The Drowned Forest (16 page)

Twenty-three

I’m going home. I want to be clean and wearing my own clothes, without bags under my eyes. I’ll settle for being clean.

I gobble some Tylenol and step into the shower. My knee hurts too much to stand, though, so I ease down to the tub floor and inspect the curved cut under the pelting water, then clean away the worst of the dirt and dried blood.

You’re already with your family—your mom and dad and grandparents met you on that distant shore. That makes me happy while I work clumps of mud out of my hair.

It’s Sunday morning and almost time for church, but LeighAnn wants to cook me and Tyler breakfast before we leave. It’s the first time she’s offered to cook anything, so I let her. While the sausage sizzles in the pan, I hand the Dreadnought to Tyler. “Here. You should have this.”

He takes it reverently. “Thanks. I—I’ll take good care of it. Get Dad to built a display cabinet or some—”

“What? No.” I snatch the guitar back. “It doesn’t belong in a case. It belongs onstage, Tyler.”

“But it belonged to Johnny Cash.” Then, in a softer voice, “Holly used to play it.”

“Exactly. It’s too valuable not to be played. That mojo needs to be heard. So either you promise to play it—often, and where people can hear—or I’ll keep it and start my own band.”

“You know, like, one and a half songs.”

“And I will play the heck out of those one and a half songs.”

Tyler sighs, then glances around sheepishly at Stratofortress. “So, do you think maybe you could give me one more shot at joining the band?”

Stratofortress looks at one another. LeighAnn says, “Well, we’re doing Dave’s house show again this year, aren’t we?”

Max nods.

Ultimate Steve speaks up. “Come on, guys. If he can keep his cool playing for a ghost, he deserves another shot.”

Max nods some more. “Sure, big guy. We can give you another shot.”

Tyler’s too exhausted to get excited, but he grins and bumps Max’s fist. “Thanks, guys.”

We eat our breakfast, and then it’s time for me and Tyler to go. I hug everybody goodbye, all of them all at once. LeighAnn tells me to come back any time I want to jam.

I sniffle. “Thanks. Thank you for everything.” I limp out to Tyler’s truck and won’t let him help me into the passenger seat.

Driving to the church, he asks, “So, think your folks will be mad? You going to be in trouble?”

“If I am, I’ll manage. I’ve managed worse.”

We pass by the dam. There are already fishing boats out there, lines sinking down into the drowned forest. The church parking lot is full, but Tyler finds a spot. The buildings look exactly the same except thinner somehow, smaller. But church isn’t a building, is it, Holly? All our time lost in the wilderness, God never left us. He sent helpers, but I called them herpes sponges. The way home was in front of me the whole time—plain as the interstate—but I had to become somebody new before I could see it.

Unbuckling my seat belt, I say, “Maybe you shouldn’t come in with me. If they figure out you knew where I was the whole time—”

“I don’t care. I want to go in with you.”

Sometimes, with some people, there’s no reason to act brave. “Thanks.”

I make it up the steps and open the door. Deacon Colefield is holding a stack of church bulletins. “Good morn … ” His fixed grin slides down. “Jane?”

“Hello, Mr. Colefield. Good morning.” I limp past him before he asks where I’ve been.

The congregation sings “All The Way My Savior Leads Me.” I limp up the side aisle, and only a few people bother to glance around. Pastor Wesley sees me. I don’t hate him, Holly, even though I thought I did. It’s not his fault he doesn’t know how deep the river’s mojo really runs or how big God really is. I give him my best Ultimate Steve sneering smile, and for just a moment he falters, the song rolling along without him.

Then Yuri turns. Those chocolate-brown eyes that see ev
erything watch me calmly, like he’s been expecting me.

“Hey, pal,” I whisper. Then Tim shouts my name, diving toward me. The whole family spills out of the pew, talking over one another. Mom starts crying. They all touch me, grab ahold of me, afraid I might disappear again.

Epilogue

The woman bursts from the water, a halo of droplets winking in the sun. She wobbles backward, and the deacon steadies her. Her skin is shiny, pearly pink. Her expression is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

The deacon helps her to the shore and into her husband’s arms. They hug while Pastor Wesley beckons the next white-robed woman into the river. His shirt darkens with water. Her mouth opens wide in a sob or laugh. Rivercall becomes just the two of them, too intimate to watch.

I focus on the steel strings thundering under my fingers, the swell and smash of the familiar song.

“
… down by the riverside, down by the riverside. I’m gonna put on my long white robe, down by the riverside …
”

I borrowed Tyler’s Vox amp, just for today. It sounds so delicious, Holly. I add a fast lick heading into the bridge. Risking a little pride, I glance up to see if Max noticed. He and LeighAnn sing and clap along in time. Max gives me a quick thumbs-up.

One by one, the converts slip underwater, vanish into the silence and chill of death for just a moment. Then they emerge, one by one, brilliant and new.

