CHAPTER ONE

THE MEETING

It was a weekend in September when I decided that what I was about to do must occur prior to daybreak the following Monday. I believed that I owed a final goodbye to my father and didn’t want to leave a note for fear that it might never be read.

One may expect I would have gone instead to my devout mother. Better that she explain it to herself after the act, I reasoned, rather than confront the dark truth head-on. Having spent my formative years in her shadow, and being their only child, it was no surprise to friends or family how I chose to spend my life.

My resolve drew breath the Sunday morning an elderly widow waited behind in the sanctuary while I stood at its door bidding good day to the congregants.

It was a new pastorate for me in a farming community parish comprising three dozen or so members, none of whom had inquired about my past. Each Sunday one of the women, unseen, placed a cooked meal at my study door. I’d look out across the faces during the service, imagining who it might be. But my impulse was innocent, for I solemnly assumed the role as their shepherd.

Until that week I had awakened to an emerging crisis of faith. Initially, it wasn’t that I doubted the existence of God but was tormented by an insidious will to suspect the miraculous Virgin Birth. I consoled myself by repeating, “This too shall pass.” But once the doubting commenced, each passing day it felt like the whole foundation of my faith had begun to crumble.

Then, it was as if God himself appeared before me one evening, challenging, Why not me?

And I replied, Why not?

Come morning, there was only myself, and I knew not who he was.

That Sunday when I ascended the pulpit, I looked out over the expectant parishioners and froze. Panic-stricken, I blurted, “Let us pray.” But no homilies came forth. I raised my head, gesturing that I was at a loss for what to do, but the congregation’s heads remained bowed. Occasionally someone looked up and, seeing me staring in anguish at them, would bend back down.

Then a church elder raised his head and mouthed—Say Amen.

But how could I?

I was an imposter standing there before them . . . and sought refuge by returning to the pastor’s chair.

Now several heads were lifted, gesturing—Say Amen.

One crusty old farmer volubly uttered, “For Chrissake, say AMEN!”

Finally I stood and cried the word.

At that moment, I experienced an epiphany: Parson Ethan Mueller was but a mere ingredient in their hallowed Sabbath ritual.

Oh, I understood that the congregants didn’t view me that way any more than how I perceived the esteemed role I played in their lives. But it could have been virtually anybody on that pulpit—and in truth, wasn’t I?

I concluded the service by reading a sermon lifted from a homiletics text off my shelves that morning. A hot lunch still awaited me in the pews.

Ina Gresham’s husband, Jacob, had passed away that spring. Once all the parishioners had departed, I sat down alongside her. It was immediately apparent that she was in distress.

“What is it, Ina? What is troubling you?”

“I’ve lost my will to live,” she said. Unlike Jacob she chose her words sparingly.

I sat there mute.

We were in the house of the Lord.

But the truth paralyzed me.

I clasped her hand, uttering, “I understand.” Removing my clerical robe, I placed it on the altar and accompanied her to the door.

How could I lie to her?

For God and Nothing have a lot in common. You look either one of Them straight in the eye for a second and the immediate effect on the human constitution is the same.1

As I drove away, I glanced back at the country church, its dooryard of white gravestones—like salt licks—most inscriptions worn away by time. I thought of the Sundays I stood in its pulpit and prayed for salvation for myself and my parishioners.

The LORD bless thee, and keep thee: The LORD make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee: The LORD lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.

Except the Benediction failed to rise to the surface this morning.

And that twilight, alone in my room, I confessed that my appraisal of myself as their revered pastor had been grossly inflated.

Perhaps Ina Gresham had ascertained that truth and lingered behind to shepherd me through the dark passage of self awareness, for my name hung on a placard outside Grace Church’s oxblood-red entry doors.

I had replaced its deceased cleric.

Amen, please, Pastor.

In my now pitch-black room I asked the next question:

Who am I, God?

I could have climbed the three steps to that pulpit for years. The babies christened would grow up and marry then return with their spouses to the pews. Catechism classes plus the countless nights I would have sat vigil at the bedsides of the sick and dying. How often I would have ministered to the troubled in heart and Spirit. And the most humbling task of all: administering the Eucharist where I was most alive in the moment.

Except now it was I who was lost.

The person who I believed I was had up and vacated me that morning in the sanctuary. Even the Bible verses . . . I could recall none save Jesus wept.

