by Eric Luthi
The guard opened the door and held it open. The next man, carrying a desert green rucksack, stepped through the door and held up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. After a moment’s pause, he moved forward. A second guard came through the door but did not follow the man with the rucksack.
“You take care now, Mr. Rood,” said the first guard.
“Thank you.”
“You behave yourself,” said the second.
“I will.”
Josh walked across the concrete yard and stopped at the metal gate thirty feet wide and fifteen feet high. On steel wheels and a track, it was set into the wall that surrounded the yard. Josh waited. The guards behind him shifted from one foot to the other.
“I guess they changed their minds,” said one.
Josh didn’t turn to look at them. He raised his head slightly and turned to look up at the guard tower on the wall adjacent to the gate. In the tower, a guard on the phone looked down at him.
Josh waited.
“April fools, only it’s not April,” said one of the pair behind him.
They both laughed.
The guard in the tower was still on the phone. Josh placed the palm of his hand against the metal of the gate. It felt hot. He felt a vibration and the door began to roll sideways on its track. The leading edge of the gate rolled past him. Josh could see the grain fields stretch out almost from the gate to a line of low hills with trees a few miles distant. The road ran in a straight line to the hills where it disappeared. Josh waited until the door was fully open before he stepped across the track into the world outside.
The little girl sat by herself in the kindergarten classroom in her favorite red dress, the one with the yellow sunflowers. The other children were all paired up. She was number seventeen. On the table before her lay a blank sheet of craft paper and three paper cups containing blue, yellow and red tempura paint. The other children laughed and chattered as they smeared the paint together on their own sheets of paper creating any number of colors. Mostly, though, the colors they created were various shades of brown.
The little girl poured some of the red color on the top of the empty desk next to hers. She placed her left hand, palm down, into the paint. She then pressed her palm onto the craft paper with the heel of her hand on the edge and the fingers pointing toward the center of the sheet. She cocked her head first one way and then the other while studying the red hand print. Then, she spun the paper around and repeated the process using her left hand again. When she was finished, the forefingers of each palm print touched one another in the center of the page and the thumbs extended one toward the top of the page and the other toward the bottom.
“Faith,” the teacher called as she threaded the desks. “What are you doing?”
Faith looked up at her teacher but said nothing.
“This is pretty but you are supposed to be seeing what colors you can make by mixing them. Not making handprints.”
The teacher poured first from the paper cup containing the yellow tempura and then from the blue, one color on each of the hand prints. She swirled the colors with her fingers making some greens and purples but mostly browns.
Faith watched.
Other than the clothes he wore, Josh’s rucksack contained all he owned in the world. In it, were another pair of jeans and blue long-sleeved work shirt, extra socks and underwear, a Gideon’s New Testament, an old pocket knife and his coffee-table book on the works of Michelangelo. He also carried his wallet which contained his identification card and sixty-five dollars. Josh opened the knife when they returned his property to him and tested the blade with his thumb. Still sharp, it had been a gift from his father.
Four hours of walking brought him to a roadside village that contained one diner, one gas station and one market with three signs. The largest announced the name of the market: Juanita’s. The smaller read: U.S. Post Office. The third and smallest, underneath the other two, read: Greyhound. Josh went into the market.
“Be right with you,” said the lady ringing up a grocery purchase for a young woman with a little boy. He looked at Josh while hiding one eye behind his mother’s thigh. Josh smiled at him and he waved back. Feeling his movement, the boy’s mother reached down and turned him back toward the register and then paid for her purchases.
“Thank you, Mary,” said the lady behind the counter. She watched as Mary left the store. The boy sneaked a last look at Josh before the door closed. “Now, what can I do for you, mister?”
“I’d like a ticket for the bus, please.”
“Where to?”
Josh looked left and right.
“The bus going east gets here in about an hour. West don’t get here until six p.m. tonight.”
Josh smiled. “I guess I’ll go east.”
“Where to?”
“How far will sixty dollars take me?”
“Sixty dollars will take you all the way to Florida. Or it will take you into New England if you want the transfer for another five dollars.”
“East is fine.”
The last five dollars bought him a cheeseburger and French fries at the diner with fifty cents left over for the tip. A soda would have been another two dollars so he drank water.
The bus was half full. Josh wandered toward the back, picked a window seat and stowed his rucksack in the overhead before he sat down. On its route, the bus passed along farms and ranches, through forested areas and past small towns and medium-sized cities. It traveled the rest of that day and through the night, pausing to pick up or let off passengers and once to change drivers. At mid-morning, they approached an intersection on the highway and the driver slowed the bus.
