorical one. He began to be one who followed forms but had little concern for the truth behind them. These days this was not true. Now utter belief lived with the fact that he utterly did not understand what he believed in. He did not know what God was or even what faith was, only that he moved in both in some sort of forward direction. He prayed not for the old feelings, but for the new devotion to absolute love. He had become, in the last years, too sophisticated to literally believe in this religion. Now he prayed for an end to any sophistication that kept him from pure faith.
The war in Eastern Europe continued, towns were leveled, journalists shot, children in hospitals killed for the wish of one mad man, and perhaps the cowardice of several others sitting in safety and power from a great remove. This new President, unlike the last who was a daily embarrassment, was neither hot nor cold, and Don longed to spit him out of his mouth. The owner of 812 Pine Street agreed to sell it for 90, 000 dollars and true to his word, Donovan gave Cade and Simon ten thousand and told them to never ask for any other house related money again.
Even before renovations were over, Austin Bishop and Rob Affren moved into what would be the first apartment on the first floor, 750 a month, and May, who had thought she would have the other apartment realized she didn’t care for an entire apartment. She just wanted to hop from place to place. Her main place became the anteroom at the back of the house at the bottom of the walk up to Don and Simon and Cade’s part of the house. It had a mini kitchen and a door that led to the bathroom in Austin and Rob’s apartment. It was just right.
The leftover apartment went to Javon and Pat, and Donovan said he couldn’t charge them because they were family and Javon said they couldn’t take it for free for that very reason, and they paid 800 and Donovan pretended to be surprised, but reluctant to take it and Javon pretended he believed his older cousin was either reluctant or surprised.
They regarded themselves as members of the invisible church the secret church beyond certainty and dogmas, and maintained a place in the organized church, not even at the distance of back pews, but by way of television. Only on Palm Sunday did they gather in Ashby for the palm procession. But this year, they came Good Friday too. Passion Week, Donovan could have stayed in church forever. He knew all about passion, but he also knew that religion was what stretched you beyond what you knew. It required the blinding white gold mystery of Easter. Birth suffering and death he understood. Resurrection and new life were beyond him. Even as for the first time in years Easter actually felt like Easter, with thick green grass and colorful flowers, he knew that the rebirth of spring was only a shadow of another type of resurrection he barely understood.
In that Eastertide, Brendan Miller became the first openly bare-chested and shade wearing mayor of Rossford, Indiana and, as not to steal his thunder, Riley Lawden proposed to May in secret, and in secret she accepted. When she asked Don he said, truthfully, that he did not know how he felt about it, but the worse that could happen was a baby she would love and a divorce she’d have to learn to bear. This left her with something to think about, which was Don’s intention, for life and it’s big steps were worth thinking about.
Cade Richards told no one else about what he was doing, not even Donovan. Perhaps he sensed that Donovan, who was beginning to write again and find some joy in life, was sick of hearing about his miseries. Another part of Cade thought that he was being foolish. Fenn had been right. There was something in his liberal mind that would not let him take care of what he thought was conservative guilt. He remembered going to Chicago last fall and seeing what someone had painted on a bench.
My tongue is a divided country.
MORE TOMORROW
WATER AND FLAME
“Probably, you did what you could do.”
The next day is like the first day of creation.
They take the winding road until it meets the main road. There is the toll road, and then there are the main roads, and then, under trees and passing farms, going through towns and by long stretches where there are cemeteries or lonely ranch houses under huge stretches of high trees, there are those other roads and these they take in order to sneak back into Wallington and catch it unawares. The weather is spring weather. Donovan insists that this Lent he is going to believe in Jesus. He will read the devotionals and the Mass parts every day. Something will happen. There is a road to travel and at the end of it is Jerusalem, He doesn’t know exactly what that means, but he wants to be there.
And so the evening and the morning come, of the first, the second and the third day. Friday is chilly. Friday night was the Sabbath for his grandfather and for Frey’s, twenty miles from each other, they light candles and the rain begins and turns to snow. Their hearts are not frozen but they realized that all of life is faith and faith is more than believing, it is working and both of them work to reach the truth they lived in on Ash Wednesday.
It was such a long time when Isaiah Frey and Donovan Shorter did not see each other. They aren’t getting younger. Sometimes it feels like they are, but they aren’t. Frey comes with DJ and Josh and with the word that Javon and Pat are coming down here to stay, down here meaning Indiana, possibly South Bend. Frey is there in time for Latin Mass from the church in Chicago. In the altar room that more modern people would call the meditation room, some candles are lit and Don burns a bit of frankincense. He and his cousin are more of less solemn, They are also semi somnolent from roast chicken. May sits in the rocking chair, knitting and thinking of Riley, and Simon, who had been more put out by church that he knew, sits in the other corner, eyes between reading a book and hearing the mass.
The priests come before the high marble altar with Joseph and Mary on either side and the Sacred Heart, arms spread out, heart burning, in an alcove above the tabernacle. They swing their smoking white incense and sing:
“Invocabit me, et ego exaudiam eum;
eripiam eum, et glorificabo eum,
longitudine dierum adimplebo eum.”
The choir in the loft chants the Kyrie and, at last the priest chants: “Oremus!” Let us pray.
Frey, who took Latin all through high school, can make out the words, if not their tenses, their cases. It hardly matters
“Concede nobis,
omnipotens Deus, ut,
per annua quadragesimalis
exercitia sacramenti,
et ad intellegendum Christi
proficiamus arcanum,
et effectus eius digna
conversatione sectemur.”
Hear us… almighty God… in our yearly Lent…..give us the minds of Christ…
It is like hearing words on the wind, hearing this Latin. The wind is the Spirit, and the Spirit is a woman and Don remembers the magic of Ash Wednesday, the drummers and chanters
She changes everything she touches.
Everything she touches changes…
The early spring is like a memory, and it is frigid and snowing for days. Every morning is intentional. Every time you get up to live in the day is a decision to not give in, not stay in bed. He remembers to not forget this is Lent time, but what does it mean?
