My blog title has changed.
For some reason when I set up the blog, I thought "The Repository" was clever. Now it just reminds me of an outhouse.
So the new title matches the picture. Correct, that is Loch Ness.
Why is this the new title?
Well, I'm always fascinated with our perception of intense historical events, especially miracles, cryptozoology, and other phenomena. I think we are afraid of the unknown, so we rationalize the incredible yet sensationalize the mundane.
If only we could see things for what they really are...
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
The Truck in Front, part 2
OK, to preface this, if you haven't read part 1...go back and do it now! Or you won't understand...
The Truck in Front, part 2
The crosswinds had picked up and the green tarp was blown off like an old lady’s hat. If the driver of the flatbed noticed, he didn’t care. He just kept rolling along at a steady 55 miles per hour.
In the twilight Niyah could see that the tarp had been covering a huge wooden crate, a perfect cube of fresh pine planks with thick sisal rope wrapped around every side. There was writing stamped in bold black letters, but it wasn’t English and she couldn’t recognize a single character. What language was that?
She had been driving with only her parking lights on, but the ever darkening sky suggested headlights. She flicked them on and noticed a bright flash from the crate for a few seconds. Then it was gone! Peering intently, she wondered what could have reflected the beams. There was nothing shiny anywhere, only wood and rope.
Whatever that flash was, it still wasn’t as brilliant as the gleam in sweet Jeremiah’s eyes.
“Monica, just who is this Manny?” the police officer had asked, Detective Pikken his card said. “Did you say he’s the boy’s uncle?”
“No, I didn’t say that! SHE said it!” shouted Jeremiah’s mother. She jabbed her finger in Niyah’s general direction. “He was my ex-husband’s friend. I don’t know how he would have anything to do with this!”
“Jeremiah called him Uncle Manny,” offered Niyah quietly.
“Well if he won’t come here, I’ll have to go to him,” said Pikken. He pressed the button on the mic attached to his collar and told dispatch his intentions. Then he looked kindly at Monica and asked, “Would you like to ride with me?”
Monica nodded and dripped a few tears onto her blouse.
Niyah pulled a clean tissue from her purse and gave it to her. Then she asked, “May I go too?”
Adam said, “Niyah, why don’t you—”
“I have to!” she interrupted.
Detective Pikken cleared his throat and said, “It’s fine. Let’s just get rolling. We’re wasting time.” He gave some general instructions to another detective who was managing the scene and then he, Jeremiah’s mother, and Niyah climbed into his patrol car and sped away, lights flashing.
Manny’s place on the edge of town was small and old, a house forgotten by the decades. Yet it was surprisingly well kept. The crabgrass was mowed short and even. The cracked walkway was swept. Even the maroon Cadillac parked on the lawn, though older, was glossy and gleaming in the sun.
Niyah and the detective followed Monica as she stormed up to the front doorway and rapped loudly on the door. While they waited, they could hear a loud television inside, mixed with voices of laughter. Presently, a teenage boy opened the door and just stared at them through a screen.
“Is Manny here?” demanded Monica.
The teenager looked over his shoulder and yelled, “Manny!” Then he resumed his stare until Manny arrived.
The same smiling dark-skinned man wearing an orange jersey waddled over to the door, holding a bottle in one hand and a remote control in the other. However, it was a far different man who spoke to them.
“Monica! It’s been a while,” said Manny. Sweat glistened on his forehead and amid his spiky black hair, but he kept smiling broadly.
“Not long enough. Where is Jeremiah?” she retorted.
“Wait!” said Niyah. She grasped Detective Pikken’s arm and said, “He didn’t speak English before!”
The detective looked at Manny. He reached into his pocket and produced a notebook and pencil and asked, “Sir, were you at Church of the Spirit today? About twenty minutes ago?”
Manny chuckled deeply as though he had just heard a joke. Then he looked confused. He said, “No. No sir. I have been here, with my cousins. Watching the game. Right, Ollie?”
The teenage boy at the edge of the screen nodded, then turned and disappeared into the dark interior.
“What?!” said Niyah. “That’s him! That’s Manny! He took Jeremiah! Where is the boy?”
