He ignored the pleas of the secretary and stumbled out the door with the keys in his hand. She was about the only one there that early in the morning, and was hardly any match for his huge size, athletic prowess, and the arrogance of privileged birth. Daddy had paid for the four years of college, he had played football well enough to start most games, and graduated with a decent set of honors. By golly, he had earned the right to stay out all night and get drunk. Now with the sun coming up over the truck sales lot, he was going to take the company demo model out for a ride, never mind he had a hard time getting the key in the door lock.
Still, he managed to heave himself unsteadily into the driver's seat and start the motor before the secretary could summon any help. By the time a mechanic came rushing out of the garage, the shiny 1-ton was turning east out of the side entrance to the truck lot. The 12-cylinder diesel motor roared through dual exhausts as the rig sailed out of sight behind the trees.
He loved his dad's showpiece truck. Dad had been awful busy lately, and often asked the young man to drive here or there on some errand, a task he undertook with casual pride. Perhaps there was something in the truck which the boy was trying to use to replace all the time he never got with his dad. He thought of dad as his eyes closed just for a second or so.
At nearly 80mph, he jerked his head up just in time to see was in the wrong lane. Wrestling the wheel to the right, he dropped the passenger side wheels off the pavement before he corrected again back to the left. Twisting around in the seat, he glanced back to see the tracks in the mud, and noticed he had just missed a signpost. Giving an enthusiastic hoot at his good fortune, he faced forward again, but not before drifting one more time into the opposing lane as he entered a sharp curve. His gaze refocused just in time to spot the front of the little station wagon coming at him. Eyes wide in shock, His hands twitched, a futile start at avoiding the collision. His foot just barely lightened on the gas peddle.
Two vehicles impacting head-on at highway speeds make a short, sharp metallic crunch, rather like the sound of sheet metal rattling, but cut off. Only the two drivers heard it, but neither survived to describe it. Nobody at all heard the scraping, skidding, scattering debris except the squirrels and a few birds. One flew over, dipping briefly down through the cloud of steam rising from the twisted wreckage of the big diesel.
Some minutes later, the scattered bits of plastic from body trim parts were all the warning the old farmer had as his pickup labored up the hill, pulling a loaded stock trailer. Already going rather slow, it wasn't hard to stop in the curve at the top of the hill before complicating things by hitting the big mess in the middle of the road. Rolling back down the hill a bit, he turned on his emergency flashers to warn drivers approaching the way he came. Then he jumped out and began running past the mess to begin flagging traffic coming from town, just audible in the distance. He figured, while the two unlucky drivers might be still alive, just barely, the greatest threat was more vehicles hitting what was left of those two.
The driver of the first car the old farmer stopped set his own vehicle with emergency flashers blinking as a road block, then wisely got out of the car. He stood a few yards away as he called 911, watching as the old farmer began calling out in the direction of the tangled mass to see if anyone responded. He found it very discouraging to see blood from both wrecks was running together.
It was opening time, and Saturday was always busy. Only by chance did the owner of the truck dealership glance out the front window of the showroom on his way to the steps leading up to his office. The officer getting out of the police car was his old buddy from way back in grade school. Indeed, even their sons were good friends, having gone to college and played football together. The boys had just graduated mid-week, and both had met at the starting quarterback's apartment for a party last night. Had his boy gotten into trouble?
There didn't seem to be anyone in the back seat, unless they were lying down, maybe sleeping it off. He waited at the bottom of the steps. His buddy had risen to the rank of patrol operations supervisor, but wore such a plain and undecorated uniform. Real men didn't need a bunch of shiny brass bits to know who they were. Both men had aged with such values. However, as he drew closer, the owner realized the look on his buddy's face was completely foreign. It was cold, impersonal, the kind of face you wore when you were dying inside and couldn't let anyone know.
"Are the boys okay this morning?" he asked the officer.
"Let's go upstairs to your office." The reply was stiff, though not formal. Must be pretty serious trouble. What would his son cost him today?
He didn't care about the fancy 1-ton. As the most expensive rig on the lot, he would have given up a dozen before lunch if it could bring his son back. He wasn't sure he believed any of it until they came with a sterile cotton swab on a long stick, and wiped it against the inside of his cheek. At that point, he had retreated to that place inside, so far away in pain and shock even the tears couldn't find their way back out to his eyes.
