The Messenger of Magnolia Street (2 page)

Old Blue is pointed north, into strange territory. Billy's hands are on the wheel of the '73 F150. The tires on the highway create a steady drone of distance. Sunlight flashes through the pines, shoots across the road. Billy and Trice move forward, vaulting the shadows in quick succession. They are caught in an undertow propelling them onward, beyond the edges of their time.

“I can tell you one thing, Nehemiah is not gonna be happy to see us, that much I know.” Billy is anxious, hasn't given in to the present. “And I tell you another thing, I should've called ahead instead of listening to you and us showing up without any warning.”

“Maybe he's not gonna be happy to see you but he's dang sure gonna be happy to see me. But you go ahead, blame it all on me if it makes you feel better.” Trice is up on her knees rummaging through a bag behind the seat. “Besides, who has to
warn
their brother that they're coming?”

“Sit your butt down, Trice, you are bothering me.”

Trice emerges with a pack of crackers. She's a nervous eater but you can't tell by looking at her. Except when she's eating, of course.

“He has business up here. Things we don't know nothin' about.” Billy hates being corrected by Trice. Just hates it. “Things we don't want to know nothin' about. What do you think us just showing up is gonna do, Miss Trice? Make him more than happy to see us?”

“I told you. He'll be happy to see
me.
You're on your own now, Billy boy.” Trice runs her hands through her hair and tries to un
tangle what the wind has whipped into a frenzy. She doesn't feel a smidgen of guilt about dragging Billy up to Washington, and she doesn't really care if Nehemiah is happy to see either one of them. His happiness has nothing to do with it.
Serves him right
, she thinks, as she tries to pull through another knot with her fingers.
Old Blue my butt,
she is thinking.
The Chevette has air. Is better on gas. But no, Billy's gotta kick and swear he can't breath in it.

(Actually, Old Blue was God's idea. He relishes a good ride in the back of a pickup, and the wind doesn't bother him a bit.)

“Nehemiah could've told us not to come.” She is yelling out over the wind, holding her hair knotted in one hand. “'Course just let him try that with me. I don't care what a big shot he is now. Besides, I gotta feeling everything is gonna be all right.” This is what she is saying, but it's not the way she feels. Her stomach is in knots from leaving Magnus fussing about having to feed the cats (which belong to her in the first place) and her asking Trice questions from the front porch, like “How long you gonna be gone?” and “What are you goin' up there for in the first place?”

“How long's it been since you've seen him?” Trice looks over at Billy, who just shrugs. “Well you should know.”

“Now, don't you think you'd know the last time I seen him? Do you think I'd been able to keep that a secret from anybody? And you need to stop bothering me with all this brother business, you hear?”

They ride on in silence for a while. Eventually, unprompted, Billy picks up the thread. “He's just busy, you know how it goes. Got himself this
position
. Got…
responsibilities
.” Billy slaps the dashboard. “Important things. Better stuff than kickin' around Shibboleth for a hundred years and dying for nothing.” Billy says this, but what he believes is that dying in Shibboleth is the best thing a man can do and that Washington doesn't have anything a man needs.

“Does he call you?”

“Naw.” Billy pauses, “He writes the longest darn letters you ever read.”

“Well, I don't get calls or letters.” Trice is quiet, thinking. “He misses you, Billy.”

Billy is silent, drives another mile, and then with a slow smile says, “Yeah, he does.”

Then she crosses her arms and forgets about her hair, throwing her head back and closing her eyes. “At least you
get
a letter. That's more than some of us.”

Billy doesn't answer. Can't speak for his brother. But he catches Trice's hurt out of the corner of his eye.

So here they are, on the road, on a quest, without an exact agenda. They don't know how the story is going to unfold. So after a while they relax, let the road sing them its lullaby, let the sun and the pines and the dogwoods express themselves, while they ride on in the comfort of the familiar. They don't have to talk to each other. No need. They already know what the other one would say. Nothing but time does a thing like that. Sorts it all out in advance.