She grasped the screen door handle but before she could pull it open, Detective Pikken held her wrist. He said, “Hold on, there.” Then to Manny, “Sir, may we come in and have a look around?”
“Well, we been having a party, you know, so maybe…maybe if you come back later I can clean up first?” said Manny.
Detective Pikken went stiff. He said, “Sir, I have to inform you that this is regarding a missing child. An Amber Alert has been issued and I can have a search warrant here within minutes. If you make me do that, this place will be torn apart. Or you can let us in now. Your choice.”
Manny looked over his shoulder. Then he turned back with his big smile, unlatched the screen, and said, “Sure! Come on in. Don’t mind the mess!”
They entered the house and suddenly realized how loud it was. The TV was blaring play by play commentary. A group of about five or six men, all Hispanic, were gathered around on whatever surface they could find to sit; various crumbs, wrappers, and bottles littered their area like bright leaves around an October aspen. Their laughter or jeers filled in the gaps left by the football announcers.
“Excuse me!” yelled Detective Pikken. They paid him no heed, so he turned to Manny and yelled, “Can you get them to quiet down? I can’t think!”
Manny’s smile faded and he hesitated. He cocked his head ever so slightly, as though he were trying to hear something.
Niyah’d had enough. Enough of these delays! She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled. Loudly. Instantly the laughter silenced and a second later the TV was muted. And then she heard it.
An engine starting.
Niyah looked back toward the screen door just as the engine fired to life. A stream of blue exhaust blew out the tail pipe of the Cadillac in the front yard. Its engine raced. Gears ground. Tires spun and threw chunks of lawn. Then it whipped backwards into the street.
Niyah beat the detective back out the screen door, barely. They both ran towards the car as more gears ground but they were too slow. The car sped away.
But not before Niyah saw the shape of a child curled on the back seat.
She turned to the detective and threw her arms up in frustration. That must have been Jeremiah! And no license plates on the car!
Monica came out the door but got no further than the stoop because Manny was clutching at her sleeve. Gone was his trademark smile. Instead his face was the picture of terror as he shouted, “No! No! El Diablo! La Chupacabra! La Chupacabra! No!”
That was yesterday. Today, Niyah felt no closer to redeeming herself. She was supposed to be the great hero. She was supposed to be the key yet here she was, stuck following this stupid, slow truck, all because she was too scared to pass! She made a fist and punched the passenger seat. Then she hit it again and again until her arm was tired. She sighed and looked back at the road.
There it was again—the flash from the crate.
For the next ten minutes Niyah tried to recreate the flash. The truck in front probably thought she was falling asleep as she sped up, slowed down, and swerved left to right. The beams panned over wood, rope, and…what was that? A black hole in the lower right where a board was broken…was that where the flash had come from? Had that been there before?
She couldn’t remember. She tried to keep her lights shining at that hole but the wind continued to gain strength and made it nearly impossible to maintain a steady course. Even though the road remained straight as it traversed this high plateau, both she and the truck were lane wandering. After nearly running onto the shoulder for the second time, Niyah gave up and concentrated on driving.
Settling back into her seat she flipped the radio on, partly for company, partly for a weather report. Static dominated all the FM frequencies, so she flipped over to AM. She scanned the AM band until she found a news report predicting gusty winds in early evening. She rolled her eyes and thought, “Oh, really. I couldn’t tell.”
A creepy feeling unexpectedly came over Niyah. Whether it was the moonlit sagebrush landscape, the deep monotone voice on the radio, or the unknown into which she drove, the night suddenly seemed oppressive. She turned the radio off and cracked her window. She looked once more at the black hole on the crate.
And the crate jumped.
No, the truck must’ve hit a bump. Niyah didn’t remember her car bumping, though. And she was following right behind. She shook her head, thinking maybe she should have stopped for coffee after all.
The Truck in Front, part 2
The crosswinds had picked up and the green tarp was blown off like an old lady’s hat. If the driver of the flatbed noticed, he didn’t care. He just kept rolling along at a steady 55 miles per hour.
In the twilight Niyah could see that the tarp had been covering a huge wooden crate, a perfect cube of fresh pine planks with thick sisal rope wrapped around every side. There was writing stamped in bold black letters, but it wasn’t English and she couldn’t recognize a single character. What language was that?
