Chapter 20

As the primer red pick-up sped along the flat plains of the prairie, Will popped a cassette in the ancient tape-player mounted in the dashboard. The opening strains of Meet Me In St. Louis filled the cab, and Will began to hum, and then to sing, full voice:

Meet me in Saint Loo-ey, Loo-ey,
Meet me at the fair

Don't tell me the lights are shining
Any place but there.
We will dance the hootchie-kootchie,
I will be your tootsie-wootsie,
If you will meet me in Saint Loo-ey, Loo-ey,
Meet me at the fair!

Laura assessed her partner with a sidelong glance. A cowboy hat perched atop his head, caterwauling with the full-throated vigor of a young Judy Garland combined with the coquettish manner of Vivian Leigh, Will cut quite an odd figure. Laura smiled, recalling Will's joy as he donned the costume of the prairie cowboy in preparation for their trip. He hated Iowa, it was true, but he was more than willing to steep himself in all the trappings of Americana. As long as he could escape when he wanted. And escape they had.

But for all his complaints about the Midwestern prairie town, Laura reflected, her small-town folk had come through in the pinch. God knows what they would have done without the help.

When she and Will had attended the Elks Annual Spaghetti Dinner, Laura throught it was prairie-town business as usual. Lots of speeches, mediocre food, money raised for a good cause, and hours and hours of interminable prairie small talk. But things turned out to be not at all what she had expected. She should have realized long before that something was up. Her mother had been far, far too insistent that she and Will attend the dinner - particularly considering Will's uneasy presence in small-town America. Indeed, with the exception of Mrs. Dial's 'teas,' Will had thankfully been spared the various social events of gracious prairie living. It was up to Laura, and Laura alone, to attend to the whirlwind of church meetings, ice cream socials, young people's Christian prayer groups and school reunions her mother felt it her duty attend while she was in town. No wonder I ran away to the big city, Laura mused while enduring each tiresome gathering.

Given the precedent, Laura anticipated the Elks Club Spaghetti Dinner with no great joy. The evening began, as she expected, with a reverent invocation. Intoned by the lodge's Chaplain, the opening prayer was non-specifically Christian and appropriately Benevolent. And long.

Just as Laura began to doze, she felt Will's elbow in her ribs. As she looked to him, he silently directed her gaze to the center of the hall. Following his glance, she noted a huge elk's head, wrought in small mosaic tile at the center of the floor. The elk looked at her sidelong, a whimsical, almost daffy, smile on its face. It almost seemed to be winking. A banner encircled it, royal blue with red letters:

She looked back to Will, who registered his amusement and alarm with a slight lift of the eyebrows and widening of the eyes. Laura started to giggle, faking a cough at the critical moment.

The invocation was followed by an equally solemn enumeration of the goals and projects underway for the year. The Exalted Ruler (local fire chief and shuffleboard afficianado, Wally Horst) led the account in deep sonorous tones, halting, Laura thought, at always precisely the wrong point. The jangling, halting rhythm of his speech became like a verbal samba, obliterating meaning in favor of sound.

Next came the most sacred part of the opening ceremony, as the Inner Guard (Bill Sims, proprietor of the 'Gas and Guzzle') wheeled forward a large ancient clock wrought in dark wood. Mystical symbols surrounded it. He reached forward and, with great ceremony, tipped the hands of the clock up to 12. Twelve chimes rang out. The entire assembly bowed their heads, except Will. Craning his head in all directions, Will looked upon the bowed congregation with glee.

"What are they doing?" Will he whispered thrillingly to Laura, "Consecrating the Pope?"

"Hush, Will!" Her hand shot up and she pulled his head down. "Just BEHAVE!"

The Esteemed Loyal Knight (neighborhood plumber and winner of the 1997 statewide Boggle Championship, Bob Freeters) stepped forward and leaned toward the microphone.

"Oh most reverend brotherhood. We strive through this vale of tears nearing the end of existence at all times. Our dearly departed remind us of the joy that is life, the sadness that is loss, and the glory that is remembrance. We hallow our sacred bretheren who have gone before. We hallow their ways, their works and their times, and bring to mind the sorrow and fulfillment that awaits us all."

Head still bowed, Will leaned to Laura, "Nice dinner conversation." Laura silenced him with a look.

As the solemn remembrance concluded, the reverend officers took their seats at the head table elevated at the end of the hall. Will leaned ever so slightly in to Laura.

"Are all Elks meetings this riveting? It's all just a tad more mystical and solemn than I'd expected."

"Well, no. You have to understand, Will, that you are truly out in the sticks. Things tend to get, well, complicated out here. There's not really much to do, so people come up with rituals to fill the time. You're a big-city boy. You wouldn't understand."

Just then, the silence was broken by the entrance of innumerable pink and plump housewives, resplendent in lace aprons and gingham skirts. They swept into the hall, pouring lemonade and distributing baskets of bread. The hospitality committee, Laura explained later. Everybody plays a part.

