House of Gold (23 page)

"The Man is holy–that's about the only way I can explain it. It's like travelling with a Black Mother Teresa, or Mister Teresa, or whatever, I swear," he would explain. "The best thing your town can ever
want is to have the Man praying for you. And believe me, he's praying for you right now."

These tough little towns, most having been in a low-grade depression since the 1930s, seemed to be scraping along. As the two friends worked their way further east, deeper into the mountains, the killer flus and pneumonias seemed to have taken less of a toll.

Hunters hunted; fishermen fished; the few farmers
whose farms dotted the mountain countryside, many of them Christians who had prepared for the worst, had stored in more food than normal–potatoes, winter wheat, even corn.

Buzz noticed another important factor which favored the rural areas: no city sewage or water.

Practically every town had its share of wells and septic systems. Jerry-riggers rigged. It gave Buzz hope that Bagpipe was also hanging
in there.

Many of the towns had set up roadblocks on either side of Route 6. When he and the Man came to these, Buzz preferred to let the Man do the talking–he had a disarming gift–Buzz thought of it as
charisma.

The Man, ever the cryptic saint, when asked by Buzz about this unexpected talent, explained that the Holy Spirit put words into his mouth. And this made perfect sense to Buzz, for it
seemed less the words–which were always direct, simple, and clear–than the
power
behind the one speaking them that gave them so much impact.

"Pay no mind to this here rabbit gun. It's just for hunting. If you want, you can hold it for us while we visit. My friend and I are just passing through," the Man would say with a smile, his hands open. "And we've got some mail for y'all."

Buzz noted that
it wasn't all Holy Spirit. The Man, whose diction and English had otherwise always been measured and perfect, never used the Southern term
y'all
except at the roadblocks.

Skeptical country deputies and sentries would melt like snow in a sunbeam. Buzz would then trot out letters attesting to his chiropractic skills from the mayors or police chiefs of the previous towns.

Later on, Buzz would get
his talking in with the townsfolk, brazenly telling one and all about the Catholic faith. Christianity was making a comeback, judging from the reactions Buzz received. Stripped of their jobs and material comforts, many were turning to religion. It was also touching and comforting how easy it was to connect spiritually with the devout Protestants they met along the way.

Maybe this isn't so bad,
Buzz thought at times.

If they let him, Buzz would tell stories to their children in the town square or local school. Stories from the Bible, or classics like Little Red Riding Hood.

Sometimes he made up stories about spaceships, purple dogs, and planets made out of pancakes with Aunt Jemima hiding in the core, ready to grant wishes if the daring adventurer-children would just be willing to take
a sip of her magic syrup.

The children, deprived of their Nintendos and antiseptic videos, ate these verbal treats out of Buzz's hand.

Buzz and the Man were almost always rewarded with food. Thereby encouraged, and less wary, they began walking during daylight hours, usually on the grassy shoulder of the road to alleviate the pounding on their knees and joints.

As for refugees they met along the
way, at the Man's suggestion, they established a "policy." Buzz and the Man would share half their food, no matter how little or how much they had on them, and Buzz would offer to adjust their spines. So far, only one man, alone and ragged, had given them a fright. Buzz saw him approaching from afar (his eyesight was much better than the Man's). With a sixth sense that the Man attributed to the
Lord, the Man had pulled his Ruger off his shoulder before the crazy vagabond came within a half-mile.

Buzz prayed and the Man glared. The vagabond, dirty and eyes buggy, walked right past them without saying a word.

"Got the devil in 'im," the Man explained after the strange vagrant had passed from sight. "Don't let it bother you. Sometimes there's nothing you can do."

As if that explained everything.

"Do you think he'll double back?" Buzz asked, looking over his shoulder.

"The man or the devil?"

"Either one."

"The Lord has not revealed that to me."

"Thanks. I feel much better now."

Though they often felt the pangs of hunger, it seemed as if every time they would run out of food between towns, they would walk over a hill and find a fishing pond or a lone farmer with a bad back willing to trade
a can of beans; or they would wake up with a rabbit or squirrel in the Man's traps.

