House of Gold (45 page)

Mark allowed Seamus to drink homemade beer, but only after testing six large steins to ascertain the purity of the local brew, a robust little barley number called Bear Rock Wolfbrau. Its bouquet contained a slight hint of potato.

The newlyweds' song was O Danny Boy–because it was the only song Mark Johnson knew by heart–and he rendered it sweetly in his halting
tenor, accompanied by Seamus James Johnson.

Buzz began to cry, his dulcet bride in his arms, as they swayed to the Irish standard.

"What is it, Buzz?" Ellie asked, lifting a hand to his face, wiping a tear with her thumb.

"Reminds me of Tim Penny, that's all. The parties. Opus Dei Bill. Hal, all of them. All our friends from the old life. I still miss them. Mel, too. Mel most of all. I fell in
love with Mel on Tim and Marie's porch."

They stopped moving, and she hugged her husband, whispering into his ear like a good wife.

Ellie remembered her best friend, Mel, and how Buzz was all she had left of the red elfin terror, and she was glad he wasn't letting the cross become too far removed from the day's resurrection.

+  +  +

Like all good weddings, the hour grew nigh, and the Woodwards
retreated to the honeymoon suite below the crest of the Henderson Swell, on Dead Diamond River Road, in the town of Bagpipe, New Hampshire.

+  +  +

Buzz carefully unbuttoned his red shirt, then placed it on the virgin sheets of the bed, all the while looking at her across the room. He was still wearing his khakis and the white undershirt.

Every day is a long walk,
he thought, his mellowness mixing
with a warm kindling.

He was seeing her, facing away from him, standing on the other side of the room, by the dresser, still wearing her wedding gown, her blond hair glistening in the candlelight as she lowered her neck, then reached up fluently to pull her locks free from their bonds. The earrings sparkled, then disappeared beneath her golden tress. She left one hand on her shoulder, waiting.

He cleared his mind.

He prayed one Hail Mary.

He knew Ellen was waiting for him.

She was waiting for him to take the first step.

He was waiting for himself, too, partly because he had a habit of not hurrying, a habit beaten into him during the long walk to Bagpipe. In a world without time, there was no need to rush–at least not until the potatoes were in the root cellar.

He was nervous, too, and
she was the most beautiful girl ever, newborn, as all brides are.

He thanked God for this perfect diamond.

The feel of his hand on the back of her satin dress during the waltzes had been different today than at Sam's wedding. The dress had been looser this time, not as tight on his finger-tips. This detail didn't really matter, except that he was Buzz, and he could not help knowing these details.

He took the first step; then another.

Then he was there, and she turned her head, her-shoulders, but did not turn around, and he moved closer, enveloping her with his arms, and they kissed each other the way a brother and sister never kiss, lingering.

Not hurrying.

The new stirring was here to consume them. They could tell, and it was a relief–a gift. Mark had pulled them off the jetty and carried
them to this warm sand.

However, the old yearning was there, too.

She pulled her sweet head away, her eyes closed, but still wrapping tight her arms over his arms, as he stood behind her.

Knowing, he moved an open hand onto her womb, and his other onto her ribs.

"I'm barren," was all she whispered.

He knew exactly what to say, trusting the flush on her face more than her words.

As she knew he
would.

"Not to me," he replied, oh so gently, in a whisper from his soul. "You are my house of gold. A Trinity within. So take the walk with me. Be mine, Ellie."

A practiced husband, he waited.

An experienced, practical woman, she took the yearning from her shoulders, and placed it upon his. He was a big, strong man, tough as they come, she knew, in love with heavy plows.

It was okay.

Eyes still
closed, Ellie drew her lips to her lover's, and allowed a warm wave to wash into shore.

After a time, still standing, to complete the sacrament, she allowed him to unbutton the satin pearls on the back of her gown.

Hands shaking, he drew her golden mane to one shoulder, then lightly, gently kissed her neck three times in a melody of silence, then pulled the white curtain from her; he beheld the
cream-colored skin of her shoulders, her back, then washed his fingertips upon this warm coast with a tender, refreshing wave, until she shuddered, eyes closed.

Anticipating tidal flows.