“Quincy,” the driver announced. “Anyone for Quincy?”
Josh looked out the window. The intersection showed no buildings. There was one small road sign that read Quincy 11 with an arrow underneath that pointed left toward the smaller intersecting road. Behind and above the road sign was a large billboard. Angled to make it easier for drivers to see, the sign showed a group of young baseball players gathered in front of home base on the red infield soil. The bleachers behind the baseball players were full of fans. All of them, both players and audience, had one finger raised to the sky. The caption above them read, Quincy High Comets Winning Season. Below the picture of the team was another phrase in larger italicized letters, Ya Gotta Believe!
Josh stood up and grabbed his rucksack from the overhead. “This is my stop,” he said to the bus driver.
“I thought you were headed for the coast.”
“Nope. Quincy it is.”
“You sure?”
“I am.”
“Well, I guess you got go where the road takes you.”
“Too true.”
The driver released the air brakes and the bus rolled forward. He honked twice. Josh raised his hand and watched until the bus disappeared and then he headed up the road toward Quincy.
The painter lay on the scaffold high above the marble floor with his palette carefully balanced on his chest. Other men were afraid to work at this height, but he enjoyed it. He would roll to his stomach and peer over the wooden boards and watch the workmen or the priests move about on the floor below. Sometimes they would forget that he was there and he could overhear snatches of conversation as they talked about him or his work.
Today he wasn’t listening, though. Today he was watching. And not the floor. Today he lay on his back and looked at the painting above. The scaffold was close to the ceiling so he could reach it with his brush when standing on the top level.
On the ceiling, the left hand looked weak, pale, lifeless, grasping for something unknown. The hand coming from the right side was strong and purposeful, reaching forward and offering life. Its forefinger stretched out and almost touched the forefinger of the lifeless left hand. In no more than another moment, the fingers would touch.
That was the moment he waited for.
Josh made it two miles before the Sheriff stopped him. He heard the tires crunch the gravel on the shoulder of the road and knew right away what was happening. He stopped and turned around just as the uniformed officer opened the door and stepped out.
“Hello, there.”
“Hello.”
“Where you headed?”
Josh pointed this thumb back over his shoulder, “Quincy.”
“You
from around here?
“Never been.”
“What brings you to Quincy?”
“Just going where the road takes me, officer.”
“Deputy.”
“Sorry, deputy,” he looked at the name tag, “LeRoy.”
“Just going where the road takes you, eh? You a wise guy or something?”
“No, deputy.”
“Where you coming from?”
“West.”
“West? No place more specific?”
“I’m not nailed down anywhere, anymore.”
“Let’s see some ID.”
Josh dug out his wallet and handed it to the deputy who returned to the open door of the car.
“Rood, huh? Somebody sure named you right.”
“Got that from my daddy.”
“And Joshua?”
“My mamma.”
` The deputy took the radio from his belt. “Station, five-adam.”
“Five-adam, go.”
“Ten twenty-eight, twenty-nine on one, last of Rood, Robert-Ocean-Ocean-David, first of Joshua, common spelling, birthdate ten, twenty-four, sixty-three.”
“Copy. Standby five-adam.”
“While you’re at it, put your backpack on the hood there.” Josh did so. “Now back up.”
Josh backed up, interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on top of his head. The deputy eyed him as he emptied the contents of the rucksack on the hood of the cruiser. He tossed the clothes aside, flipped through the book on Michelangelo and picked up the knife. “What’s this for?”
“Whittling.”
The deputy held up the Gideon. “And this?”
“Got to spread the word.”
They eyed each other for a moment. The deputy’s radio crackled, “Five-adam?”
He keyed the mike, “Five-adam.”
“NCIC’s down.”
“Copy that.” The deputy put the clothes, the knife and the book back into the rucksack. He fingered the Gideon for a moment before putting it in as well. Then he threw the bag to Josh who caught it.
“You enjoy your walk, Mr. Rood.”
The house had once been white clapboard. Now it was more of a grey. Some of the green asphalt roofing shingles were damaged or missing altogether. It looked like a good place to stop. Joshua went up the steps of the porch and knocked on the door. He heard movement inside and, a moment later, the door opened. A petite black woman stood in the open door behind the screen.
“Yes?”
“Ma’am, I have no money. I’m hungry and I could use a bit of straw to sleep on tonight.”
She looked at him and then opened the screen door and stepped outside. She looked up and down the road and then turned back to Josh. “Best come in, then.” She turned and entered the house without looking to see if he was following.
