The Jesus Cow (19 page)

I bet he did.

I
t was the Fourth of July, and Jamboree Days was in full swing. As part of an agreement with the village, the entire Jesus Cow operation was shut down for the duration of the celebration, and the LED wraparound on the water tower and the barn illumination were all switched off for the first time in months. Harley stood alone in the dark, head rolled back on his shoulders, contemplating the ponderous black bulk of the tower. Far above, almost straight up, at the very dome of the tower, Harley could see the flag of the United States of America. Lit by one bright white light, the flag shifted like an uncomfortable grade-schooler caught in the spotlight during a recital, not so much unfurling or waving as fidgeting in the glare.

The flag had been Sloan's idea. When the new water tower went up, the VFW had moved the village flag with it. Apart from celebrating the Fourth, Sloan felt that raising a flag atop the old water tower again would bolster the image of JCOW Enterprises
and help diminish some of the criticism it had been weathering lately.

Initially, Sloan contacted the local VFW to arrange the flag-raising, but when they showed up and asked Carolyn to unlock the gate so they could figure out how to access the pole, which was mounted at the very peak of the tower beside the vent cap, she refused, at which point Snook Hustis accused her of being un-American.

“I am no such thing,” retorted Carolyn. “In fact, I'll run up that flag myself. I don't object to the flag, I object to the invasion of my privacy on
behalf
of the flag.” As when faced with the mounting of the LED sign, she also made vague reference to landmark preservation statutes. In conclusion, she recited three verses of a Wendell Berry poem. No one at the VFW was interested in continuing the debate, and Carolyn—who didn't want anyone within forty feet of that vent cap—was true to her word, scaling the tower with a fresh flag and lanyard. While she was up there, she surreptitiously pried open the vent cap and snuck a look. Everything was in order, the PVC “T” straddling the overflow tube and showing no sign of cracking or breakdown. She returned to the ground very pleased with herself. In fact, halfway down the ladder it struck her that should the need arise, she could now climb the water tower at any time on the pretense of tending the flag.

Harley was aware that Sloan's motivations were less than patriotic, but he was still happy to see the red, white, and blue flying above his buildings again. Harley figured he was a low-key patriot. Residual of his father's admonishments regarding pridefulness he never cared for the
PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN
bumper stickers, but he was certainly
grateful
to be an American.

He had the place to himself tonight, with the exception of a small detachment of security guards on duty to redirect those pilgrims who arrived unaware of the shutdown. More than one set of those saw the bright lights of the softball field and rather than genuflecting before a holy calf, wound up in the beer tent. Harley's father and mother had donated the land for the park, and used to enjoy watching the softball games from their porch. The view was still available, but was latticed by the new security fence running the perimeter of Harley's property.

It had been a helluva year, he thought as he stood watching his neighbors at play and the sounds of celebration floated his way: the drum-thump of the cover band, the drunken
woo-hoos
, the calls of encouragement from the stands, the “hey-battah-battah” the “ducks on the pond,” the aluminum plink of the bat connecting with the ball, and the beery cheers for the occasional close play. Someone jacked a home run and Chief Knutson, manning the PA system, bellowed “TOUCH 'EM ALL, WARTHOG!” Clouds of moths whirled through the light banks, and the whole scene was lit so beautifully, so greenly, it was simply lovely.

Harley looked back at the old tower now and thought of all the Jamboree Days it had presided over since it was raised in the 1950s, and his ever-burbling sentimentality kicked in. He felt himself longing for a time he never knew, that futile sweetness of the deep yearn. He wondered for a moment if this was why all his relationships wrecked; perhaps he was better at longing than
be
longing.

This train of thought led him to consider the state of his life only seven months ago, how it compared with the present. Everything a guy might dream of in the bank account, but his heart and—by all standard measures—his soul overdrawn. He suddenly found
himself resenting the villagers on the other side of the fence. It struck him that while people from all over the world had come to see that calf, most of the interest from his fellow hometown citizens was limited to how they might peel off a few bucks for themselves and, failing that, how to shut the whole works down. He looked over at the park again, and instead of a small-town celebration, he saw a drunken family reunion of vaguely irritating in-laws.