The sermons say it is about turning from sin. The sermons talk about going back to God. The essays in the little devotional talk about going back to right belief, away from all the selfishness and foolishness, all the sensuality and crookedness. But this means nothing to Donovan.
On the third Sunday of Lent Jesus tells the woman at the well, “You Samartians worship what you do not know, but we worship what we do know, for salvation comes from the Jews.”
“In this respect, I am not Jew,” Don decides. “For I do not know what I worship.”
For a long time he was a Christian with no questions asked, and then he began to be a metaphorical one. He began to be one who followed forms but had little concern for the truth behind them. These days this was not true. Now utter belief lived with the fact that he utterly did not understand what he believed in. He did not know what God was or even what faith was, only that he moved in both in some sort of forward direction. He prayed not for the old feelings, but for the new devotion to absolute love. He had become, in the last years, too sophisticated to literally believe in this religion. Now he prayed for an end to any sophistication that kept him from pure faith.
The war in Eastern Europe continued, towns were leveled, journalists shot, children in hospitals killed for the wish of one mad man, and perhaps the cowardice of several others sitting in safety and power from a great remove. This new President, unlike the last who was a daily embarrassment, was neither hot nor cold, and Don longed to spit him out of his mouth. The owner of 812 Pine Street agreed to sell it for 90, 000 dollars and true to his word, Donovan gave Cade and Simon ten thousand and told them to never ask for any other house related money again.
Even before renovations were over, Austin Bishop and Rob Affren moved into what would be the first apartment on the first floor, 750 a month, and May, who had thought she would have the other apartment realized she didn’t care for an entire apartment. She just wanted to hop from place to place. Her main place became the anteroom at the back of the house at the bottom of the walk up to Don and Simon and Cade’s part of the house. It had a mini kitchen and a door that led to the bathroom in Austin and Rob’s apartment. It was just right.
The leftover apartment went to Javon and Pat, and Donovan said he couldn’t charge them because they were family and Javon said they couldn’t take it for free for that very reason, and they paid 800 and Donovan pretended to be surprised, but reluctant to take it and Javon pretended he believed his older cousin was either reluctant or surprised.
They regarded themselves as members of the invisible church the secret church beyond certainty and dogmas, and maintained a place in the organized church, not even at the distance of back pews, but by way of television. Only on Palm Sunday did they gather in Ashby for the palm procession. But this year, they came Good Friday too. Passion Week, Donovan could have stayed in church forever. He knew all about passion, but he also knew that religion was what stretched you beyond what you knew. It required the blinding white gold mystery of Easter. Birth suffering and death he understood. Resurrection and new life were beyond him. Even as for the first time in years Easter actually felt like Easter, with thick green grass and colorful flowers, he knew that the rebirth of spring was only a shadow of another type of resurrection he barely understood.
In that Eastertide, Brendan Miller became the first openly bare-chested and shade wearing mayor of Rossford, Indiana and, as not to steal his thunder, Riley Lawden proposed to May in secret, and in secret she accepted. When she asked Don he said, truthfully, that he did not know how he felt about it, but the worse that could happen was a baby she would love and a divorce she’d have to learn to bear. This left her with something to think about, which was Don’s intention, for life and it’s big steps were worth thinking about.
Cade Richards told no one else about what he was doing, not even Donovan. Perhaps he sensed that Donovan, who was beginning to write again and find some joy in life, was sick of hearing about his miseries. Another part of Cade thought that he was being foolish. Fenn had been right. There was something in his liberal mind that would not let him take care of what he thought was conservative guilt. He remembered going to Chicago last fall and seeing what someone had painted on a bench.
My tongue is a divided country.
MORE TOMORROW
CharmedFan28
JUB Addict
That was an excellent beginning to the last chapter. Once again all this information about the characters and their relation to religion is fascinating. I am glad Brendan became mayor! So much going on and I look forward to more of it tomorrow!
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
I know what you mean. I've always written about the spirtual lives of my characters, but perhaps am doing moreso as we close out their story.
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
Cade Richards told no one else about what he was doing, not even Donovan. Perhaps he sensed that Donovan, who was beginning to write again and find some joy in life, was sick of hearing about his miseries. Another part of Cade thought that he was being foolish. Fenn had been right. There was something in his liberal mind that would not let him take care of what he thought was conservative guilt. He remembered going to Chicago last fall and seeing what someone had painted on a bench.
My tongue is a divided country.
It was a week before he went onto YouTube and typed in “Abortion+temple+Buddhism.”
The first thing he got didn’t seem to have much do with any of these. It was village somewhere in Indonesia. Everything was green, and people were crying over a withered dead body. The narrator or told how the people kept the dead bodies of their loved ones in the house because if they were in the house they weren’t really dead. They showed the families laying out food for their mummified and increasing inhuman looking loved ones, dressing them up and walking them around the house. The documentarian said, “The poor don’t want to keep their dead with them for long. Only a few weeks…”
A few weeks, well holy fuck!
“The middle class keep them for months, and the rich keep them for years before having a funeral….”
The funeral involved sacrificing a buffalo, which couldn’t have been cheap. and made Cade think he would have done things the other way around. The poor should have put off the funeral as long as possible.
The dead were buried in coffins that looked like beautiful, elaborately painted missiles. while people wept as if this person had just died yesterday. Cade looked for the beauty of other traditions while he saw that every few years they dug up their mummified ancestors They took pictures with the muddy looking corpses and put glasses on the shrunken noses. They kissed the dry lips and fading cheeks, redressed the desiccated bodies.
“It’s because of the climate,” Cade reasoned. “If we lived in a climate where bodies naturally mummified, we would do that too. For us, bodies just decay, so this is why we think its shovcking. We really shouldn’t judge.”
He shared this with Donovan over breakfast and Donovan said, flatly, “That’s nasty.”
“Can’t you see the beauty in it?
“No, and I bet you can’t either. That’s the grossest goddamn thing I’ve ever heard of.”
