A Thousand Miles from Nowhere (23 page)

He didn't understand. He hadn't been listening. He'd been attending to his own thoughts, to the clamor inside his head, the cacophony: Tomas Otxoa through the cracked window; his father playing the bass; the parking lot's fluorescent light flickering; the carpet's dark paisley design; Father Ferguson and cherry pipe smoke, the
rat-tat-tat
on the desk and his mother, in bed, paint-smeared; the scent of liniment, of linseed, of lilac.

Lilac. In Latin,
Syringa vulgaris.
Where, from whom, would he have learned such a thing? From Amy? One of her books?

“What?” he said. “I'm sorry. I was lost. Could you please start again?”

And so she did start again. She told him everything she'd already said—that Mohit's brother had followed the path that Mohit had forsaken. Iri was a physician, a neonatologist, one who cared for tiny babies in a Calcutta hospital, and he had a year ago been widowed and they, she and Iri, had seen one another at Mohit's funeral and then again at his daughter's wedding in Toronto, just three months ago, and he had made his proposition then and she had considered and considered it, had read and read Mohit's poem for the wisdom it might offer—Mohit, who had loved and respected his brother Iri, who had of course loved and respected her, who would have told her, she now believed, that it was good and just and proper that she should be cared for by his brother, by blood of his blood, and that this union would be one of mournful joy, for his brother and his wife to share their loss and make this new life together.

Henry placed his hands over Latangi's hands.

“Thank you, Mr. Henry,” she said. “Thank you. You cannot know this, but it is your presence here, your recognition of Mohit's wisdom in his poems, that has enabled me to feel certain in this decision. Thank you. Yes, thank you.”

She lowered her head and began weeping, and Henry moved closer so that she could lean forward and place her head on his shoulder, so he might offer to her whatever little comfort he could simply by being there beside her. He continued to hold her hands in his own. He remembered the henna, the faint traces she'd had on her hands when he'd met her. Would they be painted again when she married?

“When?” he asked her, and she understood.

“Soon,” she said. “Soon.” And she rested her head against Henry's, her forehead against his cheek.

Back in his room he lay down, shut his eyes against the morning light. He must get to New Orleans, try to save Tomas Otxoa. But Latangi was leaving.
Soon,
she'd said. He would have nowhere to live, nowhere to which he might return. He had no car, no money. And Amy was certain again that he had lost his mind, and she wasn't wrong, was she?
Soon, soon
. How could he save Tomas when he could not save himself, when he could not offer Tomas or Amy or Mrs. Hughes or her grandson Katrell or her grandson with the withered arm—what was his name? He couldn't remember—he could not offer a single other person a moment's solace or comfort? Though he had at least offered some small morsel of it to Latangi, her head on his shoulder, weeping for all she had lost though she whispered to him that she was not sorrowful, she was not.
This Virginia,
she had said,
this Ganesha
—and she had wept and wept and finally raised her head, dried her eyes, and said,
Yes, this Ganesha Motel. What do I know of such things?

The Ganesha Motel,
Henry had said, nodding.

Let it be so for its final days,
she had said, nodding with him.

He had comforted her, assured her that he would help however he could help. He did not tell her, though, that he, too, was leaving, that he must leave. He had meant to tell her, to say that he had seen a man who needed rescuing and that he knew no one else who could do it, who would even believe that he had seen what he'd seen and what it might mean: the manuscript, another manuscript perhaps like Mohit's, there in New Orleans, in all the wreck and ruin. A story's greatness, Mohit had asserted, was measured by how much the earth shook by its very presence. What did it mean that the earth seemed to shake and shake, to be opening now beneath his feet, as it must have opened beneath Mohit's as he wrote his great work, as it must have opened beneath Tomas's, this brave and desperate man clutching those pages to his chest?

Even if he was wrong, didn't he need to try to save this one man, though he could not save even himself?

Didn't he need to do this, at least this?

Well?

Yes.

HERE HE
was. Let the soft eyes open.