Those people
, thought Harley, even as he recoiled at the phrase.
Those people care more about fireworks, softball, and beer than a vision of the Christ they claim to follow. Take a poll and they'll rate themselves 97 percent Christian. But how many of them actually show up for church on Sunday? And of those who do, how many of them really mean it? How many trouble themselves with any thought of why they're even in the pews? Jesus Cow? For most a' them, it ain't nothin' but Harley Jackson's weird damn steer.

He heard the first of the fireworks go then, the first pop and bang. The band stopped playing, and the crowd went quiet as they turned to watch. Someone killed all but a single softball light, and Harley could see everyone standing in shadow, beers in hand, the ballplayers with their fingers hooked in the backstop fence, batting gloves hanging off their butts as they spit and gazed at the sky. At first there was just a boom or two, a flower and a flare. Some nice rooster tails, some silver bursts, a green spatter. Then came the first fine, orange slips of light as the larger charges rose, followed by the concussive
whomp
and blistering sizzle as the coppery sparks strewed themselves against the black. Scooter Eckstrom had never before operated with a budget that allowed him such pyrotechnic power and was in his glory, running from spot to spot in a crouch, punk stick in hand, touching off fuses in no apparent order
and reveling in the
oooh
s and
aaah
s that followed. It was in this spirit of undertrained enthusiasm that he prematurely lit the
100-SHOT FAST-FINALE-IN-A-BOX INCLUDING 20 TITANIUM-SALUTE ENDING
, which in his haste he had placed at a bit of an angle atop a molehill, thus releasing a stroboscopic thunderstorm on a trajectory just clearing Harley Jackson's farmhouse.
Those are coming in kinda low
, thought Harley as sparks and ash dropped around him, and he caught the scent of burned powder.

IT'S TOUGH TO
maintain an existential grump beneath a skyful of fireworks, and Harley was back to enjoying them like everyone else when he noticed a flicker atop the water tower. A small, wavering orange flame was showing at the cap.

At first Harley was dumbfounded. Flames? Shooting out of a water tower? Then he saw a rectangle of light as Carolyn Sawchuck threw open the door of the pump house. Framed in the light, she tipped her head back. The flame was stiffening and straightening, like a horsetail blown by the wind.

Oh my God!
thought Carolyn, irrespective of her disbelief.
The vent cap! The day I put the flag up. I never shut the vent cap!

She dashed back inside. Fueled by volatile fumes, the flame was now about ten feet tall and issuing a jetting sound audible between the screech and thud of the fireworks. From over on the softball field Harley heard a murmur as people began to notice the flame. Harley was reaching for his phone to dial 911 when he heard pagers going off all over the Jamboree Days grounds. Carolyn must have beat him to it.

Harley knew the volunteers would be running for the trucks parked around the edges of the softball field, as they always were
during Jamboree Days. Sprinting to the nearest security fence gate, Harley punched in the combination and threw it open. Chief Knutson roared through on the Argo, lights flashing, siren screaming, all the trucks following him.

The fireworks had ceased. Through the open gate Harley could see that everyone was standing agape, staring at the water tower. The hiss of the flame was now a roar, and the cap of the water tower was beginning to glow. The American flag was aflame.

“BLEVVY!!!!” hollered the chief. “She's gonna BLEVVY!!!!”

Carolyn
, thought Harley.

KLUTE SORENSEN WAS
parked in the darkest corner of Clover Blossom Estates.

It was over. He had seen the paperwork, and within the week, Clover Blossom Estates would belong to Solid Savings Bank. He thought of his father and his grandfather before him, and his great-grandfather before him, and the big hulking mill that still stood where they built it, and then he looked at the sad distribution of houses dotting the mostly empty lots, and he felt generations of disapproval pressing down on him. Every effort to provide parking, lodging, or transportation for the Jesus Cow tourists had failed. Each time Vance filed the paperwork, it was rejected on some obscure technicality. And how ashamed his immediate paternal ancestors would have been about the giant food pantry check: When that one bounced, Klute knew there was no pulling this thing from the fire. You can't hide when you bounce a four-by-six-foot check.

