He told himself, '…old man, now you got to find out what you really got left in you,' so he stood up, pulled with all his will and might, his legs as if they were nailed into the roof, forcing even more pressure on the beams below him: holding firmly onto the edges of the roof (thinking quietly—don't' stop, don't stop, she'll panic and all will be lost). He looked at her, really looked at her, never taking his eyes off her for a millisecond, she looked here and there, but when her eyes came back to his, his was right there, right where she had left them a moment ago, and that made her feel safe, as if he was with her every second, inside of her almost, every minute, every single moment of this long, horrible ordeal of airlessly ascending to the top of the roof, two more feet that was it— "…just, just two more feet," he told himself (but she could hear him mumble), he whispered with his almost frozen lips, but she could see them move, she could see everything, even his wrinkled face, his eyes, the wrinkles around his eyes if they moved, and they did, but only stress and strain was on them, not doubt, but no lack of hope was on them, that would had been crushing, she would have panicked; she didn't see any of that.
Smiling, but gravely smiling, he stood there, stood there like an iron-statue, like the golden horses—the statues on top, in front of the State Capitol Building, the gold horses shinning with a glow, as the water poured off his face, around and through his wrinkles—like tributaries on a river. His heart pumping faster now to adjust to the twisting of his muscles, the pull on his physique, and the body temperature, —the cold, cold numb face looking at her, needed fresh hot blood, warm and fast flowing blood, not this thick slow choppy blood his brain and heart was now getting; yet she could not see the unawareness of pending death on him: she could only see the safety in the eyes of her father, to her, she had her father's assurance, and he never lost a battle, never, ever once, no, not to her knowledge, he was a winner, a victor, and yes he seemed to have rode a red horse at times: a horse that galloped with no fear into places unknown--battles, but never, ever was he less than a success coming out at the end of his battles, his journeys of sorts, the red horse of battle never through him off. If anything, he was the one to have on your side when things got rough; matter-of-fact, she was a bit scared of him, not that he'd hurt her, or would, or had hurt her, just because of his tone of voice sometimes, and of course her disorder helped the paranoia along—for the most part there was no reason to it. On the one hand, many things scared her, froze her, and obsessed her; on the other hand, it was part of her disorder and expected her ill-faded slow mind. This suspicion, her mistrust for the most part of most people and situations, he tried to see this in her face, witness it when it came, and if and when it did, destroy it by changing his tone of voice, and reassuring her all things were fine, for he knew, real or not to him, it was real for her. Normally this was sufficient, it would repair whatever damage was about to take place. And quickly he'd find a second smile to assure her all was well, a smile, just a little smile would reduce the terror she might be enduring, he knew this, and so he tried to keep the smile that wanted to be a grin on his face. But business was often times written on his face, yet not today, everything was off his face, everything but love and caring and a sternness to save his daughter, to ride the red horse of battle out of the abyss. He was by nature a business man, a serious man; but his world knew there was no one to take his daughter's place in his heart, her husband even knew that. And of course he used it to his advantage, financially as well as egoistically. But then, he was of the same nature she was, but somewhat different—his paranoia was the opposite of hers, he boasted to build himself up, to announce to the world he wasn't of such a nature, and played his disorder down—it was his way of dealing with an unwanted mental condition. It would seem he had no god, no future either: whereas, she was baptized a Christian, but had left it somewhat behind when she married him. But today, he was praying silently to his Christian God, over and over he was praying for one, just one more foot. If he could move the earth, today was the day to do it, and he prayed it would be moved, and at any cost.
So he stood there, his head solid against the wild dark wind trying to dominate the air, twisting it around him, as it whipped him, but he pushed against it as if in a boxing match; the blazing winds, and height of gthe swirling water was like a war cycle: it started up, and hit like a battalion of men bombarding, then pull back, and now God moved the earth, a bit, and he had his moment to pull her up a few feet with hell at rest. Not taking his eyes off his Jean-lee, not even for a second here and there, there was no here and there, it was all near and present. As the rope dangled about, the 20-feet or so he had pulled her up slowly—to her it seemed like an enormous distance to have to haul her up—he did not say that, she thought it. And he did not show it in his face, she did, she showed it in her face, she had counted inch by inch, dangling all the way, trying to stay stationary so the rope would not twist, or break. He also thought how nice it would be for them to get home and have a hot evening meal, some chicken soup, with big pieces of chicken in it, whole pieces of chicken with noodles, quoins, and the broth would be fully-yellow, and full of flavor, heavy yellow-broth, with big noodles. He wanted to share it with her, as he had tried to share whatever life had given him in the past with her.
Now he and the daughter watched the last few steps of the ascension, the last inches with unspeakable silence—the dragon was out of the wind for the moment—: then her heart started pounding in disbelief that they might mike it; his heart seemed to stop beating, for they both held their breath—silently holding their breath, no one said a word, not one little word, they even thought the storm was silent, yet it was anything but silent—it just didn't move, it was most a violent holding back of the storm, you could feel it, like the beast was tied to the bottom of the river; in all respects: they did not hear it, not at this very moment: —as she reached out for his hand, his eyes opened up wide—ox-eyes they looked like: resembling golf-balls (he felt: is it really, really happening; more a statement than a question, he knew it was happening). Placing her bare foot, her cold and trembling foot, white and wrinkled from the water, putting it onto the wooded shingle edge of the roof, reaching out for a more secure grab of her father's hand, they both, at the same time let out the carbon dioxide they were holding inside their lungs—it raced out with a gulp (she saw first his ugly painful scores on his face, but would not remember them for month, it was just a flicker of a moment she saw then, with painful eyes). She slipped her hands, both her hands as her foot secured a touch onto the roof, her hands grabbed his forearm, it seemed stronger to her, it was as if it was a shinning beam of light, it was so natural to grab, strong looking, more invulnerable; now the second foot dangling behind her, started to crawl up a bit to the wooden edge of the roof—feeling its way like a fish on playing with a hook: as she braced it onto the roof with the other foot, and forearm, the same forearm she found a steady footing with before, now for both feet, a balance came; as the house behind her, her hut that is, her only place, her little haven, shanty, wiggle like a match-box, it then started sinking into the mud, and the rope, like a snake (still tied to the chimney) she let go of.