She had been driving with only her parking lights on, but the ever darkening sky suggested headlights. She flicked them on and noticed a bright flash from the crate for a few seconds. Then it was gone! Peering intently, she wondered what could have reflected the beams. There was nothing shiny anywhere, only wood and rope.
Whatever that flash was, it still wasn’t as brilliant as the gleam in sweet Jeremiah’s eyes.
“Monica, just who is this Manny?” the police officer had asked, Detective Pikken his card said. “Did you say he’s the boy’s uncle?”
“No, I didn’t say that! SHE said it!” shouted Jeremiah’s mother. She jabbed her finger in Niyah’s general direction. “He was my ex-husband’s friend. I don’t know how he would have anything to do with this!”
“Jeremiah called him Uncle Manny,” offered Niyah quietly.
“Well if he won’t come here, I’ll have to go to him,” said Pikken. He pressed the button on the mic attached to his collar and told dispatch his intentions. Then he looked kindly at Monica and asked, “Would you like to ride with me?”
Monica nodded and dripped a few tears onto her blouse.
Niyah pulled a clean tissue from her purse and gave it to her. Then she asked, “May I go too?”
Adam said, “Niyah, why don’t you—”
“I have to!” she interrupted.
Detective Pikken cleared his throat and said, “It’s fine. Let’s just get rolling. We’re wasting time.” He gave some general instructions to another detective who was managing the scene and then he, Jeremiah’s mother, and Niyah climbed into his patrol car and sped away, lights flashing.
Manny’s place on the edge of town was small and old, a house forgotten by the decades. Yet it was surprisingly well kept. The crabgrass was mowed short and even. The cracked walkway was swept. Even the maroon Cadillac parked on the lawn, though older, was glossy and gleaming in the sun.
Niyah and the detective followed Monica as she stormed up to the front doorway and rapped loudly on the door. While they waited, they could hear a loud television inside, mixed with voices of laughter. Presently, a teenage boy opened the door and just stared at them through a screen.
“Is Manny here?” demanded Monica.
The teenager looked over his shoulder and yelled, “Manny!” Then he resumed his stare until Manny arrived.
The same smiling dark-skinned man wearing an orange jersey waddled over to the door, holding a bottle in one hand and a remote control in the other. However, it was a far different man who spoke to them.
“Monica! It’s been a while,” said Manny. Sweat glistened on his forehead and amid his spiky black hair, but he kept smiling broadly.
“Not long enough. Where is Jeremiah?” she retorted.
“Wait!” said Niyah. She grasped Detective Pikken’s arm and said, “He didn’t speak English before!”
The detective looked at Manny. He reached into his pocket and produced a notebook and pencil and asked, “Sir, were you at Church of the Spirit today? About twenty minutes ago?”
Manny chuckled deeply as though he had just heard a joke. Then he looked confused. He said, “No. No sir. I have been here, with my cousins. Watching the game. Right, Ollie?”
The teenage boy at the edge of the screen nodded, then turned and disappeared into the dark interior.
“What?!” said Niyah. “That’s him! That’s Manny! He took Jeremiah! Where is the boy?”
She grasped the screen door handle but before she could pull it open, Detective Pikken held her wrist. He said, “Hold on, there.” Then to Manny, “Sir, may we come in and have a look around?”
“Well, we been having a party, you know, so maybe…maybe if you come back later I can clean up first?” said Manny.
Detective Pikken went stiff. He said, “Sir, I have to inform you that this is regarding a missing child. An Amber Alert has been issued and I can have a search warrant here within minutes. If you make me do that, this place will be torn apart. Or you can let us in now. Your choice.”
Manny looked over his shoulder. Then he turned back with his big smile, unlatched the screen, and said, “Sure! Come on in. Don’t mind the mess!”
They entered the house and suddenly realized how loud it was. The TV was blaring play by play commentary. A group of about five or six men, all Hispanic, were gathered around on whatever surface they could find to sit; various crumbs, wrappers, and bottles littered their area like bright leaves around an October aspen. Their laughter or jeers filled in the gaps left by the football announcers.
“Excuse me!” yelled Detective Pikken. They paid him no heed, so he turned to Manny and yelled, “Can you get them to quiet down? I can’t think!”