+  +  +

For all his life, from his earliest drives from New Jersey to Notre Dame during college, to his occasional jaunts from Cleveland as an adult to visit his uncle's shore house on Long Beach Island in New Jersey, Buzz had privately thought of western Pennsylvania as the Badlands.

Many a time as he rolled over
Interstate 80, he saw in the Badlands deserted, desolate misanthropic mountains, yet not without their own strange elegiac beauty.

Twice he had experienced freak accidents in the Festiva, including one–a blowout–with Sam and Donna, that could have easily taken their lives.

Then there had been that ride across the state on his way down to the shore, drunk out of his mind, on the way to his suicide
attempt. Thankfully, most of that ride was a blur to him now, but it was a Badlands Blur if there ever was one.

Now, during this journey toward Bagpipe, as he lost weight, as his ankle and head wound healed (the headaches were almost completely gone now), and his legs became stronger, the wide muscles in his already impressive thighs like rocks, he was realizing that the Badlands weren't so bad
after all.

Unable to resist the Man's serene silence and constant recollection in "the Lord," Buzz found himself being drawn into a deeper union with God. In the early days of the long walk, he had mildly resented the Man's silence, and had somehow imagined that he would pass the time by talking his way across Pennsylvania.

The Badlands had become Goodlands for his soul. The only sore point was
the slow pace of the journey.

+  +  +

On the road on a sunny day in April.

"Hal, do you know what day it is?" Buzz asked, trying to hide a smile.

"Sure. Saturday."

"Yeah, but what day of the month?"

"Fifteenth," the Man said, not smiling.

"So, did you pay your taxes?"

Now the Man smiled.

+  +  +

Sleeping on the floor of the town hall in Watrous, Buzz dreamed he was in a balloon floating over the
mountains of Pennsylvania. The bright yellow balloon carried him in an old-fashioned wicker basket, replete with sandbags for ballast. The floor of the basket was made of a single, pure silver plate.

Pretty heavy material for a balloon,
his dream-self thought.

Hands on the rail, he peered down, and to his frightened surprise, he saw himself and the Man walking along an empty road, thousands of
feet below.

That's us! That's Route 6!

He heard the dulcet voice of a woman behind him.

He knew that voice!

"Buzz," she said.

He turned. He was mildly disappointed. It was not Mel. It was Ellie, dressed in an 1800s get-up: hoop dress, a gazillion layers of fluffy white lace shifts beneath, an Easter bonnet on her head.

As always, Ellie Fisk was a stunning beauty. Her skin soft, healthy, perfect.
Her eyes radiant, brown and sugary as fudge. Her golden hair–light, whispery in the wind. The curve of her jaw, just right, just so, just...

"I love you, Buzz," she told him.

"I love you, too," he replied impatiently.
Of course I love you, you're one of my best friends in the whole world. Now let's get to the point!

"Where is Mel?" he asked breathlessly. "How is she doing? Do you have any news?"

Ellie looked down at her hands.

"I love you, Buzz."

She began to weep bitter tears.

He went to her and took her by the shoulders, shaking her roughly. "What's wrong, Ellie!? What's the matter? What's wrong with Mel!"

"You're hurting me."

He let her go, and she crumpled to the silver floor.

"Angels will not come to save us," Ellie moaned between sobs.

The balloon started rocking and shaking, the
wind kicked up violently, though there was no sound except his own dream-breathing and Ellie's joyless sobs.

Dream Buzz had a sudden urge to jump out of the balloon.

An easy way out.

He threw a leg up on the railing.

"No! Buzz no–not the jetty! Not again!" Ellie cried through her tears...

...and what he saw below was no longer the verdant mountainsides of Pennsylvania but the whole world as one
enormous badlands–a burning ocean filled with cities engulfed in flames. Buzz saw widows and orphans, and sundry souls writhing in pain. A world without hope. A world of the future.

Then his dream-gaze saw the ancient balcony of Saint Peter's Basilica, in the midst of the world aflame. The square was filled with the ememies of the Church. They were mocking the Holy Father. He was a short man,
with brown skin. And in the crowd, a boy with a rifle, with hatred in his heart, taking aim.