It was these still dry eyes which stared at the wallet in his hands, stared but didn't really see. It was the only thing they gave him from the wreckage, containing his son's driver's license, a couple of credit cards, and some cash. He kept hearing the echo of his buddy's response to the question how bad of shape was his son in: "We can't even be sure the remains we have are human."
The necessity of the closed casket only heightened his sense of alienation. Sitting on the front row, through the tears which finally began to fall, he studied the life-sized, full color bust photo of his son, and realized he hadn't really known him since about the end of grade school. That was the last time they went fishing together, the last time they did much of anything together. The next month the bank approved the loan on the truck dealership.
The place was packed, with many standing outside. He glanced out the window, down the narrow street of the little old town where his cousin was pastor of the Baptist church. A couple of blocks away, a bunch of people were walking down the street behind a ratty pickup. There were some black paper streamers hung around it. Another funeral? Then his tears began anew as he remembered someone else died in the crash with his son. The rest of the memorial service was a blur.
It occurred to him he had never really sat in his recliner more than a few minutes at a time. For that matter, he'd never sat in the living room of his own home, and just listened to the sounds it made in the silence of human inactivity. Part of him begged for a distraction, any distraction, to forget the misery. For now, that part had lost the battle, and he embraced his sorrow.
For the first time in years, he didn't go to work when the dealership was open. He had dismissed the housekeeper for the day, and it was a lonely house. He never bothered to remarry after his wife died in childbirth, and it had been just him and his son. Now... Instead of going to work, he sat quietly, sipping coffee. The phone near his cup rang. Of course, there was that other matter to take care of, as well. The LCD screen on the face of the phone showed his lawyer's number, and he picked up the handset on the third ring. Things the past week had happened all too fast, so he was not in a hurry about much of anything at this moment.
"Yeah?" he said in a quite voice.
On the other end was the familiar voice of the attorney who had helped him scrape up the funding for the truck business, even invested some of his own money as a partner. They weren't close buddies, but they were more than just partners over a cash nexus. Thus, he provided his legal services pretty much without fee, got a new truck every three years as a retainer along with is profit share, and they never really disagreed over much of anything.
"That unusual funerary procession you described was them alright. The police report of this other party is pretty strange. These folks are apparently very poor, living in a semi-communal environment just outside of your hometown, on the backside of some cattle acreage. The report stops just short of characterizing them as a religious cult. Not only were there no reports of trouble, the neighbors rather like them. Seems they are pretty handy with oddball stuff, and work cheaply. Few of them own vehicles, they don't register their marriages with any state, and they never ask for welfare assistance of any kind. Were it not for a couple of disabled veterans there, and Child Welfare checking on them due to homeschooling, they would almost not exist, officially."
Folks like that probably wouldn't much care for lawyers. "Did you try to contact him? Would he talk to you at all?"
"I arranged to have him come to the land owner's house to talk on the phone. No rudeness; very polite, actually. As you guess, the man said he'd rather talk it over with you personally, first. He said I was welcome to come along, but he honestly felt I wasn't needed. There's no reason to think it's dangerous, but don't agree to anything without consulting me; just listen." Then he added, "They have us pretty much over a barrel."
He needed to know how bad things could be. "So, Counsel, just how much over a barrel are we? Assume for a minute he got a really good lawyer himself and took it to court, got a sympathetic judge. We already have a problem with bad publicity as it is. The papers never did like me, and they are having a field day with this."
The sound of shuffling papers could be heard in the background before the lawyer spoke. "Company truck, part-time employee who happens to be the owner's son, drunk driving, pampered rich college kid... It approaches criminal neglect on our part. Insurance specifically does not cover drunk driving. I could drag it out, but the local civil court isn't that busy. By this time next year he could be the new owner."
That was putting it plainly. "I'm not worried about my personal losses; it don't amount to much beside my son. But this would hurt a lot of other folks, not to mention yourself." He thought for moment. "At this point, I'm not sure I care if I live, anyway -- no, I'm not suicidal. You know better than that. It's just that, if anything happens to me while I'm trying to negotiate in person, at least I won't look so bad and I can clear the family name somewhat. As you say, it's not like he can demand too much, because it's all his to take."