It had taken nearly a week but here he was, in Marge's red convertible, her candy-red baby, and Marge there with him, behind the wheel, the two of them flying down Interstate 81, the top down, and with them, in the backseat, wind in his face, eyes wide at the wonder, Katrell Sparrow. Wasn't that the earth opening now before them? Wasn't it opening now like the newest flower?

Here they were.

Let the soft eyes open,
he heard in his head. Were these Mohit's words? No, from another poet, from a poem he'd taught his students—forever ago.
If they have lived in a wood, it is a wood.
He let the words come.
If they have lived on plains, it is grass rolling under their feet forever.

And the highway rolled by beneath them.

He was tired of resisting. Let the words come, the images. Let sound and music, clamor and clatter. Anything. The thump of the bass, his father's callused fingers; Mary singing to little children, her hips shimmying; Amy, in the kitchen, laughing, stirring, spoons clanging, a dozen different scents: rosemary, basil, garlic, onion, thyme.
Sit at His
feet and be blessed. Make a way out of no way.
He would welcome all of it, see it all as wonder. If he had managed all of this, wasn't anything possible?

Ulysses. Ishmael. Don Quixote. Gilgamesh. Lawrence of Arabia. The dogs and cat in that children's movie,
The Incredible Journey.
All the same story. There wasn't any other.

First had been Marge. She had wanted the chance to see it for herself. She wanted to get the word back to her congregation, see it firsthand and report on what they could do, why their help was so desperately needed, not just for Henry's sake now, she'd tell them, but for any and all others—
any and all others
—who found themselves in dire need, who found themselves lost or alone in this world, forlorn or forsaken.

Charlie had needed some convincing, Marge told Henry. He'd needed assurances she wasn't running off with a younger man—
Oh, how I wish!
Marge said she'd told him and then laughed her wicked laugh so Charlie would know she was just teasing—and once he'd given the trip his blessing, which meant rolling his eyes and then shaking his head, she'd started gathering contributions from her congregation lickety-split, ten- and twenty- and fifty-dollar bills, rolls of quarters, personal checks, a dozen Sacagawea coins taped to a piece of cardboard, jars of nickels and dimes. And not just from her church but from across the county. She knew
near everybody,
she told Henry. Rusty Campbell had made a gift—“a
significant
one, I'm here to tell you,” she said—and Latangi Chakravarty had as well, and Judge Martin and Sheriff Roland and Wayne and Robert at the Elkwood Salon where she had her hair done every week and each one of the tellers at First Marimore Bank and from plenty of others, regular folks, and she'd given what she could give too.

She'd told everyone—
every last one of them,
she said—that she and Mr. Henry Garrett were going to find someone in need, whether near or far, and make this offering in the name of the good Lord's kindness and generosity and mercy, no matter who it was or where or when, for
whoever you feed or clothe or comfort you do as well unto the Lord.
So Henry should not have been surprised when, instead of heading straight out of town, she'd driven back to the trailer where Mrs. Hughes and her grandson lived and stopped the car and turned to look at Henry.

“Don't you make the same mistake Charlie made when he married me,” she told him.

“And what was that?” Henry said.

“Don't you underestimate me,” she said. She touched a long painted fingernail to her temple. “These wheels just turn and turn and keep on turning.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out a cloth wallet and handed it to Henry. The wallet had a Japanese painting printed on it: a waterfall and rolling hills lined with flowering trees. Inside was all the money she'd raised, converted to hundred-dollar bills.

“There are those, I guess,” she said, looking up at herself in the rearview mirror, “who'd say I deceived them, and I'm prepared to let the Lord be my judge and jury, but I did more than a little thinking since we last came here.” She turned to Henry. “I decided you were right and I was wrong. It's the ones among us, no matter the cause of their suffering, who it's our business to look after first. I know folks meant this money to go to someone in New Orleans, someone hurt from this storm, but I know who I meant it for all along and I said as much, if not directly. It breaks my heart we've got this family—and who knows how many others—living right here in this county in such poverty and despair. And if this has the added bonus of releasing you from one of your own burdens, well, then, that's fine by me. You with me, Mr. Garrett?”