And what had begun as a moment of panic when no homilies or Bible verses were forthcoming—

When I sought refuge in prayer but was now uncertain to whom or what I was praying—

When I became speechless in the house of the Lord—

Before daybreak in the confines of my room, I witnessed the demise of Pastor Ethan Mueller who had cloaked himself in all the trappings of life everlasting.

I was loath to even look in the mirror at myself for fear I’d be moved to recite the Benediction as he receded into the shadows.

I could no longer inquire in good conscience—Who am I, God?

For those were Pastor Mueller’s words. No longer mine.

All those beliefs had perished with him.

From childhood, I’d trusted that I had been created in the image and likeness of God, whose only begotten Son resided in my heart. Now I was its only tenant.

By phone, I asked that my father meet me at the tavern he frequented each morning after he bought the day’s newspapers. That Saturday afternoon, I joined him in a booth in the rear of its dimly lit interior.

Forgoing small talk, I told him that I loved him and then came right out with it:

“I no longer know who I am, Papa. It’s as if the person you and Mother raised has walked away from me.”

He nodded. “Who do you think that person is, Ethan?”

“I don’t know. But I’ve come to say goodbye.”

“And the country church parson?”

“He was an imposter. Just as I am.”

“Please let Mother know—but not before.”

Evincing no emotion, he nodded and, to my surprise, lifted his glass in a gesture as if we were to toast each other. I obliged, and we each broke out in nervous laughter. Then we sat motionless, him staring at the empties before looking up.

“Ethan, I have something to share with you.”

I wasn’t prepared for what he asked.

“I want you to meet me out at the park, say, around ten tomorrow morning. I won’t attempt to talk you out of it, but you owe your mother and me a few additional hours. I need the extra time to prepare.”

The Gorge boasted age-old amusement rides, Dodgems, and a wooden roller coaster in addition to a grand pavilion dance hall and several picnic tables, all situated alongside a creek called Big Run. We were to meet at one of those tables.

He held out his hand. “Do I have your word?”

I didn’t reply.

“Please,” he said. “You’ll understand why.”

I nodded.

“Cross your heart and . . .”

I grinned, murmuring, “. . . hope to die.”

Prior to falling asleep that night, I reflected on the satisfying moments we’d just spent, asking myself, Why now?

At ten o’clock on Sunday, I parked my car and walked through the seasonally boarded-up midway to the stand of giant elm trees and the forlorn picnic tables. With no cloud cover, the sun glanced brilliantly off the creek coursing within a stone’s throw. Hatless and wearing a cloth jacket with its zipper open, he sat as if lost in thought. Beside him, a cardboard box with a lid, the kind in which office supplies are stored, and a journal whose leather cover showed signs of wear.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“Keeping your promise.”

I chortled. “Funny, isn’t it?”

“She trained you well.”

He offered me a cigarette. I refused, gesturing to the box and the journal.

“The why of our meeting here this morning,” he explained.

I sat facing him as he pulled two faded photographs from his shirt pocket, each of a woman holding a child in her arms. In one she is standing before a towering willow tree with a modest clapboard house in the background and could very well be mistaken for an older aunt because of her matronly dress and the distinct strands of gray hair at her temples. Moreover, the smile playing at her lips is not that of a new mother’s delight . . . but nonetheless one of affection. In the second photograph, she is sitting in the passenger side of a 1930s Dodge sedan with its door open wide and the child on her lap who is attired in striped shorts and a matching shirt with, I venture, Buster Brown oxfords and white anklets. The unexpressive gentleman beside her has both hands on the wheel as if he were still driving.

“I know them well,” I said.

“Yes, but you were never told who was missing from the photographs.”

He stared at me, waiting for my response.

“I’m not understanding,” I said.

“Another family member,” he replied.

“Of ours?”

He nodded.

Speechless, I felt utterly bewildered.

“Your brother, Ethan.”

“Mine?”

Locking eyes with me, and as if ashamed: “Yes.”

I stepped away from the table.

“What’s his name? Where is he? Why wasn’t I told?”

Papa stared at me noncommittally.

“He’s dead?”

Overcome by a rush of emotions over a deceased sibling, for a moment I forgot my own tribulations.

He slid the leather journal across the table to me. “You must read this, Ethan. It will only take you a couple minutes. Then we’ll talk.”