He found the old dirt track leading back across the pasture. It was marked more by human footprints, bicycle tracks and animal droppings than by vehicle tire treads. The owner of the place told him they weren't any trouble, and did a lot of useful ranch work in lieu of rent. Sometimes he'd have his wife buy some extra dry goods, like big bags of flour, cornmeal and beans because he was worried about them. He let their draft animals mix with the herds and feed equally. They were pretty good about keeping watch for predators and rustlers, because he never missed any stock in the five or so years since they came. At any rate, he enjoyed their singing when they had worship services, and often joined them down in the trees in good weather.
He stopped atop a rather flat ridge, gazing down the gradual slope. He saw the wooded area a quarter-mile away, where a couple of trailer houses were just visible through the foliage. Most ranches in this area had a patch of ground too rough to farm or ranch efficiently, and this was no exception. As always it involved a river or creek bed, and he spied a brook coming around a steep drop off to the right. The trees stood thickly on rather rocky ground which had eroded into closely folded shallow draws, mixed with humps of exposed stone. It was rough enough he wondered just how they got those trailers back in there. Even with a high-rise suspension on his pickup, he decided to stop a hundred or so yards from the trees, and walked the rest of the way.
A couple of kids stopped their game and looked up at the stranger approaching. He slowed as he neared them, and noticed they had been playing with some homemade toys the likes of which he had never seen. "Howdy!" He tried to keep a friendly demeanor.
The largest boy stepped away from the toys and walked toward him, stopping about halfway. "Good morning, sir. Are you seeking someone?" He doubted any children anywhere else in the state talked that way, so free of slang, and respectful.
He told the boy the name of the man who was made a widower by his son. "Oh, yes sir. He's waiting for you. You'll find him under his awning." The boy indicated one of the wide trails leading back into the trees, then explained the system of marking on the trees which served as addresses: nylon ropes in three colors, tied around the trunks, some single, some braided in combinations. It made sense immediately, and he thanked the young man as he strode away.
He noticed the place showed long occupation by humans, but only a minimum amount of underbrush had been cleared. Even thorny vines were left in some places, but there were very few outright thickets. He noticed it kept the wind down, and guessed it would help maintain some measure of privacy between the various shacks and trailer houses. There were no dead trees, nor even dead limbs, but saw marks where they had been. A few power lines ran among the tree limbs, neatly tied with black straps, which he realized were strips of used tire rubber. There was plenty of junk around the buildings, but no outright trash. Then he realized most of the junk was being recycled in some way when he spotted a mule wagon partially loaded with scrap metal, neatly sorted. While most of the structures were clearly assembled from used materials, much of it was expertly worked and painted -- though often in garish combinations. No, they were garish designs, pictures and abstract patterns, including recognizable Christian symbols.
He realized he was passing the backside of a rather large clear area, because there were odd chairs and benches facing the other side. It suddenly dawned on him there was a huge cargo parachute spread high above the space. It wouldn't stop rain, but slow it down a good bit. Given the weather here was seldom really cold and nasty, it made sense to have what he guessed was an open air church. Then he saw the colored rope combination the boy told him marked the house of the man he came to see. It was a large but old travel trailer, with a framed awning, a rather expansive patchwork canvas cover over what must be a good sized front yard. This yard was tidy, but partially filled with three mis-matched work benches, on which were various hand tools, a couple of power tools, and nearby a pile of sliced up used tires. He also noticed a clothes line hung with a broad mixture of straps, mostly old car seat belts, and braided thin lines. Through them, as through a curtain, he spotted a man sitting in a chaise lounge, look down at something.
As he came around to the open path into the yard, he saw the man held a large book in his lap, a Bible.
Once he got a clear view of the man in the chaise, the word which came to mind was "hippy." However, he noticed the long hair was well kept, and the beard was trimmed and neat, the neck shaved. However, the t-shirt was tie-dyed, and the jeans had a bright trim on the cuffs. The man glanced up and closed his Bible. He could see now the cover was a beautiful patchwork of different colors of tanned leather.
"I've never seen a Bible with that sort of cover."
The man in the chaise stood to greet him. "One of my hobbies is playing with leather, and I've done some bookbinding in the past. When the original hardback came apart, I replaced it." He held out the patchwork Bible for him to examine.