Manny’s smile faded and he hesitated. He cocked his head ever so slightly, as though he were trying to hear something.
Niyah’d had enough. Enough of these delays! She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled. Loudly. Instantly the laughter silenced and a second later the TV was muted. And then she heard it.
An engine starting.
Niyah looked back toward the screen door just as the engine fired to life. A stream of blue exhaust blew out the tail pipe of the Cadillac in the front yard. Its engine raced. Gears ground. Tires spun and threw chunks of lawn. Then it whipped backwards into the street.
Niyah beat the detective back out the screen door, barely. They both ran towards the car as more gears ground but they were too slow. The car sped away.
But not before Niyah saw the shape of a child curled on the back seat.
She turned to the detective and threw her arms up in frustration. That must have been Jeremiah! And no license plates on the car!
Monica came out the door but got no further than the stoop because Manny was clutching at her sleeve. Gone was his trademark smile. Instead his face was the picture of terror as he shouted, “No! No! El Diablo! La Chupacabra! La Chupacabra! No!”
That was yesterday. Today, Niyah felt no closer to redeeming herself. She was supposed to be the great hero. She was supposed to be the key yet here she was, stuck following this stupid, slow truck, all because she was too scared to pass! She made a fist and punched the passenger seat. Then she hit it again and again until her arm was tired. She sighed and looked back at the road.
There it was again—the flash from the crate.
For the next ten minutes Niyah tried to recreate the flash. The truck in front probably thought she was falling asleep as she sped up, slowed down, and swerved left to right. The beams panned over wood, rope, and…what was that? A black hole in the lower right where a board was broken…was that where the flash had come from? Had that been there before?
She couldn’t remember. She tried to keep her lights shining at that hole but the wind continued to gain strength and made it nearly impossible to maintain a steady course. Even though the road remained straight as it traversed this high plateau, both she and the truck were lane wandering. After nearly running onto the shoulder for the second time, Niyah gave up and concentrated on driving.
Settling back into her seat she flipped the radio on, partly for company, partly for a weather report. Static dominated all the FM frequencies, so she flipped over to AM. She scanned the AM band until she found a news report predicting gusty winds in early evening. She rolled her eyes and thought, “Oh, really. I couldn’t tell.”
A creepy feeling unexpectedly came over Niyah. Whether it was the moonlit sagebrush landscape, the deep monotone voice on the radio, or the unknown into which she drove, the night suddenly seemed oppressive. She turned the radio off and cracked her window. She looked once more at the black hole on the crate.
And the crate jumped.
No, the truck must’ve hit a bump. Niyah didn’t remember her car bumping, though. And she was following right behind. She shook her head, thinking maybe she should have stopped for coffee after all.
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Truck in Front, part 1
It's been too long, I know. But I have something good for you to read. At least I hope it'll be good. A few of my friends have commented that they would like to read an entire story and, since I'm not going to post my entire book on here...I've decided to post a short story. The only problem: it's not written yet! This is going to be a work in progress, so feel free to give me feedback. Maybe I'll use the feedback and make changes.
I'm calling this story The Truck in Front.
So here we go with the first installment.
Niyah was lonely. Minutes had turned into hours and county lines into state lines. The horizontal clouds had just begun to bleed after a long, hot day while the two lane highway extended out in front of her like an arrow she drove upon. A crumbling bluff’s wide shadow warned the flatlands of the coming darkness.
She was almost disappointed her car got such good gas mileage. That would have been an excuse to pause at the derelict Gas’n More fifteen miles back. Instead, she’d put out of her mind the twisted craving for stale coffee and kept driving, alone with her thoughts.
Her thoughts were what had kept her awake today, hour after hour in the barrenness. Thoughts of Colorado’s Sangre de Christo Mountain Range and her cozy trailer at its foot. Thoughts of the sleepy town of Alamosa and its citizens going to and fro like honey drones. The wind-blown but friendly Church of the Spirit on the edge of town where she taught the “Tigers” about Jesus for an hour and a half every week. Where she had met Jeremiah last month, the angel who hadn’t quite mastered the “L” sound yet. And where she had lost him yesterday. Tears ran down her cheeks for the umpteenth time as she went over the details yet again, trying to think of what she could have done differently.