He did follow her into the kitchen where the small table was set for two. Josh looked at the settings and she turned back to him. Without a word, she went to the cupboard and took down another plate and handed it to him. He added it to the table. Next came the napkin and the knife and fork which he placed each in turn.
“Ma’am, I want to thank you.”
“I’m Joyce.”
“Joshua.”
“Joshua, the bathroom’s down the hall. You can wash up. Supper’s in five minutes. Faith.” The last word was spoken more loudly and Joshua looked a question at her. Before she answered, he heard movement in the house. A little girl in a red print dress with yellow sunflowers came into the kitchen. She looked at Joshua and then at Joyce.
“Grandma?”
“Faith, this is mister Joshua. He’ll be joining us for supper and sleeping in the barn.”
“Hello, mister Joshua.”
Josh bent at the waist and held out a hand to her. She raised her left hand to shake his. “Pleased to meet you, Faith. You can call me Josh.”
Josh slept in the barn that night, but not on straw. The barn had a small room on one end which contained a single bed and nightstand. Josh smiled when he saw it and realized his feet would stick out over the end.
John LeRoy parked his cruiser in front of Joyce’s house. The house looked odd. He checked on her every week or two. He let himself in the gate and walked up the steps, still wondering why it struck him as different. He knocked on the screen door and realized what was wrong. The colors were the same but brighter. The house had been painted. He backed down the steps and looked up. The damaged tiles were gone. Someone had given the house a new coat of paint and trim and mended the roof. Joyce came to the door.
“Joyce.”
“John, it’s nice of you to stop by. Come on in.” She held the door open for him, “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
John looked around the kitchen and sat down at the table. Joyce poured him a mug and set it on the table.
Faith let herself into the little room at the end of the barn. It was empty and the bed made. Josh’s rucksack sat on the floor at the end of the bed. The large book of pictures was on the nightstand. She took it and sat on the bed and opened it. The book contained pictures of paintings hanging on walls. Some were painted directly onto the walls and even on ceilings. There were drawings of animals and buildings and elbows and feet and hands. Lots of pictures of hands. And then there were the sculptures. She turned to the middle of the book and looked at the statue of the naked young man.
“Should you be in here?” Josh asked from the doorway.
Faith jumped to her feet and left the book lying open on the bed. The picture of the statue of David stared up at them. Josh stepped to the bed and looked at it.
“I was just looking.”
“It’s okay.” Josh motioned toward the book, “What do you think?”
“I…” she shook her head and looked away.
Josh tore a piece from the paper dust jacket of the book and laid it across David’s midsection, “Let’s give him back his modesty, shall we? Now, what do you think of David?”
She stepped forward and looked down at the book.
“I think he’s beautiful.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Are you going to paint the inside, too?” John asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. I was happy to get the outside done. Looks nice, don’t it?” said Joyce.
“It does. I didn’t know you were up to it.”
“Not me. Lord, no. I don’t climb ladders anymore let alone get up on that roof. Can you imagine me slippin’ and slidin’ up there. No, sir.”
“Who’d you get to do it?”
“Josh did.”
“Josh? Josh who?”
“Oh, I never did learn his last name.”
“Josh? Big guy? Showed up around a week ago? Carries a khaki rucksack?”
“That’s him.”
“Joyce, where’s Faith?”
“She’s visiting with Josh.”
“Michelangelo, the man who carved it, wasn’t happy with it in the end. He took a hammer and chisel and wanted to change it. His assistants wouldn’t let him.”
“Why? Why would he want to do that?”
“He thought it was flawed. He thought it should be perfect.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Maybe nothing. But others thought there was. Look again and see if you can figure it out why Michelangelo might not have liked it.”
John came out of the kitchen door. Across the yard he saw Josh in the window of the little bedroom. “God dammit.” He moved across the yard toward the barn with Joyce following.
“His hands.”
“What about them?”
“His hands are too big.”
“And for that he wanted to change his magnificent creation. Some say he wanted to destroy it and his assistants talked him out of it.”
Faith stroked the hands on the page as tenderly as if she were stroking a baby’s fingers. “I think they are perfect.”
The door slammed open and John stood in the doorway. Joyce entered a second later. John moved forward and shoved Josh back from the bed. Josh fell back against the window and cracked a pane with his elbow. John held up a hand toward Josh but Josh didn’t try to move forward.
Joyce hugged Faith. “Faith, what are you doing?”
“We were just looking at
pictures.”
John stepped back and looked down at the now uncovered picture of the statue of David. “You show pictures like this to a little girl?”