Dinner followed, an open buffet of nondescript pasta, flavorless marinara studded with ground-beef meatballs, sodden garlic bread and more versions of jello-mold than Will had ever seen before. The two ate cheerily, making small talk with the small-town regulars, expressing all sorts of dismay about the weather and concerns about the way the "country is going to heck in a hand basket."

"It's these kids today," Will nodded sagely to the blue-haired woman to his right. "What with all these modern conveniences, the cell phones and the home pcs, and the microwave ovens, and the hoola-hoops, they just don't know about respect for God and country!" he ended dramatically, banging his fist on the table.

His companion, completely charmed, patted his arm and nodded in agreement. "It was so different when I was a girl. We knew what was WHAT!" She leaned to Laura. "He's a fine young man, my dear," she whispered, conspiratorially. "You made a good choice."

"No, Mrs. Peterson," Laura started, "It's not that . . . "

"Attention!" A voice boomed over the loudspeaker, and the whine of feedback filled the hall. Laura winced and gave up on her explanation.

Wally Horst, Exalted Ruler and all-around good guy, stood by the mike. Having doffed his ceremonial robes, he stood before them as a slightly stooped, good-humored looking man in his sixties. A shock of white hair and bushy eyebrows crowned sparkling blue eyes. He smiled and raised his hands.

"Sorry about that! Guess I don't know my own strength!" He chuckled at his own joke, and was joined by the crowd.

"I wanted to thank you all for coming tonight. We raised a lot of money! I know we asked a little more than we usually do, but I think you'll all agree, the cause was special."

Nodded affirmations all around, chattered approval. Will furrowed his brow questioningly at Laura; she answered noiselessly with a slight shrug.

"But you know how it is. Young folks sometimes need a hand, and if they can't count on their friends and neighbors to give it, well then, where can they turn? And I think we'd all agree, we've all been blessed. It's been a good year, so we should spread it around a little!"

Thunderous applause in agreement, punctuated by the odd "You said it, Wally" and "Here, here!"

"So I think we've kept the kids in suspense long enough. Let's bring them up here, shall we?"

There was an explosion of affirmation as Will and Laura were pulled to the podium. Laura, in wonderment, looked from face to face as she moved through the room, buoyed on a wave of approving pats and smiling nods. Mrs. Hoyt, her third grade teacher. Milt Walczak, proprietor of the Sunshine Five & Dime. Bobbie Freilich, her former girl scout leader. The little town she had longed to escape suddenly seemed so warm, so welcoming.

Wally turned to Laura as she reached the podium. He beamed at her. "Well, Miss Laura, we're really proud of you. You moved to the big city and made a success of yourself. It takes a lot of gumption to leave your hometown, where you know everybody, and where you could stay all your life if you wanted to. But you're making your mark on the world, and we're all real, real proud. Our little hometown girl."

Laura smiled, uncertainly, and muttered incoherent thanks.

Taking that as a cue to continue, Wally took the mike again. "We all know you ran into trouble awhile back, and we want to get you back on track, so we've all pitched in." He signaled to Art Schneider, Grand Imperial Treasurer, who shuffled forward, envelope in hand.

Wally turned to the crowd. "$25 a plate. That sure do add up, don't it?" he drawled, cueing the crowd to a burst of applause. "200 folks, at $25 a pop - that makes a grand total of," he pulled a check from the envelope, "$5,000 dollars! Not as much as we'd like you to have, but it's from the heart."

Laura was speechless. She turned to Will and noticed tears in his eyes. He always was a sucker for sentiment, but there was something so simple, so sincere, about these hometown efforts that made Laura, who never cried, tear up herself.

She turned back to Wally, and hugged him. "I don't know what to say," she managed to croak. "You're all so wonderful. Thank you." Then she had to stop.

"It's just like the ending of It's a Wonderful Life!" Will beamed.

And now they were speeding away from her little hometown in the finest vehicle their Elks-gotten cash could buy. They plunked down $3,000 for the truck, saving $2,000 for emergencies.

Will continued his warbling:

Down in the jungle lived a maid
Of royal blood and dusky shade.
A marked impression once she made
Upon a Zulu
From Matabulu . . .

Laura shook her head. Will was a mystery to her. Such a paradox: a big-city boy who mocked her small town roots, but who bought into the cheesiest of American-heartland smarm. But he was good to have along, a nice buoyant tonic to her more brooding nature. A good counterpoint.

But Will had his own mysterious depths, for all his sunny moods. He brooded on former wrongs, and clung to slights, real or imagined. And then there was his odd prescience. Will always seemed to know where to be at precisely the right time. She never met anyone who planned less in his life and who nonetheless seemed to be following some predetermined script. It was as if some unseen hand guided his actions, despite his own rather feckless manner.

That made Laura think - maybe it was time to bring up a topic Will had been dodging since Chicago. The tarot card reading. Will had always dabbled in prognostication. It was one of his many dramatic pastimes. "I'm almost psychic," he frequently bragged, "A palm-reader told me!"