“Simon?”
Simon lifted his head to scratch his chin, and turned the page of the newspaper.
“When Simon dies we can prop him in the corner just like that,” May says.
“Please don’t” Simon wrinkled his face as he turned the page.
“I don’t know,” Cade said. “I have a hard time putting my Midwestern American judgments on things everyone else is doing?”
“Why?” Donovan said.
Cade looked on him.
“It’s not like your Midwestern American judgments are going to change the way people in Indonesia bury—or don’t bury—their dead, so you’ re free to think whatever you want. Once you realize how unimportant your judgments are, you can have all the judgments in the world.
Cade had typed in another combination of abortion+temple+Buddhist and added the word “forgiveness”. So he sat and watched a short about three women from different religions who’d had abortions and, as interesting as he fount this, Cade Richards realized he wasn’t being entirely serious. So he sat up and typed into the browser, not into YouTube, the same words and up came:
MIZUKO KUYO
Mizuko kuyō (水子供養) meaning "water child memorial service",[1] is a Japanese Buddhist ceremony for those who have had a miscarriage, stillbirth, or abortion. It is also practiced in Thailand and China. This practice has become particularly visible since the 1970s with the creation of shrines devoted solely to this ritual. Reasons for the performance of these rites can include parental grief, desire to comfort the soul of the fetus, guilt for an abortion, or even fear of retribution from a vengeful ghost.
Cade did not believe in vengeful ghosts. If anything, he believed just the opposite. It was a muted ghost he worried about, a life that did not happen, something covered up and moved past. In a way, whatever had happened to Ashley after him was connected to this, and all the pain of Pastor Skip and maybe even Nash under the bridge was about this. Maybe he wasn’t even worried about the baby that never came. Maybe he was just making the abortion a symbol.
He read on
Mizuko (水子), literally "water child", is a Japanese term for an aborted, stillborn or miscarried baby, and archaically for a dead baby or infant. Kuyō (供養) refers to a memorial service. Previously read suiji, the Sino-Japanese on'yomi reading of the same characters, the term was originally a kaimyō or dharma name given after death.[2][page needed] The mizuko kuyō, typically performed by Buddhist priests,[3]: 65 was used to make offerings to Jizō, a bodhisattva who is believed to protect children. In the Edo period, when famine sometimes led the poverty-stricken to infant-icide and abortion, the practice was adapted to cover these situations as well.
Today, the practice of mizuko kuyō continues in Japan, although it is unclear whether it is a historically authentic Buddhist practice. Specific elements of the ceremony vary from temple to temple, school to school, and individual to individual. It is common for temples to offer Jizō statues for a fee, which are then dressed in red bibs and caps, and displayed in the temple yard. Though the practice has been performed since the 1970s, there are still doubts surrounding the ritual. Some view the memorial service as the temples' way of benefiting from the misfortune of women who have miscarried or had to abort a pregnancy. American religious scholars have criticized the temples for allegedly abusing the Japanese belief that the spirits of the dead retaliate for their mistreatment, but other scholars believe the temples are only answering the needs of the people.[4][5]
The ceremony is attended by both parents or by one, not necessarily the mother.[3]: 73 The service can vary from a single event to one that repeats monthly or annually.[3]: 74 Though the service varies, common aspects resemble the ceremony for the recent dead, the senzo kuyō (先祖供養).[3]: 74 The priest faces the altar and evokes the names of various Buddhas and bodhisattvas. Mantras, often the Heart Sutra and the 25th chapter of the Lotus Sutra, known as the "Avalokiteśvara Sutra", are performed, as are calls of praise to Jizō.[3]: 74 Gifts are offered to the Buddha on behalf of the mourned, typically food, drink, incense or flowers.[3]: 74 A kaimyō is given to the deceased, and a statue of Jizō is often placed on temple grounds upon completion of the ceremony.[3]: 74
If he did it, he’d have to adapt it. Buddhism meant nothing to him in the way that, having turned there and tried every exotic religion, exotic religions almost made him sarcastic. Maybe some stuff from the Bible? He wouldn’t ask Donovan. This was something he had to do for himself.
But once he had more than halfway decided to tell Donovan about actually doing the ritual, Donovan said, “It’s good. You should do it. You suffer from it.”
“Do I?”
“Clearly.”
“But you could tell?”
“Of course I can tell,” Donovan said.
“Does it make me a drag?”
“There’s a lot that makes you a drag,” Donovan said, honestly, “And most of it happened in Ely.”
“If only I could get over it.”
“I don’t know that things are to be gotten over,” Donovan said.
“Get through it, then?”
“We can always hope.”
MORE NEXT WEEK
My tongue is a divided country.
It was a week before he went onto YouTube and typed in “Abortion+temple+Buddhism.”
The first thing he got didn’t seem to have much do with any of these. It was village somewhere in Indonesia. Everything was green, and people were crying over a withered dead body. The narrator or told how the people kept the dead bodies of their loved ones in the house because if they were in the house they weren’t really dead. They showed the families laying out food for their mummified and increasing inhuman looking loved ones, dressing them up and walking them around the house. The documentarian said, “The poor don’t want to keep their dead with them for long. Only a few weeks…”
A few weeks, well holy fuck!
“The middle class keep them for months, and the rich keep them for years before having a funeral….”
The funeral involved sacrificing a buffalo, which couldn’t have been cheap. and made Cade think he would have done things the other way around. The poor should have put off the funeral as long as possible.
The dead were buried in coffins that looked like beautiful, elaborately painted missiles. while people wept as if this person had just died yesterday. Cade looked for the beauty of other traditions while he saw that every few years they dug up their mummified ancestors They took pictures with the muddy looking corpses and put glasses on the shrunken noses. They kissed the dry lips and fading cheeks, redressed the desiccated bodies.
“It’s because of the climate,” Cade reasoned. “If we lived in a climate where bodies naturally mummified, we would do that too. For us, bodies just decay, so this is why we think its shovcking. We really shouldn’t judge.”