“I looked at the pictures. He wasn’t even here,” said Faith.
“He’s here now. And he was looking at the picture with you.” The deputy turned to Josh. “And you? Are you going to let the little girl speak for you?”
Josh said nothing.
“Get out. I want you out of here, now. I know everything about you. I know what you are.”
“No,” this was from Joyce. “Let him spend the night and leave in the morning.”
“Joyce, he’s fresh out of prison.”
“I know. But I won’t turn him out at night. He can leave in the morning.”
“I’ll be here to see you off,” said John. He opened the door and then added, “You stay away from her.”
Sunday morning came up warm. Josh packed in about two minutes. Easy to do when you don’t own much. He stood at the now-mended window and looked out into the yard. Faith, dressed in overalls, was feeding the chickens from a galvanized pail. He went out to her.
“Good morning, mister Josh.”
“And to you, Faith.”
“I’m not supposed to go inside anywhere with you.”
“That’s okay. We’ll stay out here.”
“Okay.”
He watched her spread the feed a few grains at a time. The chickens followed her around.
“Faith, do you know what your name means?”
“It means ‘believe.’”
“And do you?”
She looked at him for a long moment as she turned the pail upside down and shook it to empty the last remaining grains. “Yes.”
“Scoop some dirt into that pail.”
“Why?”
“People who ask ‘why’ don’t really believe.”
“Okay.”
She lifted three handfuls of the dry dirt into the pail.
“Add a bit of water.”
She went to the spigot and pumped the handle until the water splashed into the pail.
“That’s good. Now mix it up.”
Faith wrapped her right arm around the pail to stabilize it and reached in with her left hand. She turned the dirt over and mixed it into mud. “There are dry patches at the bottom where the water didn’t reach.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to start with the water and add the dirt. It’s easier to mix that way.”
“Do you like to play with mud, too?”
“I have always liked playing around with mud.”
Faith pulled out her hand. Mud sheeted off her fingers and dropped back into the pail. She looked at her hand and then up to Josh.
“Now put your hand in.”
She looked at her muddy left hand and then back to Josh with her eyebrows raised.
“Your other hand.”
John LeRoy came up the front porch steps again and let himself into the house. Joyce was in the kitchen watching Josh and Faith in the yard. He stopped at the window. “What the hell?” The door slammed into the house as he went out, pulling his pistol from its holster as he did so. “You get away from her.”
Josh heard the door and looked up. He stepped away from Faith as the pistol came up to level in John’s hand. Joyce was in the doorway as the pistol went off. Faith screamed and knocked the pail over as she scrambled to her grandmother’s arms. The mud from the pail spilled out onto the dusty ground.
Josh pressed both of his hands against his left side where the bullet struck him. He staggered sideways a few steps. He stopped and pulled his hands away from his side. The red stain beneath his ribs grew larger. Blood covered both of his palms. He looked across the yard to John.
John was trembling. He lowered the gun and said nothing. Josh turned and took halting steps toward the side room off the barn where he had slept. He staggered forward at the door and caught himself with both hands on the doorframe. His breathed deep and took two steps into the room and fell onto the bed leaving bloody handprints on the doorposts.
The following Sunday, Faith used a coffee can to carry the grain to feed the chickens. The galvanized pail still lay on its side where it fell the week before. The mud remaining inside had dried and hardened onto the sides. She watched the pail as she fed the chickens. She walked around it and the chickens followed her in a barnyard parade. When she finished spreading the grain, she turned the coffee can upside down, placed it on the dirt, and sat on it. She watched the galvanized pail as the chickens scratched in the dust for the last few grains of feed.
Faith watched the pail for several moments. Then she stood, picked up the pail, placed it under the spigot and pumped the handle. The pail filled with water which soon became muddy as the dried and caked on dirt dissolved and slid off the side. She poured the muddy water onto the ground. She did this two more times until she pumped the handle again and was left with three inches of clear water in the bottom of the pail.
She kneeled down and scooped a handful of dirt into the water and mixed it with her left hand. She added two more scoops and mixed again. It didn’t seem thick enough. She added two more scoops and stirred it thoroughly. After she had stirred for several minutes, she withdrew her left hand and raised it up to her face and watched as the mud now flowed more slowly back toward the earth.
Faith pressed her muddy left hand against the outside of the pail and held it there for several seconds. When she pulled her hand away, a brown hand print remained on the metal. She looked to where her right hand would have been, but was not. She paused a moment and then plunged her right arm into the pail. The mud felt cool and alive on her forearm. She reached down deep and felt the bottom of the pail with her fingers.