But Laura had often noticed that it was precisely when Will wasn't trying to be psychic that he displayed all the signs of mysterious powers. His tarot card readings were highly wrought, incredibly entertaining performances. They followed a set, conventional pattern, and generally served as a conduit for Will's very conscious notion of what his subject was really about. The themes he alluded to when constructing his readings stuck to two main themes: male subjects were 'awakening to hidden longings' (they were - despite their supposed orientation - really gay); female subjects needed to 'leave the garden' (get laid). There were specialized variations, depending upon the particular subject and circumstances, but most readings tended toward one of these two conclusions.

But occasionally, when playing the gypsy fortune-teller, Will tripped into a different sphere. No longer the engaging, gregarious self-proclaimed psychic "Madame Sosostris" (as he preferred to be called during his readings), Will would slip into a trance-like state. His eyes would glaze as he seemed to see past the room containing him, into depths unimagined by his audience.

This was what had happened that strange first night in Chicago. Laura had only occasionally seen that sort of thing happen before. Once, with herself, and once, with David Nimoy. In each instance, Will refused to speak of the reading afterward. Laura was generally sensitive to Will's peculiarities. She wasn't one to press for details, and took his reticence to heart: if he didn't wish to speak of the reading, she would not force him. But this time was different. She felt a certain urgency remaining, even so long removed from that chilly November evening. Will's reading was so unaccountable, and so vivid - she felt compelled to pursue it.

"Will," she broached the topic gingerly, "Have you heard from the girls in Chicago lately?"

"Yes I talked to them before we left your folks'. Faye said her Aunt and Uncle were all primed and ready to go. They'll meet us in Beaver Creek and let us know where we're supposed to go next. All set!"

"Good." She paused. "That was certainly nice of them to let us stay with us. We should do something nice for them." Another pause. "Of course, you did read their cards. I guess that's something." She glanced surreptitiously to him, barely turning her head. No change on his face.

She tried again. "I thought my reading was really interesting, didn't you?"

"I don't really remember." Will wouldn't look at her. "Hey, look! A Dairy Queen coming up! We should stop and get frosties!"

Laura's eyes narrowed to slits. What was he hiding? She decided it was time for the direct approach.

"Will, exactly what do you remember from my reading?"

A long pause. "Actually . . . I'm not sure. I don't remember the room, or the amount of time it took. I remember the sensation of floating, and even . . . of soaring. It was really strange."

"You said something about a woman set apart. And a man with a sword. What did that mean?"

Unexpectedly, Will pulled off the road. Flat dirt farmland surrounded them, fields laying fallow. As the car slid to a stop, Will reached forward and snapped off the cassette.

"That reading was weird," he said flatly, a look of indistinct fear in this eye. "It was like I wasn't really present, like I was only a . . . a conduit."

"What do you mean?"

"I wish I knew." Will took off his cowboy hat. "Occasionally I've felt something like that. Very odd and mysterious, like my body is being commandeered. I usually like it," he said with a slightly lascivious grin, a brief reminder of the old, familiar Will. "But this was completely different. It was multi-layered and multi-textured. It pointed forward and back at the same time. Like an eternal present."

Laura was taken aback. Multi-textured? Eternal present? This did not sound like Will.

"Laura."

Will's voice was flat and rough.

"Laura."

His eyes stared straight ahead, unseeing.

"I must protect you. It is hard to reach you. The words I need . . . the names I could name . . . they escape me. Too long from the earth. To return is to learn again the words, the places the actions. It is easier to speak of symbols and signs. The old, familiar legend. Overarching patterns and archetypes."

"Will . . . ?"

His hand shot up in response. "Will can help you. Follow him. He may seem the fool. But follow him. Even if he steps off into air, with nothing surrounding."

"Your garden has been safe, secure, and sound. But it has been the garden of ignorance. You will be thrust from the garden; you will eat the bitter fruits of knowledge. All will be changed, but better to suffer the rape of knowledge and leave the garden sorrowing and naked than remain in shallow ignorance.

"Your garden is a maze of ignorance. Not one thing is as it seems. Opposites reverse, turning back on themselves.

"Nemesis dwells there, a Tiresias-form. Do not trust to find the essence, peeling back the layers of disguise.

"Persephone was trapped. A double-rape. Rapt down to the underworld and to another realm. Each escape a new imprisonment.

"To leave behind a daughter - the saddest. Stolen from the underworld, first brought to light mountain-high. Then return to fiery depths.

"Beware Tiresias."

Laura was about to question when Will's head suddenly slumped forward. Laura caught him as he slouched toward the steering wheel.

"Will!" She shook him.

Slowly, gradually, he lifted his head. His eyes, wide open, were slightly dazed. An odd half-smile flickered on his lips.

"Well, that was novel." He settled back in his seat, smiling abstractedly.

"What was that?" Laura demanded.

"She was in me. She took over, but I was with her. I knew that I was still in this truck, by this field, but at the same time, she was walking alongside me. We were in a golden valey, walking by a river. She was explaining it all to me. That I am a conduit. I am her means to you. That I should let her in, and that she would try to repair that past through me."

"Who?"

"Your mother."

You are visitor #

This page hosted by Get your own Free Home Page