Taking it for closer look, he noted the fine stitching. "Hobby? Looks more like high-dollar craftsmanship."
The man smiled gently, with one end of his mouth curving up higher than the other. "I do alright with the heavier stuff." He looked away and added, "Actually, my wife made that cover..." He trailed off a moment, then turned back. "I did the rebinding, though." Some of the smile returned.
His hands shook just a bit holding the Bible, and a tear clung hidden in one corner of his left eye. Looking up, he handed it back as if there was nothing on earth more precious.
Taking it, the man placed on a side table. With an upturned palm, he motioned to a folding chair with handmade cushions on it, "Please have a seat. Could I offer you some iced tea?" It was a graceful rescue from the tension.
Removing his straw cowboy hat, he moved toward the chair. "Sure. I'd like that."
The man went to a table against the trailer, where a small refrigerator stood, and took out a gallon jar filled with dark amber liquid. He picked up a pint fruit jar, poured it full, then turned to ask, "Do you drink it with anything? I take it straight, but I may have some sugar here somewhere."
"No, that's fine." He searched his mind desperately for something to talk about. "This is a very interesting place you folks have here."
Returning with the drink, the man said, "We've been blessed beyond words just finding a place this well suited to our needs." There was no tension now when he mentioned her. "When my wife and I came out here five years ago, we had only two other families with us. Since then, others have found our brand of faith winsome, and they have joined us. Without burdening your ears in a long tale, I will tell you I serve as a pastor for this community." Handing him the pint jar, he returned to his chaise lounge. Settling in, he resumed, "Of all people, I am aware how cultic this can appear to some, but I assure you our strangeness is of a completely different sort. We had a dream of recovering some of the lifestyle depicted in the Bible. Not with the fanaticism practiced by others, but in a general application of the fundamental principles. We knew the world at large would hardly approve, and local governments can be particularly difficult. We studied rural counties across the southern tier of states, and this one seemed a winner. So far, that guess has proved accurate. We've been left in peace."
This was really good tea. He lowered his glass, twiddled his hat in the other hand and crossed his legs. "No doubt the rest of the world would be a happier place if more people were content with that."
"Yes, indeed. That's why I was hoping you'd be willing to come visit us, and we could chat without the watchdogs of justice." He grinned at this reference to lawyers. "I want peace for both of us. I seriously doubt you are expecting what follows."
Here it comes. He was surprised to find he felt no twitch of fear.
"It takes no unique viewpoint such as ours to understand no material possessions can replace the life of someone you love. We have both lost so very much, and I would be loath to add to your sorrows, any more than you would add to mine."
The man paused to let that sink in. Taking a drink of his own tea, he turned a bit to one side and waved at someone across the open area who was riding a donkey along the far path. He smiled at the back of the rider who disappeared behind the distant foliage. The man gestured with a sweep of his hand indicating the woodscape.
"You see we live simply. It appears to most as poverty, but it is more a matter of how we view worldly goods. It would be easy to accumulate much more wealth with our arts and skills, but we choose to pursue a higher goal. Thus, I would hardly wish to enrich myself at your expense. You bear the greater cost already, knowing the charge for the deaths was the laid on your son."
The man's eyes and voice were gentle, completely lacking in anger or accusation. His own eyes were blurred with tears, but they weren't bitter any more.
"It is not our way to extract by force anything from anyone. We find the laws of man are more fit for restraining evil than for directing the affairs of decent people. In my eyes, you owe me nothing. I completely release you from all financial responsibility. My loss is one of the heart, not of property. Even the old car was worth more as scrap than I could have taken selling it whole. Please instruct your attorney to draw up a release form, and I will sign it."
True to his words, what the man had said was the last thing he expected. His hand shook, and it was hard to sip from the raised glass, but the moment to think was utterly necessary. Lowering it slowly, he looked at his hat. "Is there nothing at all you need?"
"We take our needs to the Lord. Naturally, we allow Him to decide how to best to meet them, but fund-raising for specifics is out of the question. As your heart is moved by Him, we will accept any gift in His Name."
He set the glass down with a purpose, then leaned forward. "I went to church all my life, thought I knew Jesus. I need to start from scratch, and learn about Him from you."
By Ed Hurst
23 February 2007
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