Family (11 page)

when i wake in the morning, angela is gone.

she has left no trace, no track.

no indication that she ever existed to begin with.

with her, my first
promotion
, my first task—

my first failure at the hands of Henry—

disappears.

it is a relief.

we don’t speak of her. none of us do.

certainly not Henry.

it is as though she were a mirage. a fun-house mirror-image.

a collective hallucination.

a cautionary tale.

today, we are told to clean.

today, Henry says, the ranch must be in pristine condition. immaculate.

He is expecting a visitor.

not another would-be sister, another shameless, empty imposter. another angela. nothing like that.

angela does not exist for us, for our
family
, anymore. she is a wisp, a whisper, a faint outline that fades against each rainfall.

it is almost as though she never existed at all.

today, Henry is expecting someone

important.

the music man who will widen our scope, our reach.

our orbit.

someone who can pull strings, can make things happen. someone who knows how to spread Henry’s music, Henry’s word.

Henry’s love.

someone who will send Henry’s message out and into the world, where it belongs. where it can be shared by all who seek joy. truth.

love.

someone who believes. who trusts.

someone who will widen our circle, burst the half-life open.

someone who will ionize our ironbound orbit.

someone to multiply the sticky netting of our family

exponentially.

it is time.

still. i have to wonder. how Henry made His connections.

His ties.

i understand, of course: His truth. His totality. the trail that He leaves with anyone that He deigns to touch.

just the shadow, the suggestion, the outline of Henry’s being is enough; He links people, bonds them, binds them irreversibly.

He
is.
our pied piper.

this, i know.

but still, i have to wonder.

about

the visitor.

about the man who, we are told, wants to spread Henry’s word. His message.

His
love
.

the ranch, as ever, is a disconnect. the ranch is neverland,

an imaginary playground.

our family is self-contained.

sequestered.

we have no windows,

looking out or in.

so how, then, does the visitor see us?

how did he find us?

where is Henry’s point of origin?

where does His orbit

begin?

and how far

do his ties

bind

?

Henry says that the city of angels is, in fact, full of phonies.

He says it brims with half-truths and doublespeak, bursts with sleek, snakelike parasites, crawls with yawning, searching, devouring mouths looking to bleed you dry. to swallow you whole.

looking to
consume
you.

los angeles is dirty, a house of cards coated in a thin veneer of pixie dust. a place where magic is mere trickery, and

“love” comes

cheap.

regardless, it is the most logical starting point for Him, for Henry:

los angeles.

it is a mecca, a point of origin for those who bear a message. it is littered with blank, important people who can make things happen.

if only they were people you could trust.

los angeles is filled with broken promises, unfulfilled premises, ersatz-everything. charlatans, hucksters, tricksters. folks looking for a fast break, an easy buck, an open door.

an
in
.

“whereas i,” Henry says,

“have always been

out.”

i don’t believe it, really. not quite.

i don’t, won’t,
cannot
fathom this notion, this ugly, aching whisper of a half-life.

this idea of Henry ever being
out
, that is.

the suggestion of Henry ever being pushed aside; being cast

away; being shuttled; swept off; shifted toward just beyond the endless, ageless, boundless horizon. being sent, spiraling, toward just past the limits of a collective, collapsing sight line.

Henry is everything, after all.

and
everything
is the opposite of
out.

but Henry says so. says that
it is so
. tells us how, time and again—

how,
infinitely—

He has been ushered to the wayside, carried to the outskirts, expelled. taken swiftly to the rough, rudderless edges of the undertow.

He understands our doubt, our disbelief, of course. our flawless, blinding, boundless faith in Him, in His eternity.

but. He reminds us:

this is how He first found us, after all. first came upon us. first understood us.

first
saw
us. first
knew
.

us.

each of us. all of us.

this

outside, this undertow—this is how He sharpened His consciousness, His perception, His
now
.

