A Final Mission

      The snow had intensified when Captain Jack Crawford stepped from his Toyota pickup and began a two-mile walk to the bus station.  Having served in both the military and the Intelligence Service, he had one final mission to complete.  Wearing a sock hat, a black, hooded sweatshirt, a heavy coat, old jeans and hiking boots, he doubted that he could be identified should any video cam catch his movements; extra cautious, he had shaved his beard before leaving the house.  A small backpack, slung over his shoulder, contained all the equipment he would need.

   Paying for the bus ticket with cash, he took a seat near the rear of the vehicle and waited for the other passengers to hug their relatives and climb onboard.  Just a few minutes behind schedule, the bus rolled from the depot and headed west toward the mountains, now obscured by the heavy snowfall.  An hour later, at the second stop, Jack got off the bus, certain that there would be no surveillance in this small mountain town.

   He then walked to a faint trail that entered the woods near the edge of town and, since darkness had fallen, he easily reached the trailhead without attracting attention.  Heading into the forest, now coated by six inches of fresh snow, he picked up his pace, knowing that a two-hour hike was ahead.  Several creek crossings posed a bit of a challenge but he pushed onward, thankful that a full moon, now emerging from the last of the storm clouds, was lighting his path.  Finally, right on schedule, he reached his destination, a wooded meadow with a spectacular view of a broad river valley, far below.  He had visited this scenic spot many times over the years and had never encountered other hikers.

   Jack took a seat in the meadow and listened to the bugling of elk that echoed up from the valley.  The mountain air was cold and dry and he knew from weather reports that a low of minus ten was expected at this elevation.  Pulling a bottle of wine from his backpack, he unscrewed the cap and took a few swigs, anxious to experience its calming effects.  He then took off his boots and coat; using the latter as a pillow and lied back, scanning the bowl of stars overhead.  There was no doubt in his mind that this was the right spot, perhaps his favorite location on the planet.

   The diagnosis had come six months before and he was informed that no effective treatment was available.  Experimental treatment had been offered but Jack had declined.  He informed his ex-wife, his daughter who lived in Boston and a few close friends but otherwise kept the death sentence to himself.  He had decided to wait for the symptoms to worsen and then take action.

   So this was his final mission.  He soon began to shiver and took another swig from the bottle, accepting the fact that death would arrive before sunrise. 

Bluebird

   I love this view, our broad lawn sweeping down to the river, framed by stately pines and backed by the high spine of the Elk Creek Mountains, snow-capped much of the year.  Maggie and I bought the house back in sixty-five, three years after our marriage and a year before David was born.  I moved my practice into its east wing and we’ve never given a thought to leaving.

   Of course, my parents were very impressed with the place, having come from modest backgrounds and never aspiring to leave Wichita.  He was a conductor for the Santa Fe Railroad and she stayed home to raise the kids.  I was the second of their four sons and, in the end, the most successful.  Jack, my older brother, must have changed careers a dozen times, ending up in the insurance business, last I heard, and Darryl followed in my father’s footsteps.  Thomas, the youngest, was killed in Vietnam not long after we bought this house.  Vietnam nearly killed my mother as well.

   Now, looking out at our idyllic view, I’m not sure why I lost touch with Jack and Darryl.  Dad died in seventy-six, three years after his retirement, and mom followed in eighty-three, having moved in with Maggie and me after my father passed.  I had admitted her to St. Joe’s a week earlier with pneumonia.  She rallied at first but then slipped into sepsis.  Besides my brothers, I’ve managed to lose contact with old friends as well, even with Jane Byers whom I nearly married.

   I often think of Jane.  We met at Arizona State and lived together our last year of college but, when I went off to medical school, she took a job in Boston.  I visited a couple of times, once in the summer and another time over spring break, but our relationship gradually fizzled.  She was a firecracker though and I’ll never forget some of her antics, especially that August night we snuck into the campus pool.  Maggie doesn’t know it but I have Jane’s old letters in a box somewhere.

   When I finally retired, the week after 9-11, Maggie and I traveled quite a bit, including trips to Europe and Australia.  In recent years, though, we’ve become homebodies.  She still gets together with her friends but I’m content to putter around the house.  Maggie hired an aide, Tamara, to help with the chores and, I suspect, to keep an eye on me when she’s away.  She’s pleasant enough but I’ve told Maggie I could manage just fine on my own.