On first glance, it appeared that what I was about to read had been meticulously printed with an ink pen from a finished draft. There were no cross-outs, and the journal’s remaining pages were blank.

GREEN LIGHTS IN JELLY JARS (excerpt)
by
Christopher Daugherty

The green 1950 Mercury sedan’s rear window was festooned with decals of iconic western tourist attractions like the Hoover Dam, Grand Canyon, and Golden Gate Bridge. The car dealer professed its former owner had only desired to attend these places. I purchased the vehicle prior to laws governing the clocking of odometers. This one read an innocent ten thousand miles.

Truthfully, I’d little choice. My car suffered grave transmission problems disguised with a sawdust-and-oil magma. I wagered that the Mercury would travel several hundred more miles than I knew the wounded trade-in could. Whereas, on this humid Saturday in July, the dealer wagered that my Pontiac parked in front of his lot with its cream leather interior and top down would attract an unsuspecting buyer fast.

Driving away, I began to imagine that the Mercury’s backseat side windows had once been affixed with gaudy decals too. And would I discover brochures under the seats or in the trunk? Stopping for gas, I noticed that not one tire tread matched and two were vulcanized no-names.

But none of this mattered any longer.

I only needed the vehicle to run until I could paste one more decal on it. Not literally, but in my mind, one that I’d slap over the yellow-and-blue-sky Golden Gate decal.

Mine would be a modest rendering of a skeletal truss bridge spanning the Allegheny just before that river and the Monongahela River joined to form the mighty Ohio. I was driven to discover how many times I could cross it with no headlights after dark, how close on each pass I could steer the car to the bridge’s edge without skinning its railing . . . at what point in one of the passages, I pondered, would the vehicle assume a mind of its own and vault the parapets?

Parked alongside the river that Saturday at dusk, I recall waiting for darkness to envelop downtown Pittsburgh while listening to Stan Kenton perform “Artistry in Rhythm” and “Tenderly” from some ballroom in Ohio, Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie out of Los Angeles, and Johnnie Ray warbling “The Little White Cloud That Cried.” That one started me laughing.

Then Chet Baker crooned as if his voice had escaped from a slit throat.

A series of acid-green bulbs encased in jelly jars outlined the bridge’s railing. River barges, appearing to be illuminated by the very same lights, moved downstream-upstream.

The dashboard of the Mercury glowed a fiery orange.

When the sky turned pitch-black, I commenced the runs, maneuvering the bedizened-by-wonders-of-the-48 alongside the glowing jars . . . while crooning “Misty.”

I saw my father cry once. That’s when Franklin D. Roosevelt died.

It was the only tangible evidence to rely on when I phoned him later that grim night, rousing him out of bed.

“It’s me,” I said. “Doing something I shouldn’t. I can’t stop.”

Grown-up—probably twenty-six—yet thinking that the next pass was probably going to be my last. Could he detect that over the phone lines? I mean to say, could he smell how frightened I was?

“Where are you, son?”

“Racing back and forth across the Allegheny in a forest-green Mercury with mohair seats, the driver’s side now very wet, as am I.”

“Hold on, hold on,” he kept murmuring.

“Time’s up,” I said. “Time’s up, Dad.”

“Wait a minute. Now just a minute. What are you doing on the bridge?”

“Seeing how close I can get to the edge? Have you seen the green lights in jelly jars? Ever tried to skin them without their exploding into a thousand pieces of light?”

Deposit another five cents, please.

Oh, Christ, wasn’t that a joke?

“I’m warbling like Chet Baker, explaining to the woman I ain’t got another cent in my pocket—and time’s up?”

I started cracking up when I heard him speak in a measured voice to the operator. “This is an emergency, lady. My number is 7-6208, Sharon exchange. Charge it to me.” I could hear him mutter, “My boy’s in some kind of distress.” She kept repeating, Five cents, please, deposit another five cents. “Christ, can’t you hear me, lady? Santa Muerte, festooned with green lights, is winging my kid across the dark Allegheny—and they’re about to merge with the fucking Ohio! It’ll be in all the papers in the morning if you don’t let us continue this conversation.”

Then nothing.

All we could hear was each other taking air. And for what seemed a whole minute, surely a dime’s worth, we breathed heavy, sucked wind, scrambling away from Mr. Taps.