His

orbit.

this is how He honed His pinprick-precise, razoredged gaze. how He learned to best reflect the core, the coiled, curdled chasm of our inner mirror-selves.

how He uncovered our wants. how He collected us. how He gathered all of the

wandering, wondering bodies, the drifting, shiftless members of our ever-growing

group.

this is where the recognition, the
yes, now, always
began.

this space, this in-between place—

this tangled tip of our universe’s boundaries,

the horizon,

the craggy, quivering gap

just beyond the limits of our vision—

this
is the point of origin.

this
is where the orbit spun into being, where the ions charged to life. how the shimmering, yawning vortex began its

deep, fierce, inescapable

outward spiral.

so Henry says. to us. it is how He explains. how He gathers us back, pulls us away from the thorny, knotted edges of any ankle-deep doubt. from the muck, the rot, the mire.

it is how He herds us back toward His circle, back into His consciousness. back toward the sanctum of His orbit, His
always
, His infinite, ever-outward spiral.

and Henry’s orbit—

His half-life, His atmosphere—

His
word
.

is.

always
.

truth. peace.

love.

i open myself to Him,

toward Him.

to Henry.

for
Henry.

still.

now.

always
.

at night,

each night,

when He will have me:

i offer my hollow places.

i still don’t quite believe Him,

still am not wholly convinced of the rejection

He so casually references,

of His

preaching,

His detailing of a

feeble,

fractured

conscience.

of blurred but binding boundaries, of a life—

His
life, sometime in the unspoken before—

on the outside, the outskirts.

after all,

there is no
outside of—

can be no
alternative to—

this space,

this collective sphere,

that

we all

have come to know

as Henry’s atmosphere.

His half-life.

His infinite

now
.

so.

i open myself.

unfold.

for Him.

toward Him.

always

Him.

Henry.

i expose the howling, hollow places,

offer up the gentle, raw,

in-between spaces.

i listen for sounds.

His
sounds.

His word.

His music.

His

His love.

i listen.

for Him.

and He comes to me.

i am not alone, of course.

my folds and fissures are not the only hollows, the only fault lines that Henry knows.

i am never alone with Henry, not since He first found me, first came upon me, crumpled, crouched, pulling back. first saw me cringing, collapsing inward. since He first recognized that i was

little more than antimatter, a supernova amidst disintegration, imploding, unfurling, giving way to an ever-deepening black hole.

giving way to despair.

there is no
alone
on the ranch.

on the ranch, life is full to bursting. life on the ranch overflows.

life on the ranch is
everyone, always, now
.

we may all have been ignored, abandoned, rejected by the

blank, important visitor,

but we still have our

truth.

our love.

our center.

our rudder.

our

Henry.

we are

conjoined,

ephemeral,

infinite.

gathered.

waiting, awaiting:

more message,

more truth.

more love.

His
love.

we are

family.

we are patient.

gathered.

we awaken,

we await.

we are quiet, clustered.

bathed in shadow and smoke.

swathed in starlight.

biding our time.

expectant.

Henry has a message,

a truth.

a measure of love to dole out,

to deliver.

and we

are

open.

the visitor has not arrived.

the

important music man

that Henry hopes will spread

our message—

the
family’s
message—

he has not been by to tour our tattered, winding wonderland. to take in, to drink down our collective, fractured fantasy

in our ersatz-everything ranch.

no one has come

to see us.

to hear us.

to hear
Him.

to listen

to Henry’s

word.

to revel in His

love.

on the first day, Henry awaits, ever hopeful, ever aware. perches on the stoop of the general store, drums graceful fingers against worn-in jeans.

smiles.

knows.

everything.

every secret tucked within every hollow space.

on the first day, the ranch is still immaculate.

pristine.

gleaming with promise and anticipation.

Henry says:

there is no
i
, no
ego.

Henry teaches that all we need is us:

our
family.

but by the third day of waiting, His grin falters at the corners.

by the third day without our visitor,

without a promise of a higher calling,

a platform, Henry’s forehead

is a road map of worry.