No!
Buzz cried...

And he fell into another dream...

+  +  +

...as the Man dreamed of a faded green farmhouse next to a barren, empty hayfield that had apparently been cut down many winters earlier, then poisoned. There were several dead bodies scattered in the field, all of them shot, all of them in a
line of sight from the dilapidated farmhouse. He found himself in the woods, just beyond the field. His sister Irene and Buzz were with him.

In that strange way of dreams, he was able to see the faces of each dead body. Their expressions in death were tranquil, pacific. They were dressed in the garb of the ancients–robes, white robes stained with scarlet blood. An angelic voice read off their
names for him, one by one, with great importance of tone:

Saint Stephen.

Saint Paul.

Saint Lawrence.

Saint Isaac Jogues.

Saint Paul Miki.

Saint Theophane Venard.

Saint Maximilian.

And several more.

Each one a martyr. The hair stood up on the Man's dry, sinewy arms.
Fear.
Pure fear filled him and overflowed out of him.

"What's holding us up?" Buzz asked behind him.

Then the dream-Man saw...well,
the Lord.

The Lord was on the other side of the field, dressed in a seamless tan garment, just like in all the movies, except now, there was a flight of nine enormous angels in array behind Him, in a giant forest populated by majestic, golden trees with silver leaves.

He smiled at the Man, and motioned at him:
Come with me, Hal!

"But Lord, I'm afraid," the Man protested.

"What are you saying?"
Buzz asked behind him. "Do you see somebody in the field?"

It's worth it. You'll be with me forever, my good and faithful servant. The living shall envy the dead,
the Lord promised in dream-telepathy.

Despite his fear, the Man stepped into the barren blood-field, Buzz and Irene following him. Far off, in the green farmhouse, he heard the crinkly sound of glass breaking, and through the corner
of his eye, he saw the barrel of a shotgun thrust out the broken window.

Keep your eyes on me,
the Lord told him.
You can walk on water...

Yes, Lord,
the Man replied, getting the hang of things.
Of course, Lord...

And the Man continued to walk forward, into another dream...

The Man woke up in a sweat, crying out. Buzz, next to him in the tent, also woke up, and turned on his side.

"Hal, what is
it? You okay?"

"Nightmare," the Man said. "Nothing. Just a nightmare."

Buzz yawned. "Me too. Been happening for days now. Wanna pray?"

"Yeah."

So they prayed the old reliable, the Saint Michael Prayer, then began another Rosary. They were snoring by the third decade.

+  +  +

A few days later they attended a sublime Sunday Mass celebrated by a bent, devout octogenarian Jesuit named Tim "Tiny" McInerny.
Buzz adjusted his back, but he remained bent. (Buzz thought:
You can't unbend a Jesuit.)

They rested for the afternoon at Mount Pisgah State Park, where they went fishing. They were making good progress, and were now just east of West Burlington, still on Route 6.

There seemed to be more refugees heading west as they got further along into eastern Pennsylvania. These refugees passed along rumors
about a "reorganization" of the government taking place in New York and New Jersey. Details were sketchy. There was something about needing a special new card containing a chip in order to receive food.

Neither Buzz nor the Man liked the sound of this, and were wondering if they should head north. Route 6 would soon be taking a southeastward turn at Route 220, which continued down along the Susquehanna
River toward Scranton.

The distances between the little towns they passed through were becoming shorter. They decided they would take mail no further than Rummersfield, then depart from Route 6.

Carrying the mail had been a big hit, and along with Buzz's chiropractic abilities, a great source of security for them. Even the towns that refused to take them in accepted the mail, gave them safe passage,
and usually gave them mail for the next towns down the line.

The day was beautiful; it was a spring afternoon, and both men noticed the trees were beginning to bud. To save time, they were taking a back road, off Route 6. It was quite warm, and they tied their coats around their waists.

They came over a small crest and there it was: a man-made roadblock constructed with natural materials. Several
large oak and maple trees had been cut to fall athwart the road at the bottom of the hill. No one was standing guard.