He shared this with Donovan over breakfast and Donovan said, flatly, “That’s nasty.”
“Can’t you see the beauty in it?
“No, and I bet you can’t either. That’s the grossest goddamn thing I’ve ever heard of.”
“Simon?”
Simon lifted his head to scratch his chin, and turned the page of the newspaper.
“When Simon dies we can prop him in the corner just like that,” May says.
“Please don’t” Simon wrinkled his face as he turned the page.
“I don’t know,” Cade said. “I have a hard time putting my Midwestern American judgments on things everyone else is doing?”
“Why?” Donovan said.
Cade looked on him.
“It’s not like your Midwestern American judgments are going to change the way people in Indonesia bury—or don’t bury—their dead, so you’ re free to think whatever you want. Once you realize how unimportant your judgments are, you can have all the judgments in the world.
Cade had typed in another combination of abortion+temple+Buddhist and added the word “forgiveness”. So he sat and watched a short about three women from different religions who’d had abortions and, as interesting as he fount this, Cade Richards realized he wasn’t being entirely serious. So he sat up and typed into the browser, not into YouTube, the same words and up came:
MIZUKO KUYO
Mizuko kuyō (水子供養) meaning "water child memorial service",[1] is a Japanese Buddhist ceremony for those who have had a miscarriage, stillbirth, or abortion. It is also practiced in Thailand and China. This practice has become particularly visible since the 1970s with the creation of shrines devoted solely to this ritual. Reasons for the performance of these rites can include parental grief, desire to comfort the soul of the fetus, guilt for an abortion, or even fear of retribution from a vengeful ghost.
Cade did not believe in vengeful ghosts. If anything, he believed just the opposite. It was a muted ghost he worried about, a life that did not happen, something covered up and moved past. In a way, whatever had happened to Ashley after him was connected to this, and all the pain of Pastor Skip and maybe even Nash under the bridge was about this. Maybe he wasn’t even worried about the baby that never came. Maybe he was just making the abortion a symbol.
He read on
Mizuko (水子), literally "water child", is a Japanese term for an aborted, stillborn or miscarried baby, and archaically for a dead baby or infant. Kuyō (供養) refers to a memorial service. Previously read suiji, the Sino-Japanese on'yomi reading of the same characters, the term was originally a kaimyō or dharma name given after death.[2][page needed] The mizuko kuyō, typically performed by Buddhist priests,[3]: 65 was used to make offerings to Jizō, a bodhisattva who is believed to protect children. In the Edo period, when famine sometimes led the poverty-stricken to infant-icide and abortion, the practice was adapted to cover these situations as well.
Today, the practice of mizuko kuyō continues in Japan, although it is unclear whether it is a historically authentic Buddhist practice. Specific elements of the ceremony vary from temple to temple, school to school, and individual to individual. It is common for temples to offer Jizō statues for a fee, which are then dressed in red bibs and caps, and displayed in the temple yard. Though the practice has been performed since the 1970s, there are still doubts surrounding the ritual. Some view the memorial service as the temples' way of benefiting from the misfortune of women who have miscarried or had to abort a pregnancy. American religious scholars have criticized the temples for allegedly abusing the Japanese belief that the spirits of the dead retaliate for their mistreatment, but other scholars believe the temples are only answering the needs of the people.[4][5]
The ceremony is attended by both parents or by one, not necessarily the mother.[3]: 73 The service can vary from a single event to one that repeats monthly or annually.[3]: 74 Though the service varies, common aspects resemble the ceremony for the recent dead, the senzo kuyō (先祖供養).[3]: 74 The priest faces the altar and evokes the names of various Buddhas and bodhisattvas. Mantras, often the Heart Sutra and the 25th chapter of the Lotus Sutra, known as the "Avalokiteśvara Sutra", are performed, as are calls of praise to Jizō.[3]: 74 Gifts are offered to the Buddha on behalf of the mourned, typically food, drink, incense or flowers.[3]: 74 A kaimyō is given to the deceased, and a statue of Jizō is often placed on temple grounds upon completion of the ceremony.[3]: 74
If he did it, he’d have to adapt it. Buddhism meant nothing to him in the way that, having turned there and tried every exotic religion, exotic religions almost made him sarcastic. Maybe some stuff from the Bible? He wouldn’t ask Donovan. This was something he had to do for himself.
But once he had more than halfway decided to tell Donovan about actually doing the ritual, Donovan said, “It’s good. You should do it. You suffer from it.”
“Do I?”
“Clearly.”
“But you could tell?”
“Of course I can tell,” Donovan said.
“Does it make me a drag?”
“There’s a lot that makes you a drag,” Donovan said, honestly, “And most of it happened in Ely.”
“If only I could get over it.”
“I don’t know that things are to be gotten over,” Donovan said.
“Get through it, then?”
“We can always hope.”
MORE NEXT WEEK
CharmedFan28
JUB Addict
That was a great portion! I am glad that Cade is going to do that ritual. It may give him a way to move on at least a little bit which is a good thing. I had no idea about these ceremonies so that was fascinating. People definitely do mourn in different ways all over the world. Excellent writing and I look forward to more in a few days. I hope you have a wonderful weekend!
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
I didn't realize how short this portion was, but it was a few years ago I found out about this ritual. It seems like its relatively new. Here in America, and really in the whole West we are very polarized and in between the idea of being pro life or pro choice we have lost the idea of doing something you think you had to do, but till feeling regret or doing something that you consider to be the best choice but still a bad choice.
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
WELCOME BACK
“Only if I can sleep on the drive there.”
“When have you not slept on the drive?” Cade asked Donovan.
The day Rob Affren and Austin Bishop moved into 812 Pine Street, was the day that Cade Richards, Simon Barrow and Donovan Shorter left May with them and drove north to Ely. Ely had been in Cade’s mind for the last few days, and the first signs of spring were coming, green buds on trees defying the grey sky. For once they dispensed with taking both cars because Donovan said he would lay out in the back of the Land Rover and didn’t want to have to choose between Cade and Simon.