Most of Billy's life and all of Trice's growing up together in the same place, the same carved out piece of dirt, in the middle of the same magic. And there you have it, Billy and Trice, carrying the same collective memory, the same reference points for the same stories, the same faces from the past. There is no dividing them there. But that's where the tree splits and they head off in different directions. Same tree. Different branches. As different as a muscled-up banjo from a wood flute, but they're making music just the same. There was a time that a soulful fiddle ran with them through the woods, jumped the creeks, collected spiders, caught snakes, and generally reveled in the glory of Summertime, but he has long been gone now. Out of sight. He has moved off into other territory.

If they had been out for one of their regular rides, they might have run over to the Johnsons' to check out the brand-new colt still standing on his shaky legs, or just ridden around avoiding talking about Nehemiah until it was about sunset. They would've decided they were hungry and dropped in at Kate's Diner for the special, with Billy hoping it was pork chops and Trice just craving cornbread. But instead, here they are on some unknown assignment doing such a brave and foolish thing as following it out. They could pretend it was that other kind of drive where they just kick around, but something begins churning.

Trice and Billy are a little jumpy. They take turns snapping on the radio only to turn it off again. They are becoming sensitive to flashes of light and moving shadows. Watch them. They've started glancing over their shoulders with a quirky feeling, as if someone is watching them. They tell themselves it's nothing. Tricks of light. Tired eyes. But they are telling themselves the deceptions of a blind mind. Go ahead, deny the Existence. It doesn't change a thing.

Now they are making their way, hour after hour, their eyes watching the road intently. As if by double necessity. As if at any given moment the road may change shape, alter their direction, lift them off the ground, slinging them into another universe. Unknown to one another, they are each, separately, contemplating gravity. Contemplating the things in life that hold one fast to place. To life. Unknown to each other, they are wondering what happens when those things are erased without a trace. Unknown to each other, they begin to see the past float up before their eyes. For a while, Billy will forget driving. For a while, Trice will forget riding. This is where they'll be.

 

There is the sound of water from underground springs feeding into secret pools, sliding over the ancient surfaces. Water falling one tiny drop at a time from cavernous
rain rooms. Water seeping through the walls all around them. And there is only a little light. Barely enough to make out the shape of two children, one slightly larger but both so small they are almost lost in the space that surrounds them. They stand very still, staring into the darkness. Their tiny light focuses on a small crevice of a hallway between the cave rock. Two things are present with the children: the presence of danger and the pressing need to be quick in the execution of their mission. The girl knows it. She has an awareness of time, feels it the way others feel water. Time runs through her fingers.

“Hurry up, Billy.” It's the exasperated whisper of the girl child, urgently pleading. “Hurry up, Billy. Hurry up!” She walks back and forth impatiently on hertiptoes, a flock of wild blond hairs just barely outlined by the faintest of fading flashlights.

“He's coming, Trice.” A boy's tanned hand reaches out and cups the girl's shoulder. “Stand still.” She calms, places her feet back flat again on the rock floor beneath her. “You have to be still, Trice.” He is patient with her, his voice smooth music. “You could tumble off into the darkness. See?” For emphasis he flashes the light to his right, where the path leads downward, then over the edge where there is nothing with one tippytoed wrong step.

The girl turns her eyes on the boy. They appear to capture the light and hold it there so that she looks at him through blue ice, crystals of frozen water, “Why is he so dagburned slow, Nehemiah? Why?”

The boy looks backward to the slow shuffling sound in the distance that will carry his big brother forward into view. “He's just Billy, Trice. That's all.”

Nehemiah turns off his flashlight to save what little light is left and they wait in the dark unafraid, determined to carry out their duty. The larger boy appears, his flashlight held between his teeth as he uses his hands to pull himself through the rock crevice. He clears the space, steps into the cavern, and moves the flashlight to his hand, focusing it directly on the girl's face. She doesn't look away. She doesn't shield her eyes. She seems to soak the light up from the inside.

“You know, Trice, one of these days you and me is gonna tussle. I don't care if you are a girl.”