   To be perfectly honest, Tamara is forgetful at times.  It’s now getting close to noon and she’s yet to serve my breakfast.  Fortunately, I’m not terribly hungry and my attention has been focused on our fabulous view.  In fact, there’s a mountain bluebird hanging around the deck this morning, the first I ‘ve seen in years.

   Focused on the bluebird, I didn’t hear Maggie enter the room and she sneaks up to give me a kiss on the cheek.  She’s brought a visitor, she says, and a tall, handsome young man appears to my left.  He asks how I’m doing but I’m too interested in the bluebird to answer right away.  Maggie asks if I know this stranger and I respond that we’ve never met though, in fact, he does look somewhat familiar.  To be honest, with his long nose and sandy hair he looks a bit like my brother Darryl.

   But when I ask if it’s Darryl, Maggie shakes her head and tears well in her eyes.  She says he is our son, David, but I know she must be kidding.  David is much younger than this gentleman in a pinstripe suite.  Wouldn’t you know, he joins in, insisting that he is David and asking if I remember his visit last summer.  He says we took a hike down to the river and tried a bit of fly-fishing.  I tell him that he must be mistaken and turn back to my view, just as the bluebird flies from its perch.  I comment on the bird’s rare appearance but Maggie says it’s out there every morning.  She says Tamara calls it Dr. Tom’s bluebird.  I scoff at that comment and advise Maggie that Tamara did not yet bring my breakfast.  She just pats me on the shoulder and asks what I’d like to eat.  When I turn back to the window, she and her friend head for the kitchen where someone begins to sniffle.  I look for the bluebird again but it is gone.

   

Autumn Chill

   Just south of town, the city purchased an old homestead, unoccupied for at least a century.  Once they had removed the crumbling house and barn, the funding was exhausted and neither trails nor comfort facilities were ever built.  As a result, the site is rarely visited and it has become my favored natural getaway.  Using deer and fox trails, I established my personal route through the refuge and, over the years, I cannot recall encountering another human being.  As one who values solitude, that has been the most appealing trait of that secluded plot of land.

   So, on a mild, sunny October morning, I was surprised and a bit dismayed to find a family picnicking in the lower meadow.  Since I had parked my pickup along the only access road, it was a mystery how they reached the site but I assumed they had walked in from a nearby neighborhood. 

   They were an unusual family, indeed.  The father, wearing overalls, a work shirt and a broad-rimmed hat sat on the blanket, sharing lunch with his wife who, despite their hike, was clothed in a full-length sun-dress and a straw bonnet.  Two young boys, perhaps aged five and seven, chased one another across the meadow, giggling and calling to their parents.  Like their father, the boys wore overalls and buttoned shirts and both were barefoot.  Despite my friendly wave, they ignored my presence.

   Moving on, I climbed to a wooded ridge above Jake’s Creek and ate my own lunch atop a rocky overlook.  A red-tailed hawk circled lazily overhead while a mixed flock of juncos and finches foraged in the thickets just below my perch.  Other than the distant calls of blue jays and crows, all was silent and I nearly dozed off as I lounged in the sun.  Since my wife was out of town and I had no personal commitments that day, I was in no hurry to leave my little piece of heaven.

   Nevertheless, I decided to depart a bit early and introduce myself to the family who now shared my beloved refuge.  Besides, I imagined they might want a ride back to their home, especially considering the nature of their dress and footwear.  But, as I approached the meadow, I found that they had already left and was angered to see that they had littered the pristine site.  As I walked over to pick up the debris, cursing their selfish behavior, it became evident that the white plates and cups were, in fact, stones, not paper.

   To my surprise, they were weathered headstones.  One was for “John Marshall, beloved husband and father,” who was born in 1810 and died in 1848.  The other was for his wife, Sarah Marshall, 1813-1848.  A chill ran down my spine as I pushed aside the tall grass to find two smaller markers.  One was for Jacob Marshall and the other for Thomas Marshall.  The dates had long since eroded from the stones.

A Letter from Paul

Jenna, Charlie, Mom and Friends:

     The last thing I remembered was texting a message to my boss from the Interstate and, suddenly, I found myself standing in a long line of strangers, young and old, stretching down a darkened hallway toward a backlit door.  Everyone was dressed in the same drab tunic and sandals and all, including myself, were perfectly content to wait in the slow moving line. 