The giant house too would soon be gone. Bankruptcy laws would allow him to keep it, but he couldn't imagine living there anymore.
The very size of it was a monument—a hollow, unfurnished,
empty
monument—to the scope of his failure.

And Mary Magdalene Jankowski? He'd never know. In the face of all his failure, he simply couldn't face her now. Of all Klute's grand goals, his attempt to court Meg was the first to grow directly from his heart. He had no idea what to do with the remaining ache.

He started the Hummer. That too was bound for the bank. He figured he'd be driving some miniature tin can on wheels soon, so he might as well enjoy it. He turned the key. His old favorite,
Set Sale!,
came through the speakers, but he couldn't face the upbeat hoo-hah and switched it off.

He pulled out of Clover Blossom Estates and headed for the overpass. Across the interstate fireworks splashed across the sky. Klute thought of all the people laughing and drinking and enjoying the show and realized . . . he wouldn't even know how to act with those people if he didn't have his Hummer and his big ideas to hide behind.

He was about to enter the on-ramp when he saw another light, bigger than any fireworks, and pulsing against the near horizon above Harley Jackson's place. And then, a ball of fire, rolling to the sky.

He accelerated past the on-ramp and across the overpass toward Main Street.

“SHE'S GONNA BLEVVY!!!!”
hollered the chief again.

And it did.

From Harley's perspective, the explosion was apocalyptic. A ball of flame rolled upward, spinning into the night sky, illuminating everything all around. The water tower peeled open like a soda can blown up by teenage boys with a cherry bomb. For a split second
the scrolling LED sign relit at
SEE THE JESUS
then melted into darkness. As the first flame ball expired, a second belched skyward, and now gouts of liquid fire were pouring from the tower, splashing to the ground, raining down on Carolyn's Subaru, and flowing downhill toward Harley's buildings. Harley saw Carolyn appear at the door of the pump house again, then yank it shut, unable to get past her burning car, let alone unlock the gate. Harley screamed at the firefighters running all around him, trying to get their attention, but no one seemed to hear him.
I'll have to get her myself
, he thought, and ran to the nearest fire truck, where he grabbed a helmet and spare jacket.

CAROLYN WAS PREPARED
to die. Not
ready
to die, not
wanting
to die, but in the moment it took to see that her only exit was blocked by her flaming Subaru, she was surprised at the calmness with which she accepted the fact that this was it.
Brought it on myself
, she thought.
Always trying to save the world, but really trying to save my pride.
She looked across the room at her short stack of books, soon to be nothing but ash.
How little we—

She never got to complete the thought, because outside there was a mighty sound of squealing wire and rending steel followed by a horrific crash, the sound of twin air horns, and a man's voice, hollering.

“CAROLYN! RUN! NOW! RUN!”

Carolyn cracked the pump house door. Klute Sorensen was in his Hummer, gesturing wildly through the passenger door, which he had flung open. The chain-link fence was draped over his windshield and her crumpled Subaru was wedged and flaming in the bars of his chromium-plated brush buster.

“JUMP IN!” hollered Klute, and Carolyn did. Klute roared through the wall of flame and went skidding up to the nearest pumper, where Swivel's finest buried the Subaru, the Hummer, and, for that matter, the heretofore unfriendly couple in a mountain of fire-retardant foam.

THE SWIVEL VOLUNTEER
Fire Department had not retreated. Under Chief Knutson's direction, one team had hosed down Harley's house and the JCOW command center with foam. Another team lay down swathes of the foam on the ground between the buildings to serve as a buffer. But there was no arresting the fire itself as it skidded downhill from the water tower in a hellish rolling tide, igniting souvenir booths as it went, leaped the driveway, and splashed against the side of the barn.

Immediately, flames fingered their way up the siding, and in moments the barn was ablaze. Nearly unnoticed, one thin rivulet split off from the main to follow one of the channels worn in the gravel driveway over the years. In a flickering trickle, it meandered its way out to the road, where it came to a storm drain and flowed out of sight. Shortly thereafter Main Street exploded, splitting right down the middle, unzipping the asphalt all the way to the Buck Rub Bar. Barney Parsons would later say the force of the explosion lifted him right off the men's room toilet, causing him to spill his beer.