“Having May with us really makes things easier,” Simon said. “Four splits up so evenly.”
“Maybe we can get a fourth husband,” Donovan suggested.
After a while he said, “From the looks on your faces, I can tell you don’t find that entirely humorous, so let’s switch the subject.”
Instead of switching the subject, Donovan went almost immediately to sleep in the back, and left Cade and Simon to enjoy the early spring beauty. Under Donovan’s head was a bag with incense, candles, a little statue, and a bundle of holy cards. A half hour before Ely, the grayish sky opened, and blue shown over the rolling farm fields. Sunlight turned brown fields a fiery rich tawny color, and Cade thought about waking Don until he gave a half snore and Cade shrugged, gripped Simon’s hand, and they made the view their own,
As night arrived, and the base of the royal blue sky glowed with yellow and orange sunlight, they arrived in Ely, under the first stars. Donovan grunted as they rode over a speed bump and sighed, making a moaning noise in greeting of the town.
Don had been well wrapped up in a book in the last few weeks, having exhausted himself as he did toward the beginning or the end of projects. He made a large and hopeful pot of coffee, then climbed on the old Davenport, and went to sleep.
Simon put logs on the fire. He was hopeful about that being enough, but in time they turned to the furnace as well. Cade sat by himself for a long time, and Don was glad of it. He said, “It’s time he learned how to pray.”
Cade, who heard this, said, “I’m meditating.”
“It’s more or less the same thing,” Donovan replied.
“Only if I can sleep on the drive there.”
“When have you not slept on the drive?” Cade asked Donovan.
The day Rob Affren and Austin Bishop moved into 812 Pine Street, was the day that Cade Richards, Simon Barrow and Donovan Shorter left May with them and drove north to Ely. Ely had been in Cade’s mind for the last few days, and the first signs of spring were coming, green buds on trees defying the grey sky. For once they dispensed with taking both cars because Donovan said he would lay out in the back of the Land Rover and didn’t want to have to choose between Cade and Simon.
“Having May with us really makes things easier,” Simon said. “Four splits up so evenly.”
“Maybe we can get a fourth husband,” Donovan suggested.
After a while he said, “From the looks on your faces, I can tell you don’t find that entirely humorous, so let’s switch the subject.”
Instead of switching the subject, Donovan went almost immediately to sleep in the back, and left Cade and Simon to enjoy the early spring beauty. Under Donovan’s head was a bag with incense, candles, a little statue, and a bundle of holy cards. A half hour before Ely, the grayish sky opened, and blue shown over the rolling farm fields. Sunlight turned brown fields a fiery rich tawny color, and Cade thought about waking Don until he gave a half snore and Cade shrugged, gripped Simon’s hand, and they made the view their own,
As night arrived, and the base of the royal blue sky glowed with yellow and orange sunlight, they arrived in Ely, under the first stars. Donovan grunted as they rode over a speed bump and sighed, making a moaning noise in greeting of the town.
Don had been well wrapped up in a book in the last few weeks, having exhausted himself as he did toward the beginning or the end of projects. He made a large and hopeful pot of coffee, then climbed on the old Davenport, and went to sleep.
Simon put logs on the fire. He was hopeful about that being enough, but in time they turned to the furnace as well. Cade sat by himself for a long time, and Don was glad of it. He said, “It’s time he learned how to pray.”
Cade, who heard this, said, “I’m meditating.”
“It’s more or less the same thing,” Donovan replied.
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
He did go up to pray, and he came down to drink coffee. Sleepy as he was, the first thing he did upon entering the house, whilc Simon made coffee, was set up the silver candlesticks with the Sabbath lights. Coffee did not keep him awake against the warmth of the fire and the promise of Friday night, but when he slept, as had happened for days, he dreamed he was in Catholic school, seventh grade. All things seemed to lead back there. He was living in an apartment building where the walls were painted in an ivory yellowish tone, and he was getting on the elevator with two strange men who reminded him of Justin Walters and Don Shula, two of the most boring people he’d known in college. They were dripping water and staring up blankly, and it was only when the elevator opened to reveal a party of, yes, seventh graders at Saint Hyacinth school, that Sarah Manion looked dismayed and whispered to Kevin Beeler that the two men accompanying Donovan were fish.
The last dream he had before waking and feeling like he wasn’t drugged, he was with Jesus and Jesus was making five loaves and two fishes out of flagstones and then he was feeding five thousand people.
“If I could bottle my dreams, I could sell them like LSD,” Donovan declared running a hand over his barely shaven head after his second cup of coffee, and Cade and Simon agreed that he was right.
They made love in the very early morning, Cade always knew how to suck Donovan better than anyone ever had. His blowjobs were almost merciless, and under his hand and mouth Donovan almost pled for the pleasure to stop, but cried out and trembled instead. Under him, like a bed, was Simon, running his fingers in circles around Don’s nipples, kissing his throat, and thrusting gently into him.
When they came, for a long time they only stared at the ceiling and remembered the wonder of each other’s arms and legs. Cade rose to shower. When he was dressed, Cade took the bag Donovan had used as a pillow, the one filled with incense and candles and holy cards, and drove north, entering town, seeing the movie theatre, the new co op market, the pizzeria, passing the steeple of Cornerstone Church and Schorling’s Grocery store. He would visit his mother when this was all over, perhaps have lunch with her and his sister. He’d better take the Land Rover back first to see if it was needed. Now he understood why they brought both vehicles
Despite what he had come to do, his penis was heavy between his legs, and growing firmer with the memory of lovemaking in the morning. Would there be lovemaking in the night? A strange and treacherous voice said, “You don’t deserve lovemaking.” But the voice made no sense, and he crossed the old bridge and came to the cemetery, parking outside and walking into the old time place where church ladies and farmers from a hundred years ago were buried.
