In Motion
Photo by 'Ryan Franklin'
When it hit, Bill dropped his highball glass and stumbled toward his son's room. Isaiah lay crying, unprotected on his small, five year-old-size bed. Bill lifted him up and clenched him to his chest as the world bounced and rumbled beneath his feet. It should have been over already. Bill braced himself against the bedroom door frame watching a glow-in-the-dark mobile of planets and stars sway in a nauseating rhythm out of sync with the earthquake.
The earth stopped moving long before the mobile did. Heart pounding, Isaiah still in his arms, Bill ran to the den and snapped on the television. No power. Rushing into the kitchen, he nearly slipped on broken glass in his leather slippers.
Isaiah squirmed in Bill's tight grasp. He wanted warmth and comfort now, not his father's clumsy strength.
"No, son," Bill said, misunderstanding. "You can't get down. You'll hurt yourself."
Bill rummaged blindly through a drawer with one hand until he found a battered old walkman. He sat down on the sofa, holding Isaiah on his lap with one hand. He clicked on the radio and held one headphone to his ear. The batteries were still good. With trembling hands he turned the dial, trying to remember the location of pre-programmed stations he listened to in his car.
Finally he heard the voices of callers making preliminary guesses about magnitude; five, six and up. Someone reminded listeners to turn off the gas. Another told them not to light candles. Bill reached for the Crown Royal bottle and took a long drink. Maybe this would buy him time. Monaghan and Brownloe would have to cancel the early meeting tomorrow.
His father's grip loosened, Isaiah jumped down. "Mommy!" he cried, running for their bedroom door.
Helen! How could he have forgotten her? Bill ran to the bedroom.
"Helen?" Why was he whispering? Perhaps because it was so very dark without streetlights streaming in through cracks in the curtains.
"Helen!" he shouted.
No answer.
He could barely make out her shape in the bed as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. No, it was much bigger than Helen. It was the size of the tall bookshelf beside the bed, in the shape of a pile of a hundred favorite books.
The earth stopped moving long before the mobile did. Heart pounding, Isaiah still in his arms, Bill ran to the den and snapped on the television. No power. Rushing into the kitchen, he nearly slipped on broken glass in his leather slippers.
Isaiah squirmed in Bill's tight grasp. He wanted warmth and comfort now, not his father's clumsy strength.
"No, son," Bill said, misunderstanding. "You can't get down. You'll hurt yourself."
Bill rummaged blindly through a drawer with one hand until he found a battered old walkman. He sat down on the sofa, holding Isaiah on his lap with one hand. He clicked on the radio and held one headphone to his ear. The batteries were still good. With trembling hands he turned the dial, trying to remember the location of pre-programmed stations he listened to in his car.
Finally he heard the voices of callers making preliminary guesses about magnitude; five, six and up. Someone reminded listeners to turn off the gas. Another told them not to light candles. Bill reached for the Crown Royal bottle and took a long drink. Maybe this would buy him time. Monaghan and Brownloe would have to cancel the early meeting tomorrow.
His father's grip loosened, Isaiah jumped down. "Mommy!" he cried, running for their bedroom door.
Helen! How could he have forgotten her? Bill ran to the bedroom.
"Helen?" Why was he whispering? Perhaps because it was so very dark without streetlights streaming in through cracks in the curtains.
"Helen!" he shouted.
No answer.
He could barely make out her shape in the bed as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. No, it was much bigger than Helen. It was the size of the tall bookshelf beside the bed, in the shape of a pile of a hundred favorite books.
Photo by 'Oleg Alexandrov'
At the emergency shelter, the staff were as kind as they were skilled, protecting Bill and his son from prying reporters and talk show producers. When he sat at a picnic bench behind the shelter for hours, unable to move, they cared for Isaiah, along with a shrinking number of other children.
In his growing silence, Bill became obsessed with one question. Was he marked by God, or had he been abandoned? If he could find the answer, then he would know what to do next. Without it, he was frozen in place, unsure which way to step.
The day the shelter closed its doors, a kind woman with a thin, sad face drove Bill and Isaiah back to their home. Bill stood on the front porch with a duffel bag filled with canned goods, blankets and lightly used clothing. Isaiah clutched his other hand. They waved to the kind woman as she drove away. But Bill did not unlock the front door. Instead, he walked around to the back and put Isaiah in the sandbox to play. It was safer here than inside.