Church of the Spirit was one of the largest in town, and the board of elders had just approved moving to two services if the church grew over four hundred. She’d hoped they would because every week she was hard pressed to wrangle fifteen six and seven year olds through worship songs, Heroes of the Bible lessons, semi-nutritious snacks, and the neatest crafts she could invent.
Truly, though, the parents were more difficult than the children, especially at drop-off and pick-up time. At 9:25 there was a mad rush as parents dumped their kids off and scurried to find a seat in the sanctuary. They were supposed to fill out a sticker with their child’s name on it, stick it to the child’s shirt, and pocket the stub with a matching number. Then at 11:05 those same parents came back, anxious to hurry home to watch the Broncos game. The idea was for Niyah, the teacher, to match up their stubs with the ones on the kids’ shirts. More than half the time, however, the tags fell off, the kids slipped past her into the hall, a clueless older sibling came to get them, or the parent couldn’t find their stub. What was she going to do, not let them have their child? Make them take a DNA test? Only once before had it been a problem, when a father came to claim his daughter with the appropriate stub but his wife had already taken her. He stormed off and complained to Adam Keiler, the children’s pastor, but Adam appeased him by saying that Niyah was a responsible girl and would be more careful next time.
Jeremiah and his cute chocolate-haired mom visited their church for the first time on Labor Day weekend and must have liked it because the boy had been in her class for the next three weeks. He always wore pressed khaki slacks, shiny black cowboy boots, and a crisp collared shirt. He always listened carefully to instructions, always sang sweetly, and never interrupted. He brought his own snack in a baggie because he was allergic to wheat.
Yesterday he had been dropped off during the mad rush. She hadn’t even noticed him until craft time when he asked, “Can I have some more gwitter, pwease? King Sowoman’s crown isn’t shiny enough.”
Even before the service officially ended, picker uppers began to arrive because the game started at 11:15, barely enough time to make it home, change into sweats, and microwave some nacho cheese before kickoff. And they were short tempered! Try to explain about the gift certificate for a free kid’s meal at Pancake Hut if their child memorized the Bible verse by next week? Forget it. Get a headcount for who would be coming to family night at the community pool? Sorry. Challenge their right to pick up their child? Fat chance.
A smiling man with dark skin wearing a blue and orange jersey was the second to appear in the doorway. He looked around the room and called, “Jeremiah!”
Jeremiah looked up from his glittery page and smiled back, but didn’t move. Since Niyah didn’t recognize the man, she walked over and asked to see his stub.
“Que? No hablo Ingles…” he said, shaking his head but still smiling.
Niyah knew enough Spanish to understand that but not enough to say anything back. She could only show him one of the blank tags and point to the man’s chest with her eyebrows raised in question.
The man grinned wider and held up one finger. Just a minute. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a crumpled photograph of a toddler. He showed it to Niyah and pointed to Jeremiah who was just returning his glue and glitter to the supply bin.
Niyah studied the photo for a few seconds, decided it did look like the boy, and motioned him over. She asked, “Jeremiah, do you know him?”
Jeremiah nodded and said, “That’s Uncle Manny.”
Uncle Manny bent down and spoke rapidly in Spanish. Then he extended his hand and waited for Jeremiah to take it.
The boy said, “Si!” and placed his little brown hand in the big brown one. Then he was pulled away. Just before they went out the front door he called out, “Thanks Miss Niyah!”
In between seeing the other kids off, she went about sweeping the tile floor, helping kids into their coats, and stacking chairs. She had turned off the space heater and was just about to flick off the lights when a cute young woman with chocolate hair walked briskly to the doorway. She was breathing heavily as she said, “Sorry, Miss Niyah. I was praying with the pastor. I hope Jeremiah was good for you. Where…where is he?”
Niyah’s heart crashed to the floor and shattered like a vase.
Screeech! Niyah’s tires squealed as she stomped the brakes to avoid hitting a small mule deer which had just jumped into the gap between her car and the truck in front of her. Her car fishtailed for a second then straightened out and she blew out the breath she’d been holding.
She pressed down on her accelerator, caught back up to the truck, and re-set her cruise control. Its driver hadn’t even flinched after what just happened…had he even seen that deer?