That’s how he thought ot the grave yard, but that wasn’t so. Not really. There were old, old markers, almost faded. Gene Johnson 1836-1920. how strange that someone had lived a long life, a very long life, and that life was still ended a hundred years ago. Gene’s wife was Henrietta and she had died in 1897. He’d had to wait twenty-three years to be reunited with her. Or had it mattered? Had he been relieved at her going and found someone else?
And then there was Ethan Sparrow who had lived from the summer of 1935 to the winter of that same year, the beloved child of Jacob and Sarah Sparrow who had lived on another fifty years, but both died in 1987. Juliette Hinkle’s headstone was shiny and modern and disturbing. Coming home from prom, her car had gone under a semi. She and all of her friends, a week before her eighteenth birthday, were all crushed to death. Cade had left town by then, but he’d heard about it.
There was a tall, skinny boy, about fifteenish, with a cloud of dark hair in a hooded jacket, his hands jammed in his pockets, wearing baggy heans. He looked solemn, as teenagers did, and Cade nodded to him. He nodded back.
Cade took the rambling way through the cemetery before he came to where and why he’d traveled out her. He heard a truck give a low roar as it rolled down the road beyond.
Nash Jackson. Life arrested ten years earlier. Fellow victim. Fellow rebel. Best friend, first real lover. They’d torn up Pastor Skip’s office togtehr. Nash had peed on the floor. They’d raided and stolen from that place, together, smoked pot and drank together, later at night in his bed, at Linda’s house, they’d made love together and put each other through the first paces of intense sex.
And then Nash had given himself to drugs, and though Cade did the same thing, he was in college and the two of them could not be together. It wasn’t fair to say that Nash was a drug addict and Cade wasn’t. It was truer to say that Cade was lucky and Nash was dead. He had died, as Cade had no trouble remembering, every time they drove over it, under that bridge, where the river turned from north to east, wide like a great blue ribbon. He had been found on a very grey day when the river was pewter and barely wished to turn at all.
Fresh flowers were on the grave. Of course his mother remembered him, His siblings. Why had Cade thought he was the only one? And Cade wasn’t even good at remembering, had only come to this place now. He wished Nash had been cremated, wished his body had been freed from time and turned to silver grey dust and fragments of the fragments of bone. That his young lover should be moldering here was an affront. But after all these years he had gone back to the earth, hadn’t he? He must have. Cade was seized with an almost sickening need to know. Instead, he assumed, He gathered moist brown earth in his hands. He opened his back and took out a stick of incense. He sat with his feelings while it burned and then put the dirt in the bag and walked away. This morning he had thought he would never come here after this, but right now he thought he would. He had never believed in graves or people visiting them, but right now he had to make amends.
The teenager he had seen was walking toward the gate and Cade called to him.
“Yeah?”
He was good looking. Familiar. A younger brother or cousin of someone he had known?
“You need a ride?”
“I’m just headed to the beach.”
“I’m going there too,” Cade said. “If you don’t mind us making a stop.”
The curly haired boy nodded.
He drove with dirt on his hands, and the boy said nothing. They were companions in silence, listening to music. Cade said, “We can hear whatever you like.”
The boy settled on Rusted Root, and Cade stopped himself from saying something old mannish like: “That’s a little old for you.” Because it had been a little old for him, and he loved the almost gospel wail of Back to the Earth.
Well come on, come on, see my world, my world.
Well, come on, come on, see my world, my world,
Well come on, come on, see my world, my world.
Well, come on, come on, see my world, my world,
At the Bridge, Cade stopped the car, but he left the kid inside and the keys in the ignition, something, he realized a day later, he would never have done. He took the dirt, as if if were ashes and scattered some of it into the river. He rolled up a holy card of Saint Anthony, the saint who found lost things, and the Saint Jude, the saint of lost causes. He rolled them up like two poorly made joints and burned them to ash and gave those to the river, and then he found himself crying and made the sign of the Cross. He couldn’t go back to this kid in the van looking a mess and feeling a mess, so he stayed out a little longer. But when he realized he was still going to be shaken, and tears were still coming, he shrugged and turned around, climbing back in the Land Rover.
“You must have really loved someone,” the kid in the car said, solemnly.
Cade was not embarrassed. He nodded, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
AND WHEN WE RETURN, IT WILL BE WITH THE CONCLUSION OF OUR STORY
The last dream he had before waking and feeling like he wasn’t drugged, he was with Jesus and Jesus was making five loaves and two fishes out of flagstones and then he was feeding five thousand people.
“If I could bottle my dreams, I could sell them like LSD,” Donovan declared running a hand over his barely shaven head after his second cup of coffee, and Cade and Simon agreed that he was right.
They made love in the very early morning, Cade always knew how to suck Donovan better than anyone ever had. His blowjobs were almost merciless, and under his hand and mouth Donovan almost pled for the pleasure to stop, but cried out and trembled instead. Under him, like a bed, was Simon, running his fingers in circles around Don’s nipples, kissing his throat, and thrusting gently into him.
When they came, for a long time they only stared at the ceiling and remembered the wonder of each other’s arms and legs. Cade rose to shower. When he was dressed, Cade took the bag Donovan had used as a pillow, the one filled with incense and candles and holy cards, and drove north, entering town, seeing the movie theatre, the new co op market, the pizzeria, passing the steeple of Cornerstone Church and Schorling’s Grocery store. He would visit his mother when this was all over, perhaps have lunch with her and his sister. He’d better take the Land Rover back first to see if it was needed. Now he understood why they brought both vehicles
Despite what he had come to do, his penis was heavy between his legs, and growing firmer with the memory of lovemaking in the morning. Would there be lovemaking in the night? A strange and treacherous voice said, “You don’t deserve lovemaking.” But the voice made no sense, and he crossed the old bridge and came to the cemetery, parking outside and walking into the old time place where church ladies and farmers from a hundred years ago were buried.