She turned completely, a word, wordless. No longer waiting, prepared for the consummation of grace.

She received the totality of his hands next, then more of him, as he discovered the rest of her, according to
the perfection of a divine plan.

+  +  +

The two-thousandth and first year of Our Lord came, but the lights stayed on this time. It's mighty difficult to blow out lanterns and candles all at once, much less the sun–that great-big-clock–which still burned beyond the blow of men.

Apparently, some never learned, for in the south, where there were still wars and rumors of wars, even after the fall
of the Tower of Silicon-Babylon, men were attempting to bring back the electricity.

Not in Bagpipe.

+  +  +

In January, a hand-carried letter arrived from the new bishop of Manchester (his predecessor, who had stayed in the city with his flock, did not survive the Troubles).

Father Anthony McAndrew's humble request to be assigned to Saint Francis Xavier parish was officially approved, under the
conditions that he also serve the mission church in Errol, and the old Frenchman in Colebrook, if asked.

+  +  +

In February, while his wife was at the Monastery teaching Seamus math, Buzz descended into their basement with a hammer and a drywall knife.

Behind a picture of Saint Anthony in his office, after a little pounding and sawing, he took out a box and a container.

He got the eggs from Tommy,
and the milk from Old Bessy (he just couldn't help himself when it came to naming that blessed cow). He baked it at the Monastery after she came back to the house.

Later that evening, he presented her with a Duncan Hines chocolate cake covered with premium honest-to-goodness double-chocolate frosting from the best source for frosting in the history of mankind–some long-since-defunct factory back
in the butt-end of the twentieth century.

"Happy Birthday!" he shouted.

Mark, Shay, Tommy, and the priest busted up from the basement, hollering manly, gleeful shouts. That stupid song began, all tenors and bass.

She broke down and cried, right there at the table.

"Buzz, you bastard," she moaned, hiding her face in her forearms.

Frowns all-around.

"Men–everywhere!" she cried. "We need more women
on the swell or I'm going to lose my mind."

She lifted her head from her arms, eyes burning, daring them to look her in the eye.

No takers. They were all getting to know her well. Her three wise guys and a boy.

"But Honey, I don't understand–"

"Buzz, I'm forty, you idiot!"

Women,
each man thought in unison.

+  +  +

Buzz and Tommy started to go down to Errol once a week to begin establishing a
center for chiropractic medicine. Mark built him his first treatment table. Doctor Woodward took chickens, Zippos, venison, silver, candles, sewing needles, rock'n roll albums, paper, gold fillings–all sorts of valuable things, as payment.

He will be a healer,
the old nun had prophesied about him in Blackstone, in a much darker world, a world where lights like Sister Emmanuel had shone brightest.
These healings he gave, like the one the nun had given him, filled Buzz with hope.

Ellie and his friends got freebies, of course. Buzz adjusted her back in the mornings, and then gave her a massage every evening, after praying the Rosary or after the marital sacrament (whichever came first), except on Sundays, when she gave him a massage.

She was a quick study. Her fingers were not strong enough
yet, but when it came time to pound with her fists, she was first rate. First rate.

He treated her in silence, as was her preference. As he placed his hands on her shoulders, then her back, he prayed. She was a house of gold, and he adored the Trinity within.

+  +  +

During the winter, at daily Mass, they prayed for God's protection against the killer flus, which were still taking their deadly
tolls in the towns, although not as severely. Perhaps those with natural immunities were now in the majority; the local economies were coming back, so there was food again (and less mouths to feed, Ellie often thought sadly).

One afternoon, on the Ides of March, before spring came, Tommy Sample picked up his cousin from West Stewartstown, Harris Sample, and brought him up to the swell. Seems Harris's
lower back was in an awful mess–he could barely walk–and Buzz was happy to give him an adjustment. Three days later, Tommy received word that all three Sample boys had come down with the flu the day after Harris's treatment.

Two days later, Ellie Woodward began to vomit in the mornings. She sustained a mild temperature.

They prepared for the worst, and took her west to Colebrook to see the doctor
there. Now a few crude medicinal powders and herbal medicines were being used, with middling success, and there was a pocketful of ordinary hope for a recovery.