Then a crash was heard, as one side of her house fell apart, one of the 4x4's couldn't hold the walls up any longer; she now grabbed her father around the waist strongly—letting go of the forearms: a long, long hug it seemed to be, both now embracing one another, yet it was but a moment, a short moment at best, in the life of moments, that is; yet the longest moment of his life, he would by no means, eternally forget this moment. She stepped a half foot forward, as her father stepped a half foot back, she seemed to be surprised she did it, she actually did it she made it up twenty-feet plus, to the top of the roof, and the smile on her face and her fathers face was from ear to ear, she was proud, and her father's face said he was proud, proud of the moment, proud of her, and then she looked down, the house was sinking, sinking: water rushing through the floor-boards now, then she untied the rope around her waist, dropping it, once and for all, as it hung from the chimney, over the edge of the roof, and down into the water—like a snake; and again, darkness befell the earth. It seemed the rope could swim—as if it had a life of its own, as he witnessed it slapping the water, floating a bit, sinking, and the wind shifting it to and fro. It had been her life line, or at least, half her life line, her father being the other half, and God. But the journey was but half over, seemingly, it looked like the worse was over anyhow.
She looked once again at her father's dominate face, not in panic, not because she was anxious of the sinking house, but to see if he was happy, pleased of her good job, the job, the trials she had done by following his orders: she witnessed her father's face delighted, a profound relief, a calmness had come over it, the boils, perforations that seemed to cover them when she first looked up at him from down in the sinking house were gone, even the darkness around his eyes that looked like someone had earlier painted them a shadow-darkness was disappearing (but they were there, she just didn't see them now, she would later, when she looked back at today), as if Halloween were gone; she couldn't find any disappointment, the thing she most dreaded when she looked at his face, anyone's face, but his face would always hurt her the most, was if she saw disappointment on it. As he noticed her do this, he smiled, and smiled, and smiled, and each and every one was real, a true, honest, and thank-God smile:
"No problem baby, we made it, OK!" she nodded her head yes.
She said with relief on her face:
"O…K!, daddy, now what?" Quenching her eyes from the pounding wind and rain—, which seemed to start up automatically, drenching them both, they hugged again (a sigh appeared from her lungs), and a strong gust of wind caught them both off balance—
and then he heard a splash in the water and the daughter looked at her father, saying: "He's telling me to leave; he'll see me later ('to go')?" She hesitated, looked at him again, dumbfounded, speechless, with a frozen stare, standing alone now on the roof:
"—look at me, LOOK AT ME, go oo!!" her father yelled: shouted, "Go north, north, north (pointing his hand and finger directly toward the State Capitol (some six blocks away); he hesitated a moment to wipe the water out from his mouth, the rain from his eyes, and confirmed inasmuch of a directive as he could,
"Go north! I'll catch up with you later!!"
said the daughter, wild-eyed and thunderstruck, save for the fact she could see her father remotely in the dark-thickness:
"Why are you telling me (pause) to leave?"
But all she heard was the words: go north; fifty-times or so she heard it until he lost his strength, and then a murmuring: "I'll catch up with you."
Funny she heard that plain as day, as if it was reveled out of death somehow, in a fancy way—and that was all he said. Next, she carefully turned around and made her way slowly, and timidly to the chimney keeping her hands out as if to balance her weight against the winds, the echo of '…go north,' still in her brain. She was even saying now to herself, 'Go north, that is straight ahead, got to go north, by the Capitol, and go farther than that, until when I see Albemarle Street, then go north on that until I get to 1094, 1094, 1094. Dad will catch up with me, he'll be with me soon, he always does, he said so, and he always has his reasons. He
told
me
so,
he told me so …oooo!!!!!'
'Go north, go north,' the echo came and never seemed to quite leave her brain. She found her way down to the ground from the roof, a few steps to the cliff, then she seen the iron staircase that lead up to the main part of the city, thirty feet up from the levee—safe from the torrential-rains, there she went, up the iron flight of steps to the top where the buildings were, looking back every four or five steps, wanting to go back, but hearing the words: "Go north, north, look at me, look at me—Go North!'. And she knew that look, it was a stern look, a fearsome look, it scared her a bit, but he hugged her, and so he must love her, but that look was hard, a very hard stern look the one that said, and meant, to do exactly, without question, as I say: go north, look at me. And she did 'look at him,' and she was 'going north.' She told herself, 'I'll be ok, because I always am when he tells me something.'
'He'll catch up with me soon, just keep going north,' she mumbled to herself on and on. 'He wanted me to leave him, yah, yaw, he told me so, he really did…he even got angry, I think… [?]' She said in a bewildered voice. She now could see, the First National Bank, with its towering and mighty look—its bulky monstrous face, it stood out in the St. Paul skyline, like a pale horse, then she knew the Capital was north of that. She really didn't know such thinks as or by north and south, only that her dad put the Capitol in the same sentence, the same frame, picture as north—and therefore, north must be by the Capitol, and she knew what direction it was in because she could see it, especially after seeing the bank, the Capitol was a little to the left, a few blocks and straight north—or straight ahead. She crossed Kellogg Street now, down Robert Street passing 4th Street, she was walking at a fast pace.
See Dennis' books at http://www.alldirect.com or http://www.alibris.com |
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