She was rather glad of the midnight blue flatbed, even if it was going ten under the speed limit. It was keeping her company. She’d never had the guts to pass on these two-lane roads and tonight, she was alright with watching the back of this truck for a while longer.
There was nothing particularly special about the truck, but for some reason she was enthralled by it. It had paper tags and heavily tinted windows. The undercarriage and lower panels were caked with red dust. A green tarp covered whatever cargo the truck was carrying, and one corner was loose and flapping wildly in the wind. Large mud tires hummed loudly on the worn blacktop.
Niyah looked out her side window and took in the gathering darkness. Everything looked upside down. The heavens glowed a gray orange, so the dark buttes and mesas seemed like cut-outs from a grand glowing canvas. It made her imagine that the sky was substantial and everything else, including the road she traveled, was just an infinite void.
When the innocent are wounded for no good reason, everything is definitely upside down.
Poor Jeremiah. Blame Niyah. Blame your useless teacher who gave you over to the wolves.
Unlike so many others who were going to sit in front of their TV for three hours yesterday, Niyah had planned to study. The vet licensing exam was in two weeks and she had barely studied. But when Jeremiah disappeared, her own life didn’t matter any more.
She and Jeremiah’s mother, Monica, had stared at each other for an eternity, each hoping the other would say something to break the curse that had suddenly fallen on them. Niyah spoke first.
“I gave him…I mean, he went with a…Manny. Uncle Manny.” Monica seemed to relax some, so Niyah continued, “You know him?”
“I know him, but I don’t understand,” snapped Monica. She held up the tag with the number 396 on it and said, “He didn’t give you this, so why did you let him take Jeremiah?”
“Yes, I know. I shouldn’t have. But Jeremiah acted like he knew him. Is it OK?”
Monica yelled, “I hope so! Manny is worthless—I don’t know why he would pick up my son! Let me call him!”
She dug a cell phone out of her pocket, punched a few numbers, and let it ring.
Just then the children’s pastor poked his head in the room. He said, “Everything all right?”
Monica had begun shouting into her phone in Spanish, so Niyah stepped into the hall and said, “Adam, I think I screwed up again.” Then she filled him in on what had transpired.
Just as she finished, Monica stormed into the hallway and said, “Manny knows nothing! He is watching the game today. Why are you lying to me? Where is my son?”
Adam said, “I’m calling the police. And we need to see if this Manny can come down here.”
I'm calling this story The Truck in Front.
So here we go with the first installment.
Niyah was lonely. Minutes had turned into hours and county lines into state lines. The horizontal clouds had just begun to bleed after a long, hot day while the two lane highway extended out in front of her like an arrow she drove upon. A crumbling bluff’s wide shadow warned the flatlands of the coming darkness.
She was almost disappointed her car got such good gas mileage. That would have been an excuse to pause at the derelict Gas’n More fifteen miles back. Instead, she’d put out of her mind the twisted craving for stale coffee and kept driving, alone with her thoughts.
Her thoughts were what had kept her awake today, hour after hour in the barrenness. Thoughts of Colorado’s Sangre de Christo Mountain Range and her cozy trailer at its foot. Thoughts of the sleepy town of Alamosa and its citizens going to and fro like honey drones. The wind-blown but friendly Church of the Spirit on the edge of town where she taught the “Tigers” about Jesus for an hour and a half every week. Where she had met Jeremiah last month, the angel who hadn’t quite mastered the “L” sound yet. And where she had lost him yesterday. Tears ran down her cheeks for the umpteenth time as she went over the details yet again, trying to think of what she could have done differently.
Church of the Spirit was one of the largest in town, and the board of elders had just approved moving to two services if the church grew over four hundred. She’d hoped they would because every week she was hard pressed to wrangle fifteen six and seven year olds through worship songs, Heroes of the Bible lessons, semi-nutritious snacks, and the neatest crafts she could invent.