“I am,” Henry said. “I'm with you.” He handed the wallet back to Marge. “Thank you. I can't thank you enough.”

“Let me tell you this just to be sure you understand,” Marge said, putting the wallet in her purse. “I'm having fun, Henry Garrett. There's no two ways about it. I am. This is the mission I feel called to.”

And when they stepped inside the trailer and Marge gave the cloth wallet to Mrs. Hughes, she leaned over and said straight into the old woman's ear to make sure she heard every word of it, “This is from Mr. Garrett, yes. It's about everything he promised. But I want you to know it's from folks across this county as well. We're all sorry for your loss. We are. It's not enough, I know. It can't ever be. But we'd like to offer this as a small comfort.”

Henry watched Mrs. Hughes raise her splotched and skeletal hand and touch Marge's cheek. Her fingers trembled.
“Bring the full tithe into the storehouse,”
she said. She lowered her hand, let it rest against her sunken chest. “You know that verse?”

“I'm afraid I don't recall it just this moment, Mrs. Hughes,” Marge said, and she looked over at Henry.

“I can't remember the whole of it myself,” she said. She raised her hand and reached toward Marge. “But I'm full grateful. May the Lord bless you.”

Marge took the outstretched hand in her own and said, “Now, Mr. Garrett and I are headed to New Orleans, Mrs. Hughes. We're going to look around.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Hughes said, nodding.

“And there's a man there Mr. Garrett hopes to help in his suffering just as he's tried to help you. I'm going to accompany him. And I'm going to keep you and your family in mind and ask the Lord for His blessings upon you. We'll be back, though, and I'll check in on you. You hear me?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Hughes said, nodding again. She pulled at the blanket covering her lap and her missing legs, the cloth wallet resting there. At that moment, Katrell Sparrow stepped into the trailer holding two plastic Food Lion grocery bags. He set them on the folding table, the bags collapsing, items spilling out: milk, apples, a pack of gauze bandages, a loaf of bread, a soda bottle, a frozen pizza. Henry watched as the boy walked over to his grandmother and stood behind her, taking hold of the handles on her wheelchair as though she might want him to steer her somewhere.

“These folks have kindly provided for us,” she said quietly, picking up the cloth wallet, then holding it to her chest.

The boy nodded. “Yes, ma'am,” he said.

“They're headed down to where that storm hit, where so many folks lost their homes.”

“Yes, ma'am,” the boy said again.

“If they'll have you,” she said, “I'd like you to go with them.”

The boy looked at Marge and then at Henry.
Bring the full tithe into the storehouse.
The verse slipped into Henry's head, joined others there:
Except the Lord build the house. They tell me that city is made four-square.

“You hear me?” Mrs. Hughes said.

“Yes, ma'am,” the boy said.

“No, Mrs. Hughes,” Marge said. “We couldn't.”

I'm going to a city that's not made by hand.

“He's had some trouble in school,” Mrs. Hughes said. “I don't believe it's his doing. He says it isn't. But he's had a suspension.”

“We just can't,” Marge said. “We don't even know if they'll allow us into the city. We might drive down and then have to turn right back around.”

Marge again looked over at Henry, cocked her head to signal that he should say something. Why had the clatter started up now, here? Wouldn't it be fine for this boy to go with them?

Katrell stepped forward, around his grandmother's wheelchair. He looked at Marge and then at Henry. “I'd like to go,” he said. “I'd like to go if I could.”

“He might be of some service to you,” Mrs. Hughes said. “He's got a suspension.”

There had been a fig tree in that churchyard, he and Mary playing beneath it while their father was in the church. There was singing inside. He let the singing come to him, tried to remember the hymn being sung. “Ride on, King Jesus.” And there had been a fig tree in Mohit's poem, a great tree offering shade to the lovers in a garden of
siuli
-flowers, jasmines,
jamrul.

“Mr. Garrett?” Marge was saying. “Mr. Garrett?”