That’s how he thought ot the grave yard, but that wasn’t so. Not really. There were old, old markers, almost faded. Gene Johnson 1836-1920. how strange that someone had lived a long life, a very long life, and that life was still ended a hundred years ago. Gene’s wife was Henrietta and she had died in 1897. He’d had to wait twenty-three years to be reunited with her. Or had it mattered? Had he been relieved at her going and found someone else?
And then there was Ethan Sparrow who had lived from the summer of 1935 to the winter of that same year, the beloved child of Jacob and Sarah Sparrow who had lived on another fifty years, but both died in 1987. Juliette Hinkle’s headstone was shiny and modern and disturbing. Coming home from prom, her car had gone under a semi. She and all of her friends, a week before her eighteenth birthday, were all crushed to death. Cade had left town by then, but he’d heard about it.
There was a tall, skinny boy, about fifteenish, with a cloud of dark hair in a hooded jacket, his hands jammed in his pockets, wearing baggy heans. He looked solemn, as teenagers did, and Cade nodded to him. He nodded back.
Cade took the rambling way through the cemetery before he came to where and why he’d traveled out her. He heard a truck give a low roar as it rolled down the road beyond.
Nash Jackson. Life arrested ten years earlier. Fellow victim. Fellow rebel. Best friend, first real lover. They’d torn up Pastor Skip’s office togtehr. Nash had peed on the floor. They’d raided and stolen from that place, together, smoked pot and drank together, later at night in his bed, at Linda’s house, they’d made love together and put each other through the first paces of intense sex.
And then Nash had given himself to drugs, and though Cade did the same thing, he was in college and the two of them could not be together. It wasn’t fair to say that Nash was a drug addict and Cade wasn’t. It was truer to say that Cade was lucky and Nash was dead. He had died, as Cade had no trouble remembering, every time they drove over it, under that bridge, where the river turned from north to east, wide like a great blue ribbon. He had been found on a very grey day when the river was pewter and barely wished to turn at all.
Fresh flowers were on the grave. Of course his mother remembered him, His siblings. Why had Cade thought he was the only one? And Cade wasn’t even good at remembering, had only come to this place now. He wished Nash had been cremated, wished his body had been freed from time and turned to silver grey dust and fragments of the fragments of bone. That his young lover should be moldering here was an affront. But after all these years he had gone back to the earth, hadn’t he? He must have. Cade was seized with an almost sickening need to know. Instead, he assumed, He gathered moist brown earth in his hands. He opened his back and took out a stick of incense. He sat with his feelings while it burned and then put the dirt in the bag and walked away. This morning he had thought he would never come here after this, but right now he thought he would. He had never believed in graves or people visiting them, but right now he had to make amends.
The teenager he had seen was walking toward the gate and Cade called to him.
“Yeah?”
He was good looking. Familiar. A younger brother or cousin of someone he had known?
“You need a ride?”
“I’m just headed to the beach.”
“I’m going there too,” Cade said. “If you don’t mind us making a stop.”
The curly haired boy nodded.
He drove with dirt on his hands, and the boy said nothing. They were companions in silence, listening to music. Cade said, “We can hear whatever you like.”
The boy settled on Rusted Root, and Cade stopped himself from saying something old mannish like: “That’s a little old for you.” Because it had been a little old for him, and he loved the almost gospel wail of Back to the Earth.
Well come on, come on, see my world, my world.
Well, come on, come on, see my world, my world,
Well come on, come on, see my world, my world.
Well, come on, come on, see my world, my world,
At the Bridge, Cade stopped the car, but he left the kid inside and the keys in the ignition, something, he realized a day later, he would never have done. He took the dirt, as if if were ashes and scattered some of it into the river. He rolled up a holy card of Saint Anthony, the saint who found lost things, and the Saint Jude, the saint of lost causes. He rolled them up like two poorly made joints and burned them to ash and gave those to the river, and then he found himself crying and made the sign of the Cross. He couldn’t go back to this kid in the van looking a mess and feeling a mess, so he stayed out a little longer. But when he realized he was still going to be shaken, and tears were still coming, he shrugged and turned around, climbing back in the Land Rover.
“You must have really loved someone,” the kid in the car said, solemnly.
Cade was not embarrassed. He nodded, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
AND WHEN WE RETURN, IT WILL BE WITH THE CONCLUSION OF OUR STORY
CharmedFan28
JUB Addict
That was a great portion! I am liking how this story is ending. I am glad Cade is finding his own way to mourn what could have bee. Excellent writing and I look forward to the finale soon.
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it, and now here we come to the end.
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
At the Bridge, Cade stopped the car, but he left the kid inside and the keys in the ignition, something, he realized a day later, he would never have done. He took the dirt, as if if were ashes and scattered some of it into the river. He rolled up a holy card of Saint Anthony, the saint who found lost things, and the Saint Jude, the saint of lost causes. He rolled them up like two poorly made joints and burned them to ash and gave those to the river, and then he found himself crying and made the sign of the Cross. He couldn’t go back to this kid in the van looking a mess and feeling a mess, so he stayed out a little longer. But when he realized he was still going to be shaken, and tears were still coming, he shrugged and turned around, climbing back in the Land Rover.
“You must have really loved someone,” the kid in the car said, solemnly.
Cade was not embarrassed. He nodded, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
They drove on in silence across town till they passed the blue house and came to the pier. Cade thought of dropping the car off and telling the boy he could walk, but he was good company. and when they reached the pier, the boy, whom he realized looked like his brother Freddy, who had those same eyes as all the men in his family, said, “Well, here we are. Whaddid you come for?”
“To say goodbye,” Cade told him. “Or hello. I’m not really sure.”
“You lost someone else?”
“Yeah.”
Cade shrugged.
“You must have loved him. Her. Them?”
The boy shrugged the same way Cade had.
“Why do you say that?”
The boy unbuckled himself and hopped out of the car the same time Cade had.
“You don’t do things like this for people you don’t love,” he said.
“I wronged that first person by not being around,” Cade said.
“Maybe you did,” the boy said.