Ellie and Buzz had thought themselves immune. Perhaps this was a new strain, and she could fight it off. She knew how to fight.

Buzz and Mark went to the shrine to pray before the life-size, lovely white statue of Our Lady of Grace while
Tommy walked Ellie to the former motel across the way, where a medical center on State Route 3 had been founded by a husband-and-wife doctor team–an excellent location for serving the constant stream of wayfarers coming into Colebrook for trade and to make pilgrimage to the shrine.

Mark and Buzz knelt down before the statue.

It was a bright, chilly day with no wind. Buzz saw no flowers growing
on the grounds of the shrine. But they would be poking out soon.

"You okay, buddy?" Mark asked, taking out his beads.

"I'm fine," said Buzz.

"You sure?" Mark asked, skeptical.

His friend with the crewcut was a facile actor–like all New Jersey boys. Mark remembered losing his Maggie; he made the sign of the cross as his own, old wound opened up a little.

Probably eating him up inside,
Mark thought,
looking to Mary Immaculate.
They've been through hell, Mary. Let's give Buzz and Ellie a pass on this one–

"Mark, just cut the crap and pray your Rosary," Buzz interrupted. "There's a reason for everything. We just don't know it. You're the one who's always telling me not to sweat the small stuff. Well I'm telling you right now: don't sweat the big stuff, either."

Talking in riddles,
Mark thought.

But then, Buzz was a riddle, so Mark took him at his word–or they would never get this Rosary started.

Mark's skepticism was baseless. For Buzz, it was okay, it truly was.

If Buzz could find the Holy Trinity in Ellie, then he could find the Trinity everywhere, even at death's door, alone in the pines in the shadow of Magalloway Mountain, or in the face of a dying saint named Hal. In the lifeless
body of a baby named Grace. Even there. God was in there somewhere; even in Buzz's scarred soul. In every body's soul.

Simple.

It was time for Buzz to cut it down, this death-threat to his Ellie. Because he was who he was, and had been where he had been, hand to the plow, and had swung a bad axe his whole life.

If Ellie dies, Lord, that's okay. Thy will be done.

Buzz Woodward prayed in his usual
way, without much feeling, but with boatloads of faith, like a little kid with a broadsword on a beach, cutting down sand-dragons next to a jetty in the summer rain.

It's okay. It's okay if Ellie dies. I have no claim on her. I wasn't at the foundations of the world. I was in New Jersey. I'll offer Ellie back to you, Mary.

So bring it on. Thanks for letting me have her for such a long walk. Amen.

Like a little boy, he added a few things.

Oh yeah, Ellie's the best. I love her. Just give me a chance, and I'll walk around the world for her. Twice. For as many miles as the stars in the heavens I'll walk for my Ellie. Just for one smile, for just one look in her eyes, 'cause she's my house of–

"Buzz."

"Yeah Mark."

"Let's start the Rosary."

"Sorry, man. Yeah right. Let's go. I'm ready."

And he
was ready. Ready for anything.

Even nonsense like stars in the heavens.

The two Catholics began praying the Rosary out loud. Before they reached the second decade, they heard her shouts.

The two big men turned, jumped up.

There she was,-racing across the roadway, shouting wildly, her sweet golden hair aglimmer in the sun.

She was smiling hugely, calling his name.

"Buzz! My Buzz!"

Full of grace.
Full of life.

"You see," Buzz said, elbowing his friend. "I told you we had nothing to worry about."

"She sure seems happy–" Mark observed.

–but Buzz Woodward didn't hear him, because Buzz had guessed-her, and now Buzz knew the truth, the reason, and the reality, and was loping away from Mark, sprinting into another long journey–

Buzz knew the beautiful, lovely, warm, sweet, happy, wonderful truth
about her, so he ran and shouted inside, losing track of everything else around them–

My Ellie! My beautiful Ellie!

Buzz and Ellie collided right in front of the Little Flower's statue, and joined in a long, luxurious kiss, then kissed each other all over their cheeks, their eyes, their joyful tears, his hand cupping her face, her arms around his thick neck.

He lifted her like she was a little
girl, and spun her around time and again, as Mark walked toward them, completely baffled.