Truly, though, the parents were more difficult than the children, especially at drop-off and pick-up time. At 9:25 there was a mad rush as parents dumped their kids off and scurried to find a seat in the sanctuary. They were supposed to fill out a sticker with their child’s name on it, stick it to the child’s shirt, and pocket the stub with a matching number. Then at 11:05 those same parents came back, anxious to hurry home to watch the Broncos game. The idea was for Niyah, the teacher, to match up their stubs with the ones on the kids’ shirts. More than half the time, however, the tags fell off, the kids slipped past her into the hall, a clueless older sibling came to get them, or the parent couldn’t find their stub. What was she going to do, not let them have their child? Make them take a DNA test? Only once before had it been a problem, when a father came to claim his daughter with the appropriate stub but his wife had already taken her. He stormed off and complained to Adam Keiler, the children’s pastor, but Adam appeased him by saying that Niyah was a responsible girl and would be more careful next time.
Jeremiah and his cute chocolate-haired mom visited their church for the first time on Labor Day weekend and must have liked it because the boy had been in her class for the next three weeks. He always wore pressed khaki slacks, shiny black cowboy boots, and a crisp collared shirt. He always listened carefully to instructions, always sang sweetly, and never interrupted. He brought his own snack in a baggie because he was allergic to wheat.
Yesterday he had been dropped off during the mad rush. She hadn’t even noticed him until craft time when he asked, “Can I have some more gwitter, pwease? King Sowoman’s crown isn’t shiny enough.”
Even before the service officially ended, picker uppers began to arrive because the game started at 11:15, barely enough time to make it home, change into sweats, and microwave some nacho cheese before kickoff. And they were short tempered! Try to explain about the gift certificate for a free kid’s meal at Pancake Hut if their child memorized the Bible verse by next week? Forget it. Get a headcount for who would be coming to family night at the community pool? Sorry. Challenge their right to pick up their child? Fat chance.
A smiling man with dark skin wearing a blue and orange jersey was the second to appear in the doorway. He looked around the room and called, “Jeremiah!”
Jeremiah looked up from his glittery page and smiled back, but didn’t move. Since Niyah didn’t recognize the man, she walked over and asked to see his stub.
“Que? No hablo Ingles…” he said, shaking his head but still smiling.
Niyah knew enough Spanish to understand that but not enough to say anything back. She could only show him one of the blank tags and point to the man’s chest with her eyebrows raised in question.
The man grinned wider and held up one finger. Just a minute. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a crumpled photograph of a toddler. He showed it to Niyah and pointed to Jeremiah who was just returning his glue and glitter to the supply bin.
Niyah studied the photo for a few seconds, decided it did look like the boy, and motioned him over. She asked, “Jeremiah, do you know him?”
Jeremiah nodded and said, “That’s Uncle Manny.”
Uncle Manny bent down and spoke rapidly in Spanish. Then he extended his hand and waited for Jeremiah to take it.
The boy said, “Si!” and placed his little brown hand in the big brown one. Then he was pulled away. Just before they went out the front door he called out, “Thanks Miss Niyah!”
In between seeing the other kids off, she went about sweeping the tile floor, helping kids into their coats, and stacking chairs. She had turned off the space heater and was just about to flick off the lights when a cute young woman with chocolate hair walked briskly to the doorway. She was breathing heavily as she said, “Sorry, Miss Niyah. I was praying with the pastor. I hope Jeremiah was good for you. Where…where is he?”
Niyah’s heart crashed to the floor and shattered like a vase.
Screeech! Niyah’s tires squealed as she stomped the brakes to avoid hitting a small mule deer which had just jumped into the gap between her car and the truck in front of her. Her car fishtailed for a second then straightened out and she blew out the breath she’d been holding.
She pressed down on her accelerator, caught back up to the truck, and re-set her cruise control. Its driver hadn’t even flinched after what just happened…had he even seen that deer?
She was rather glad of the midnight blue flatbed, even if it was going ten under the speed limit. It was keeping her company. She’d never had the guts to pass on these two-lane roads and tonight, she was alright with watching the back of this truck for a while longer.
There was nothing particularly special about the truck, but for some reason she was enthralled by it. It had paper tags and heavily tinted windows. The undercarriage and lower panels were caked with red dust. A green tarp covered whatever cargo the truck was carrying, and one corner was loose and flapping wildly in the wind. Large mud tires hummed loudly on the worn blacktop.