“Time is important, Billy. I know it and Mr. Einstein knows it. Someday you're gonna know it too.”

“Einstein is dead, Trice.”

“I'll be sure and tell him you said that next time we speak.” The eyes again.

All flash of light.

“You're a strange girl, Trice.”

Nehemiah holds up his hand to quiet them. They feel the movement more than see it. Then hear the boy with such an air of authority saying, “Shhh,” and they hush. They listen.

“Wind voices, Nehemiah. That's all,” the big brother says, but he shines his light to the left and to the right, searching.

Nehemiah smells the air, smells the damp rock, the age-old space, and something else. The wafting smell of sulfur. “We're not alone down here.” He says this with bold concern. The three of them lean their backs tight against the cave wall and begin to inch their way along, making the slow, precarious downward descent.

“Well, we know we're not alone, Nehemiah. If we were alone,” Trice says while stepping sideways on her tiptoes, “there'd be no need to guard the treasure.”

“I mean, Trice,” Nehemiah pauses, listens again as an unearthly growl surfaces from the depths below, “we're not alone right now.”

The Protectors descend lower and lower into the darkness while something watches, something waits, from somewhere far below.

 

Billy and Trice shake their heads as if surfacing from miles beneath the earth, opening their eyes to the other world above them. They are still formulating loose cognitive threads, attempting to touch something just beyond their reach. Trice almost palms the pictures, almost puts them in her pocket, where she'll pull them out later over dinner. Then Old Blue enters the District of Columbia, and Trice opens her hand and pulls the directions from her purse. The images begin to fall away and the silver threads of truth dissipate as if they were never there.

Later That Day

Now God is working on another piece of this unfolding puzzle. He is standing in the capitol offices of Senator Honeywell, arms folded, looking over Nehemiah's shoulder.

How can God be riding up Highway 131 in the back of Old Blue, enjoying the new blooms on the dogwoods and simultaneously walking around Nehemiah's desk? Omnipresence. An astounding actuality.

Presently, Nehemiah is discussing appropriation committees and timing. His world is full of negotiations. Compromises. Anticipating everyone's next move. That means seeing through walls. And that means a lot of things.

God leans over Nehemiah, and in a low voice whispers, “
Shibbo leth,”
then he sits down on the other side of the desk. Nehemiah appears not to hear, but yet, watch this, he begins to sketch an oak tree in the border of his calendar. You can feel it, can't you? The something happening. The rush of oak leaves in the wind. The sudden sway of its outer branches. Interesting the way that things can surface. Things thought to be long forgotten. See now, Nehemiah sketches the trunk, the branches, a few leaves, before he ends the conversation. Then he looks at the sketch rather strangely because he didn't even realize what he was doing. Can you see him? Sitting at his desk wondering where that tree came from? It's a residue from when he was as much the center of Shibboleth as it was of him. But that was a long time ago. Twelve years, to be exact, since Billy dropped him off in Washington. With first a handshake, then a teary-eyed bear cub of a hug. A lot has happened since then. A man has grown into the skin of what was once mostly boy. Nehemiah has been polished, developed not a roughness but a determined seriousness. And has earned a reputation as
a man who will get things done the right way. And, oh yes, there is a right way.

Other than his sketching, it has been an ordinary day. All regular business, nothing unforeseen or unplanned to shatter his created life. Did I mention Nehemiah's suit? It's exquisitely tailored.

Exquisitely.
He is polished perfection, that's what I'm thinking. He doesn't look the least bit like a duck out of water. The fact is, he looks born and bred for what he's doing. But tonight, well, tonight change is about.

Nehemiah turns the corner, and now he is almost home. See the brownstone, the one there with the great green ivy climbing the front brick? He is whistling quietly beneath his breath, which is delightful, considering he doesn't whistle. But God does, and right now God is walking next to him, keeping step and time. They are whistling a brand-new tune, something God just invented. A tune about hidden treasures and things long forgotten. A tune that carries the smell of ages past and of ages yet to come.