     When I finally stepped through the door, I encountered a well-dressed older gentleman with closely cropped gray hair and a neatly trimmed goatee.  Frankly, he looked a bit like Sean Connery.  He was sitting behind a computer and on his desk was a gold-plated plaque with the words St. Peter, PC.  Needless to say, a chill ran down my spine as I suddenly realized that the Evangelical Christians had been right and that I was in big trouble.

     “You look a bit surprised, young man.  What did you expect, a long beard and flowing robes?  For Christ’s sake, this is the Twenty First Century.  No pearly gates around here either, just that stairway to your right.”

     He asked me to take a seat next to his desk.  Squinting at the screen and raising what appeared to be rather stylish bifocals, St. Peter seemed to be reading a capsulized summary of my life.  An occasional “hmm” and one brief gasp caused me to break out in a cold sweat.

     “Mr. Paul Davis, date of birth 8-10-71, correct?”

     “Yes sir,” I said with some trepidation.

     “It appears that you were not a religious man, Mr. Davis.  Is that correct?”

     “Well, sir, I tried to live my life as Jesus would.”  I prayed that my shaky voice did not suggest insincerity.

     “I guess that explains the sandals and tunic,” he said, chuckling to himself.  “It seems that you were actually an agnostic. Is that a fair assessment, Mr. Davis?”

     “With all due respect, St. Peter, I think one’s actions say more about an individual than his professed beliefs.”

     “Perhaps so.  But we can’ t accept you into Heaven until you demonstrate a clear and honest faith in God the Father and his Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

     “You’re not saying I deserve to go to Hell, are you sir?”  I was near collapse at that point.

     “No, Mr. Davis.  You haven’t exactly earned that assignment either.  You’ll be sent to Purgatory.”

     “Purgatory?  What…where is that, sir? “  I envisioned some sort of prison with forced labor and evening Bible study.

     “There you go again,” he said.  “More confirmation of your secular lifestyle.”

     “Could you fill me in on what to expect, St. Peter?” I asked, starting to hyperventilate.

     “You’ll be sent back to Earth for another life and that cycle will continue until you earn a place in Heaven or, God forbid, Hell.  In fact, looking at my calendar here, you are set to be born to a young couple in New Zealand nine months from today.”

     “Wow, “ I said a bit too enthusiastically.  I immediately thought of Shirley MacLaine. In a way, she was right and my fear of Purgatory quickly evaporated.  Sensing that St. Peter was about to send me on my way, I decided to seek more information.

     “May I assume, sir, that I have had other lives before this last one?”

     “Well, since you’re neither in Heaven nor Hell, that’s a reasonable conclusion.” 

     “Would it be out of bounds to ask for the details?” I asked, shifting in my chair.

     “Yes it would, Mr. Davis.  Besides, that information is in our paper files and could take ages to track down.  As I’m sure you know, these computers haven’t been available for very long.  I have assistants but this is Heaven and they only work when they feel like it.”

     “Of course, “ I said but decided to push my luck.  “Sir.  Could you tell me what goes on in Heaven?  Is it some kind of endless orgy?  You know, great food, booze, sex, rock music, the works?”

     “Spoken like a true Purgatorian, bordering on Hellian.”  St. Peter gave a sigh and continued.  “We have no need for food or sex or sports or any other Earthly delight in Heaven.  If you had listened to Christian music during your self-centered life you would know that our only desire is to sing endless praise to Our Lord.  Except for me, of course.  I’m stuck at this desk most of the time.”

     “And Hell, sir.  Is it really fire and brimstone down there?  Endless suffering?”

     “That image is a bit dramatic to be honest,” he said.  "But it’s kept a lot of Christians on the straight and narrow.” 

     He stopped for a minute to collect his thoughts.  “No, Mr. Davis.  It’s more like that movie.  What was it called?  That weatherman, the guy from Saturday Night Live, gets stuck in an endless cycle of boring days.  Oh, what is his name?  Bill…..Bill Murphy, that’s it.”

     “Murray, sir.  Bill Murray.”  I was reluctant to correct him, fearing a sudden change in assignment.

     “Whatever.  How can anyone expect me to remember names with the crowd that I face everyday? Well, anyway, Hell is pretty much like that.  An endless chain of bad days…everything goes wrong, the car won’t start, the weather’s crappy, you hate your job, your spouse is a nag.  You get my drift?”

     “Sounds like a hell of a way to go, sir.”

     One final request was to use his computer to send this email.  St. Peter was glad to take a break and wished me well in New Zealand.  I’m thinking Purgatory is something the rest of you might want to consider.  See you in the next life!

            Love, Paul