“I… wronged this second one. I won’t tell you all that story.”
“Probably,” the boy said, looking like man, looking like teenagers often did when you let them, “you did what you could do.”
The boy put a friendly hand on Cade’s shoulder, and pulling up his hood, be began walking toward the beach.
Cade watched him for a time. The gulls screeched on the grey beach and the wind snapped the boy’s jacket. Cade moved to the other side of the car where the wind did not blow and was glad no one would be driving out here anytime soon. He prayed the Saint Anthony prayer on the back of the card before he burned it to ash in the jar with what was left of Nash’s dirt. He prayed the Hail Mary on the back of an Immaculate Heart card and hung back a moment before burning that card too. He burned a stick of incense and let that ash go into the jar as well. Nostrils full of the smell of frankincense, he took the little knife he had brought with him and cut his thumb and blood into the dirt and ash and then, moving past madness, took off his socks and shoes and felt the sting of the forty degree weather. Careless of cold, holding the jar and singing one of his secret songs, one of the wordless melodies only Don had ever heard, Cade moved to the lake.
He did not let himself think. He moved into the freezing water. It stung then it was nothing. He went in to his knees and looked across the endless grey. His voice rose and he saw something from the corner of his eye. The boy was back, looking solemn, looking interested. The pier was not ten feet away and he stood sober, hands on the rails, head bowed.
Cade poured the dirt and ash into the water and words so fragile they barely left his lips formed.
Watch over him. Watch over them Be free. Free me. I’m sorry. Thank you. Thank you.
The jar still contained dirt, blood perhaps had helped to leave ash stuck in there. He submerged it and poured out water three times before the jar was clean.
He needed to get out of this freezing water. He needed to put on shoes and worry about socks at home. It was cold as hell out here. His legs were stinging. He would offer that kid a ride home. But when he looked at the pier, he wasn’t there, and when his shoes were on and he scanned the beach and the fields, he wasn’t there either. Cade looked around a little more, but he did not see him, and now he did not expect to. So he climbed into the car, and sat in the driver’s seat for about twenty minutes and cried ugly until he was ready to head home.
At last, he turned to the aqua blue house and drove home. Against the grey day there was a yellow light in the windows, and Simon had made a fire within, and the lunchtime meal was ready, and Cade knew he was expected. Donovan drew him in, and led him to the old davenport, and Simon, lying there, put his head upon his lap.
Cade Richards drew a deep breath.
“Well,” he said, “I’m back.”
THE END
“You must have really loved someone,” the kid in the car said, solemnly.
Cade was not embarrassed. He nodded, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
They drove on in silence across town till they passed the blue house and came to the pier. Cade thought of dropping the car off and telling the boy he could walk, but he was good company. and when they reached the pier, the boy, whom he realized looked like his brother Freddy, who had those same eyes as all the men in his family, said, “Well, here we are. Whaddid you come for?”
“To say goodbye,” Cade told him. “Or hello. I’m not really sure.”
“You lost someone else?”
“Yeah.”
Cade shrugged.
“You must have loved him. Her. Them?”
The boy shrugged the same way Cade had.
“Why do you say that?”
The boy unbuckled himself and hopped out of the car the same time Cade had.
“You don’t do things like this for people you don’t love,” he said.
“I wronged that first person by not being around,” Cade said.
“Maybe you did,” the boy said.
“I… wronged this second one. I won’t tell you all that story.”
“Probably,” the boy said, looking like man, looking like teenagers often did when you let them, “you did what you could do.”
The boy put a friendly hand on Cade’s shoulder, and pulling up his hood, be began walking toward the beach.
Cade watched him for a time. The gulls screeched on the grey beach and the wind snapped the boy’s jacket. Cade moved to the other side of the car where the wind did not blow and was glad no one would be driving out here anytime soon. He prayed the Saint Anthony prayer on the back of the card before he burned it to ash in the jar with what was left of Nash’s dirt. He prayed the Hail Mary on the back of an Immaculate Heart card and hung back a moment before burning that card too. He burned a stick of incense and let that ash go into the jar as well. Nostrils full of the smell of frankincense, he took the little knife he had brought with him and cut his thumb and blood into the dirt and ash and then, moving past madness, took off his socks and shoes and felt the sting of the forty degree weather. Careless of cold, holding the jar and singing one of his secret songs, one of the wordless melodies only Don had ever heard, Cade moved to the lake.
He did not let himself think. He moved into the freezing water. It stung then it was nothing. He went in to his knees and looked across the endless grey. His voice rose and he saw something from the corner of his eye. The boy was back, looking solemn, looking interested. The pier was not ten feet away and he stood sober, hands on the rails, head bowed.
Cade poured the dirt and ash into the water and words so fragile they barely left his lips formed.
Watch over him. Watch over them Be free. Free me. I’m sorry. Thank you. Thank you.
The jar still contained dirt, blood perhaps had helped to leave ash stuck in there. He submerged it and poured out water three times before the jar was clean.
He needed to get out of this freezing water. He needed to put on shoes and worry about socks at home. It was cold as hell out here. His legs were stinging. He would offer that kid a ride home. But when he looked at the pier, he wasn’t there, and when his shoes were on and he scanned the beach and the fields, he wasn’t there either. Cade looked around a little more, but he did not see him, and now he did not expect to. So he climbed into the car, and sat in the driver’s seat for about twenty minutes and cried ugly until he was ready to head home.
At last, he turned to the aqua blue house and drove home. Against the grey day there was a yellow light in the windows, and Simon had made a fire within, and the lunchtime meal was ready, and Cade knew he was expected. Donovan drew him in, and led him to the old davenport, and Simon, lying there, put his head upon his lap.
Cade Richards drew a deep breath.
“Well,” he said, “I’m back.”
THE END
CharmedFan28
JUB Addict
That was the perfect end to this story. It was moving and thoughtful how Cade mourned and said goodbye to what could have been. Great writing and I look forward to whatever you post next!