Niyah looked out her side window and took in the gathering darkness. Everything looked upside down. The heavens glowed a gray orange, so the dark buttes and mesas seemed like cut-outs from a grand glowing canvas. It made her imagine that the sky was substantial and everything else, including the road she traveled, was just an infinite void.
When the innocent are wounded for no good reason, everything is definitely upside down.
Poor Jeremiah. Blame Niyah. Blame your useless teacher who gave you over to the wolves.
Unlike so many others who were going to sit in front of their TV for three hours yesterday, Niyah had planned to study. The vet licensing exam was in two weeks and she had barely studied. But when Jeremiah disappeared, her own life didn’t matter any more.
She and Jeremiah’s mother, Monica, had stared at each other for an eternity, each hoping the other would say something to break the curse that had suddenly fallen on them. Niyah spoke first.
“I gave him…I mean, he went with a…Manny. Uncle Manny.” Monica seemed to relax some, so Niyah continued, “You know him?”
“I know him, but I don’t understand,” snapped Monica. She held up the tag with the number 396 on it and said, “He didn’t give you this, so why did you let him take Jeremiah?”
“Yes, I know. I shouldn’t have. But Jeremiah acted like he knew him. Is it OK?”
Monica yelled, “I hope so! Manny is worthless—I don’t know why he would pick up my son! Let me call him!”
She dug a cell phone out of her pocket, punched a few numbers, and let it ring.
Just then the children’s pastor poked his head in the room. He said, “Everything all right?”
Monica had begun shouting into her phone in Spanish, so Niyah stepped into the hall and said, “Adam, I think I screwed up again.” Then she filled him in on what had transpired.
Just as she finished, Monica stormed into the hallway and said, “Manny knows nothing! He is watching the game today. Why are you lying to me? Where is my son?”
Adam said, “I’m calling the police. And we need to see if this Manny can come down here.”
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Time Travel
One of my favorite shows is LOST and this season is awesome, reminiscent of season one. The curious thing is that time travel is emerging as the culprit for why the survivors are, well, lost. It's interesting that the creators chose time travel rather than government conspiracies, supernatural forces, aliens, or any of the other elaborate theories circulating the net. Simple time travel.
I wonder why we are so fascinated with time travel?
It never seems to get old, does it? (Pun intended)
The concept of time is really too big for us to fathom. We are powerless to measure, control, or even understand time.
"But we have clocks" you say.
Well, you will never be able to convince me that 15 minutes at the dentist is the same amount of time as 15 minutes on a trout stream.
But we can experience other times.
History is our attempt at legitimate time travel. We funnel history to our imagination, and then our subconscious builds an environment we can experience...apart from our own time.
This is partly why I wrote a historical fiction book, to play with how the past affects the present and in turn how the present can affect the future.
I do have a few sci-fi genes in me though, and I would like to explore time travel more in my writing. I wonder what Lincoln would think of Obama's America. Or how the Spartans would fare alongside modern-day US Marines? What advice could Anne Boleyn give Hillary?
I don't know, I think it would be a fun way to compare and contrast the past and present. I could demonstrate that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
To conclude, I leave you with a quote by Jay Leno I just heard.
"Long before you were born, people used to write really long text messages on paper. These were called books."
I wonder why we are so fascinated with time travel?
It never seems to get old, does it? (Pun intended)
The concept of time is really too big for us to fathom. We are powerless to measure, control, or even understand time.
"But we have clocks" you say.
Well, you will never be able to convince me that 15 minutes at the dentist is the same amount of time as 15 minutes on a trout stream.
But we can experience other times.
History is our attempt at legitimate time travel. We funnel history to our imagination, and then our subconscious builds an environment we can experience...apart from our own time.
This is partly why I wrote a historical fiction book, to play with how the past affects the present and in turn how the present can affect the future.
I do have a few sci-fi genes in me though, and I would like to explore time travel more in my writing. I wonder what Lincoln would think of Obama's America. Or how the Spartans would fare alongside modern-day US Marines? What advice could Anne Boleyn give Hillary?
I don't know, I think it would be a fun way to compare and contrast the past and present. I could demonstrate that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
To conclude, I leave you with a quote by Jay Leno I just heard.
"Long before you were born, people used to write really long text messages on paper. These were called books."
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