Henry’s lips purse together with an expression so foreign to Him that at first, i hardly recognize the emotion:

concern.

and by the third day, high desert winds have kicked a fine coating of dust over the surface of our surroundings

so that we are no longer

clean.

cocooned within a threadbare sheet

flanked by
family

i inhale

breathe in starlight,

charged particles,

antimatter

and choke back

doubt.

through the thin layer of fabric that

swaddles me,

shelly’s ribs expand

and contract,

press against my own.

she sleeps soundly,

her rhythms,

her pulse, smooth,

safe.

all of our sisters—

tucked tightly into warm, worn nests—

sleep soundly.

smooth.

safe.

while i:

inhale.

breathe in dusk,

studs of starlight

antimatter

and choke back

doubt.

alone

amidst my family,

breathing my own ragged staccato,

i listen for sounds.

whispers.

they come to me,

unbidden.

once the campfire has been snuffed,

once Henry has chosen

and our family—

all of our fractured, shrieking bodies—

have been tucked tightly,

nestled into

worn, warm linens—

that is the hour

when the sounds come to me,

unbidden.

when the truth

seeps.

slithers.

wraps itself around my ankles

like seaweed,

rotted,

washed up at the water’s edge

by the force of the roiling tide.

as i skate the knife-edge

between conscious and sleep,

between wake and trance,

between

worry
and

safety,

a truth floats to the surface.

it dances like a whisper.

like a secret.

like a code.

at night,

when our barn is shadowed

in lace patterns of moonlight,

junior and leila

speak in code.

they perch on the covered porch

just outside our sleeping quarters.

they think

we are—

all of us—

asleep.

but

i can hear

the

whispers.

streaked,

split open

by the empty creak

of a shaky, spindly rocker—

i can hear the whispers,

their
whispers,

all too well.

the secret goes:

leila and junior:

they worry.

about Henry’s message,

His word.

they fear the music man

has forsaken us,

leaving us precious few ways

to peddle, to spread

to
deliver

our word,

our prayer,

our gospel,

into the world.

leila sighs.

the squeak of her chair is a protest.

she says,

“Henry’s getting restless.”

restless.

the word sizzles on her tongue.

“wouldn’t you be?” junior asks. “that man was supposed to come. supposed to listen. to make a recording of Henry’s music.”

a beat, a pause, in which i imagine tented fingers, a reflective gaze into the inky, empty darkness.

(so familiar are the outlines of junior’s body, his boundaries, to me by now.)

“money from the music would’ve gone a long way.”

the tapping of a work boot against a buckled, softened wooden slat. the sound of force and friction, of solid things, set to spoil.

“money would’ve meant we could stop dealing. or maybe, that we could stay here at the ranch forever.”

i can’t see leila’s face, of course,

beyond the image unspooling

in my mind’s eye

,

but the hitch,

the moment, is

deadly.

potent.

“it’s not about the money,” she says, and her voice is tight.

“it’s about Henry’s message.”

junior chuckles, a rattling sound.

“yeah, and you think that’s gonna pay our way around here? you think emmett’s just gonna give us a free ride forever?”

his laugh is the cranking of a windup toy.

“fine,” leila says. her voice is clipped. “fair enough.

but:

Henry is as close to god

as anything i’ve ever known.

He
is.

so:

it’s not about money;

it’s about the
message.

the
word.

the
truth.”

“it’s about making all those people take notice,” junior says, his windup-toy laugh turning over in the midnight air.

it sounds like maybe he is agreeing with leila.

but maybe he is saying something else entirely.

something
more.

something different.

something dangerous.

maybe it is—

money.

maybe it
is,

truly,

music.

or maybe it is,

even—

still,

yet,

love.

pure

and

bright:

love.

maybe.

but whatever

the cause

the catalyst

Henry cannot be

cast

aside.

whispers leak and trickle,

creeping toward me.

there is a tidal shift

slowly gathering force.

swift, almost imperceptible.

it rides,

it weaves,

it stings and burrows,

salt water, seaweed,

and other sunken things.

i hear the rush, the shower

within the parentheses—

the negative spaces—

of junior’s and leila’s

whispers.

there is no such thing as

free love.

there is no denying Henry.

and when we gather force,

knit together—

fuse—

there will be no

ignoring

our

family.