The next day Bill ventured into his house long enough to dig up gear from the back of a closet. Sleeping bags, tent, a cookstove and two unopened Crown Royal bottles. He set up camp for himself and his son in the backyard, as far as he could from the house and the mistakes that had taken his wife from him.
Each night, Bill sat watch. He had failed his wife, but would keep his son from the kinds of harm that God could bring down without warning on the innocent and guilty alike.
In his growing silence, Bill became obsessed with one question. Was he marked by God, or had he been abandoned? If he could find the answer, then he would know what to do next. Without it, he was frozen in place, unsure which way to step.
The day the shelter closed its doors, a kind woman with a thin, sad face drove Bill and Isaiah back to their home. Bill stood on the front porch with a duffel bag filled with canned goods, blankets and lightly used clothing. Isaiah clutched his other hand. They waved to the kind woman as she drove away. But Bill did not unlock the front door. Instead, he walked around to the back and put Isaiah in the sandbox to play. It was safer here than inside.
The next day Bill ventured into his house long enough to dig up gear from the back of a closet. Sleeping bags, tent, a cookstove and two unopened Crown Royal bottles. He set up camp for himself and his son in the backyard, as far as he could from the house and the mistakes that had taken his wife from him.
Each night, Bill sat watch. He had failed his wife, but would keep his son from the kinds of harm that God could bring down without warning on the innocent and guilty alike.
Photo by 'Wouter Hagens'
When the social worker arrived with a court order, Bill was passed out on the back stoop. Isaiah was filthy and thin, with a hungry look in his eyes. Bill hadn't been able to let him go to school for nearly a year, even though he knew he should have.
The social worker woke Bill up and showed him papers. They were signed by judges and county officials, but he knew this was God's work too. He was among the guilty, and such a man as he was not to be entrusted with the life of a child.
With no one to watch over, Bill's sleepless nights became too terrible to live through. The more he drank, the more the angry voices chided him from all sides. Even worse were his dreams when he finally slept.
One night, as the voices clamored in his head, his wife's ghost appeared.
"Helen," Bill said softly to the apparition hovering before him. She was whole as she had been in life, her beautiful face marred only by a frown.
Helen spoke, but he could not hear her. Bill spread a blanket for her on the ground beside him. She sat down and gestured to the night sky, glowing the hazy purple of reflected city lights. She pointed to the tall cedar soaring above them, to the home they'd shared together, to him. Her brow furrowed with the effort. Bill wept as he watched her mouth move in earnest lamentations he could not hear.
Then, suddenly, Helen took Bill by the shoulders and shouted, "Where are the others?" Her pain gave her strength to make her voice heard by the living.
Startled, Bill asked, "What others?"
"I have searched heaven and hell, but I cannot find the others who died with me in the earthquake," she said. "I am lonely, and I have no one with whom to share my grief."
Bill looked down, unable to meet her eyes. This was the unfair burden God had given him to bear.
"No, my love," Bill whispered. "You were the only one."
The social worker woke Bill up and showed him papers. They were signed by judges and county officials, but he knew this was God's work too. He was among the guilty, and such a man as he was not to be entrusted with the life of a child.
With no one to watch over, Bill's sleepless nights became too terrible to live through. The more he drank, the more the angry voices chided him from all sides. Even worse were his dreams when he finally slept.
One night, as the voices clamored in his head, his wife's ghost appeared.
"Helen," Bill said softly to the apparition hovering before him. She was whole as she had been in life, her beautiful face marred only by a frown.
Helen spoke, but he could not hear her. Bill spread a blanket for her on the ground beside him. She sat down and gestured to the night sky, glowing the hazy purple of reflected city lights. She pointed to the tall cedar soaring above them, to the home they'd shared together, to him. Her brow furrowed with the effort. Bill wept as he watched her mouth move in earnest lamentations he could not hear.
Then, suddenly, Helen took Bill by the shoulders and shouted, "Where are the others?" Her pain gave her strength to make her voice heard by the living.
Startled, Bill asked, "What others?"
"I have searched heaven and hell, but I cannot find the others who died with me in the earthquake," she said. "I am lonely, and I have no one with whom to share my grief."
Bill looked down, unable to meet her eyes. This was the unfair burden God had given him to bear.
"No, my love," Bill whispered. "You were the only one."