Henry closed his eyes, opened them again. He looked at Katrell Sparrow, the boy's lanky limbs, his long neck. Not a sparrow, not a hawk—what? An egret, maybe, or a flamingo. Couldn't they use a companion on this journey? Though he was a child, wouldn't he soon, in the blink of an eye, be a man? Henry thought of the story Rusty Campbell had told him about Marion Hughes, about him losing his father in the fire on the train. Didn't he have something he might offer this boy?

“If you can spare him, Mrs. Hughes,” he said. “If you can spare him, we'd be honored to take him.”

“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Hughes said, nodding, taking hold of the boy's arm. “He's been good to me, a solace. The Lord's blessing.”

“He'd be a blessing to us as well,” Henry said, and he felt himself possessed by this language of belief, comforted by its certainty, its beseeching.
Make a way out of no way. Sit at His feet and be blessed. Expect to be landed upon the shore.

“He'll be fine,” Henry said to Marge.

“You'll care for him,” Mrs. Hughes said.

“He'll be fine,” Henry said again, his voice like a ringing bell sounding out across a wide clear lake. He felt the chill of his fear that he and Marge—and now this boy—would fail.

“He's never been nowhere,” Mrs. Hughes said. “He needs to see what's out there.”

“He'll be fine,” Henry said again, and he turned to Marge, nodded.

Finally, Marge smiled. “All aboard, then, I guess. This train's about to leave the station.”

For the first time, Henry saw the boy smile, saw him proudly pull his shoulders back as if he were a soldier who'd been called to attention.

Marge turned to Katrell. “You have a sleeping bag?” she asked.

“No, ma'am.”

“Well, okay, we'll manage,” she said. “Grab a few changes of clothes. We'll take care of the rest. We'll be gone a few days, a week at most, if—well, I don't know.”

“Yes, ma'am,” the boy said, and he emptied out the two Food Lion bags, walked over to a plastic basket in the corner of the room, pulled clothes from it, and then stuffed them into the grocery bags.

“That's all you need?” Marge said.

“Yes, ma'am.” The boy walked over to his grandmother. “Call Aunt Celee, Mamaw,” he said. “Call Aunt Celee to come on over with Stacey. They can stay with you.”

His grandmother nodded. He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. She waved him away. “Go on,” she said. “Behave yourself.”

Outside, Marge pointed to her car. “You ever had a ride in a convertible?” she asked him.

“No, ma'am,” he said.

“Well, hold on to your hat,” Marge said. “You're about to.”

Henry watched Katrell settle into the backseat, the two plastic bags of clothes perched on his lap. What could he possibly be thinking? He was headed out into the world with two complete strangers, and he didn't seem the least bit worried or afraid. And Henry realized he was the one who felt comforted—by the boy's anticipation, by his faith.

Here they were then, the three of them, the car's top down, the wind in their faces. It was too loud for conversation. He thought about Amy. She'd come to see him again at the Spotlight to return Mohit's manuscript, to tell him that she had read the poem. “Beginning to end,” she'd said. “It's beautiful.”

Yes.
Henry had nodded.
Yes, yes,
elated that he had not been wrong, that she had seen and felt its power.

“You were right,” Amy said. “It's really truly something.”

Henry led her down to Mohit's study. He wanted her to see the space, see and feel how it was like a monk's spartan cell: bare walls, a cot, a lamp, a desk. He carefully placed the manuscript back in the drawer just as Amy began to speak.

“I've got a theory,” she said.

Henry looked at her. He could tell, just by those few words, by her tone, that she'd rehearsed what she wanted to say.

“I was thinking a lot about you as I was reading,” she said. “I think, well, because of your history, because of how you grew up—and maybe it's not just that. Maybe it's something else. Maybe it's just who you are. But I think it's hard for you to navigate your own experience, your own way through things. And something like this—books, stories—they're the way you've always done it. Does that make sense?”

Henry looked at her, waiting, expecting more. This would be it, he figured; this would be how she told him that he'd lost her for good.

“That's all, really,” Amy said. “I think you're forever relying on something else to explain how you're feeling, the way you see things. You've always had trouble saying it for yourself.”