By the end, I’m slippery with sweat. Pastor Wesley leads a quick prayer and thanks the Ladies’ Auxiliary for helping out. When he says my name, everybody cheers. I don’t know how to deal with that, so I grin and wave, then act busy winding up cords.

The congregation heads toward the picnic tables, piling plates with chicken and potato salad and steaming ears of sweet corn. Max and LeighAnn come to help me load gear back into the church van.

“Pretty good, Jane.”

“Thanks.”

“C’mon. Let’s see.” LeighAnn holds her hand up, and I press mine against hers. A year’s worth of playing has left half-moon callouses on each fingertip, as shiny as the Cheshire Cat’s grin, as beautiful as battle scars.

Has it really been a year since I ran away, Holly? My family still doesn’t know what happened, just that I emerged a week later, filthy, cut up, and wanting a guitar. I wish I could tell them. I wish they’d believe me. For now, though, it will remain a wedge of silence between us.

At least they didn’t punish me or anything. They made me see Dr. Haq once a week, and he made me sign that “no harm contract” promising I wouldn’t run away again. After three months, he scribbled on a prescription sheet and handed it to Mom.
Buy her a guitar. Give her time to play every day.

We went downtown, and I picked out my guitar—the same silver-haunted green as the river. After that, I was officially cured.

Well, I still talk to you every day, so I’m probably still a tiny bit nuts. I just don’t think there’s much helping it.

And I rarely feel God’s presence like I did before, when we were kids. I still pray every day, but I can count on one hand the times I’ve felt consumed with His love. I don’t think there’s any helping that either. It’s part of growing up, Holly. We get older, and God makes us search Him out more and more. It’s up to us to find His image in a band of struggling rockers, His voice in an autumn-crisp A-minor chord.

Lifting the Vox into the van with LeighAnn, I grunt, “How’s Ultimate? I meant to call him yesterday.”

“Acting like a big baby. His foot’s mostly healed, but he lies around playing video games and begging me to make him sandwiches.”

“You know, after cutting off a finger, you think he’d be more careful.”

“Guy suffers for his art.” Panting, LeighAnn slumps against the middle seat. “Roadie work is a heck of a lot harder in pumps.”

“Yeah.”

“Also, when you can’t cuss.”

I snicker. LeighAnn just popped up one Sunday at church, Holly. I felt a tap on my shoulder, and there she was, grinning behind her huge Jackie O hangover glasses. She sat with Tyler and slipped out as soon as service ended. The week after that, her and Max both came.

Now they come most Sundays, usually straight from wherever they spent Saturday night, singing praise, stinking of beer and stale cigarette smoke. Neither of them has decided to get baptized yet, and Max says he just likes the music. But I keep praying maybe their wandering is coming to an end.

Done loading, we get lunch. Holly, can you smell Mrs. Chandler’s chicken? It’s so good, it makes you jealous of the chicken. Here we all are, wandering around, trying to figure out what God wants for us. But the chicken’s purpose in life is so clear—to be soaked in buttermilk and fried up by Mrs. Chandler.

Tyler is talking with Hannah Marie. He tells her his plans now that he’s graduated, and she inspects the silhouette of an airplane tattooed on his inner forearm. When she spots me, she starts hopping in place. “Jane! Oh wow, you were so good!”

“Thanks.”

“I could never stand up there and do something like that. And you did it and didn’t even look nervous.”

“Well … ”

“All right, I’m going to go eat. But hey.” She jabs Tyler in the arm. “You can’t just disappear now you’ve graduated, okay? You better email me sometime.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good. Looking forward to it.”

I get some green beans and don’t say anything until Hannah Marie has bounced off. Then, “You know she likes you, right?”

Tyler scoops the meringue off his lemon meringue pie. “She’s always like that.”

“She’s always like that around
you
.”

He scrunches his forehead at me, glances back at Hannah Marie.

“Go invite her to Friday’s gig.”

He stalls a little while longer, then goes to talk to her. After he’s gone, LeighAnn says, “They do look really cute together.”

“Sure. Plus, you see how chatty she is. If she likes Stratofortress, she’ll tell everybody. That word-of-mouth is what you guys need to start drawing big crowds.”

“It really scares me how under all the Sesame Street stuff, you have the heart of a record exec.”

We sit on the rocks by the shore, balancing our plates in our laps. We eat our chicken and joke around. Kicking my sandals off, I stir my toes through the cool water. I wish for the millionth time that you could have known these guys, Holly. And I wish you could have known me, too, the person I’ve become and all the songs I’m learning to play.

I miss you, Holly, and I’ll love you forever. But death can’t stop life. Even when something sinks down to the drowned forest, something new will always emerge from the shimmering, restless river.

Photo by JJ MacCrimmon Photography

About the Author

Kristopher Reisz grew up in Alabama surrounded by old music and deep wildernesses ripe for exploring. While learning to write he worked as a paramedic, a third-shift short-
order cook, and in a mental hospital. He’s written two previ
ous books, a bunch of short stories, and currently lives beside a slow-moving river.