’Cause that’s who’d jumped into the passenger’s side. Couldn’t I see his Alice-blue shoes? The filter tip snuffed out in the puddle of piss on the floorboards? The once-unblemished Mercury I’d coveted for its pock-free chromium bumpers and forest-green paint job, fantasizing that an aging matron had motored in it to the Big Orange, a swain at the wheel singing “Let’s Get Lost”?

Jesus, she loved that car. Loved that man.

A trumpet bird whose siren song had lured me over the parapets of the skeletal bridge.

Then I heard my father ask me if I was still there.

“Yes,” I said. “Oh, Christ, yes I’m still here.”

“Always keep a pocket full of nickels. Promise me, boy?”

“Time’s not up,” I said.

Closing the journal, I looked out at Big Run rippling over man-sized ice age boulders in its path. He lit another cigarette.

“It’s him,” he said. “Westley Mueller. As far as I am aware, he is still very much alive despite my not having seen him for years.”

Could I have met him without knowing it?

“He’d fallen out with your mother, who’d begun accusing him early on in high school of taking after me. I did know other women. But to her, life and all its earthly pleasures were to be scorned for the promise of entering the kingdom of heaven at one’s passing . . . which, of course, I found totally alien.

“Westley turned on her. Said she was suffocating him in God’s name. Then one day he never returned home from school. Not even a note. She suffered no apparent anguish in declaring him dead. ‘Better this way,’ she kept repeating to herself. And here we are.”

I tried to envision my “dead” brother sitting alone at the picnic table closest to Big Run, grinning quizzically at us.

“Was his story fiction? Were you on the other end of the phone line?”

He took a long drag before answering. “He never called me. Westley was sitting at the kitchen table watching the clock before I drove off to work that morning.” He laughed at the recollection. “Soon school would start.”

“Then how did this journal and . . .” I gestured to the box.

“Came by post a couple of years ago. Addressed to me at the house. Unless someone else sent them, he had to know at least that I was alive and still lived in the house in which he’d been raised.”

He placed the journal on top of the container and stood up.

“Find him, Ethan. He’s been where you are now . . . Having read much of what’s in here . . . I believe it may have been written with you in mind. But stay in the moment as you read. Don’t lose sight of your goal. He awaits you, son. However, it will not be revealed to you easily.”

Then his customary wry grin. “Unless, of course, you have other plans for later this evening.”

Zipping up his mackinaw, he glanced out at Big Run. It was chillier now. The sun had fallen behind the clouds.

“I won’t stand in your way.”

Watching him drive off, I reflected how as a child I could barely wait until the picnic lunches at the Gorge were declared over so I could swim in Big Run or climb the ravine to the midway and amusements. I remember sitting sidesaddle with my mother on the carousel’s white-and-gold unicorn, a stander and not a jumper like the painted ponies.

Moments later, it was back to the critical decision I’d made earlier. But that was still hours away. Besides, I was intrigued about Christopher Daugherty, who also knew about green lights in jelly jars.

I called back the summer day Mother wore a red polka-dotted shirtwaist dress and aviator sunglasses—Papa’s that she had taken from the car’s glove box—steering a yellow Dodgem car, me a red one.

As we circled the metal floor amid the acrid odor akin to that of burning fuses, I kept glancing back at her as she gained on me. One more revolution of the arena and we would crash, the impact so hard that my car would be pitched backwards.

Aroused from my reverie by the cawing of crows, I looked up and was certain I saw Papa watching me from the stand of trees. Disoriented, I stood and eyed the tracks of the aging roller coaster. Would Westley have ridden it with me? I wondered. Would he have been terrified of discovering rattlesnakes nesting in one of its seats, as I was? The two boys who jumped to their deaths from the coaster’s highest peak upon spotting the snakes—were they my brother’s classmates?

Then I heard children’s laughter. But the carousel’s painted ponies and white-and-gold unicorn had all been stored for the winter, as had the Dodgems, kiddie boats, and fire trucks that went round and round. Even the commissary stand and all its colors of soda had been shuttered and padlocked.

I glanced back once more at the picnic table.

It sat vacant except for the box of Westley’s stories. Perhaps the joyous cries of past summers’ days were coming from inside, now muted by its fitted lid.

Maybe he is in there too, I mused.

One day we will meet here to take a dip in Big Run, even if it is deathly cold. He will rag me for being afraid of rattlers as our front car in the aging coaster rockets down through the shadowy gorge . . . and he places his arm around my shoulders.

It won’t feel ice-blue.