Chapter 2 "Rushing Toward Paradise"

Chapter 2

“Rushing Toward Paradise”

 

 

“I met my grandmother for the first time when I was sent to live with her.  I’m nineteen, old enough to know better.  My grandmother, on the other hand, is old�"very old.  I’m guessing around 190, probably older.”

The plane leveled out.  The stars in the sky twinkled through the window.  The full moon glided over the horizon.  Tuesday relaxed. I could feel her hands release their talon like grip on my abdomen. She pulled her head up and looked me square in the eye, not certain I was telling the truth. I continued to reassure her. “Not really. I have a twisted sense of humor.  Then again, anyone over 50 seems ancient to me.  Sixty-five might as well be 190.”

Tuesday smiled.  She liked my sense of humor.  Maybe the only thing that gave her comfort during the most terrifying moment of her life.  It provided a bit of release.

“See it’s no so bad.  You got through the worst of it. I think you’ll make it the rest of the way.”  The plane was silent.  It was just me and Tuesday, everyone else was dozing off or reading.  “Here, look out the window.”  I could tell she was anxious to peek out and see the tiny, white lights beneath us.  “It’s ok. You’re not going to fall.” She looked at me, wanting further reassurance, not quite believing she was safe.  “It’s ok. Nothing’s going to happen.”

Tuesday bent forward slightly.  She scanned the horizon at first.  I guess safer to look at the stars and the moon than the ground.  She smiled slightly. “It’s beautiful.”

“Not so bad, right?”

Tuesday edged back into her seat.  “What’s she like? Your grandmother?” 

“Grands?” I rolled my head across my neck. Thinking about the first time I met Grands�"without wearing a diaper. “Nothing like what I expected�"that’s for sure.”

“What did you expect?” Tuesday looked at me empathetically.  She slightly quivered, shuddering under her large sweatshirt.

“I wasn’t sure. My dad rarely talked about her.  We never visited her, outside of a funeral when I was one year old.  That’s where the diapers come in.” 

“Didn’t your dad get along with your grandmother? Seems kind of odd you wouldn’t visit her more often as a child.”  Tuesday sized up the situation quickly.  She impressed me with her observant nature.  It made up for the fact she tended to cling to strangers during take-offs.

“For starters, Grands lives in Iowa, a small town called Paradise.  It has about 8,000 people or so. Not much of a town.  Too far away from any major city. Too small to have anything exciting or entertaining, especially for someone my age.  I suppose it’s sedate enough for someone who’s 190.”  I cracked another grin.  Tuesday almost giggled, until the plane jiggled a bit.  She moved her white knuckles from the seat rest to my arm. I could feel her tiny fingers pry into my skin.

“Just a bit of turbulence.  Nothing major.” I smiled, hoping it would soothe her tension. It didn’t. Best to keep her distracted. “I’m not sure why my dad, Mr. Rust, didn’t get along with Grands.  I got the sense they respected each other, but not enough to make time for each other.  I grew up in a gated community outside of Chicago.  A six hour drive from Chicago to Paradise wasn’t worth the squeeze for Mr. Rust, despite how much he may have respected her.”

“Tell me about your mom and dad�"are they religious people?” She referred to the cross I wore around my neck.

“The only religious thing about my mom and dad is my name. My mom got my first name from the Bible. Not sure why.  She never goes to church. I don’t know if she’s even read the Bible cover to cover. Maybe she wanted me to have a good religious name to protect my karma.  Maybe she knew the type of trouble I could get into.  A name seems like a pretty feeble insurance policy for my soul�"if I have any control over that.”

 “Of course you control your soul. Don’t be silly.” Tuesday giggled at the notion.  She assumed I was joking again.  I wasn’t sure, not after what I experienced this summer. I ignored her statement, best to glide over it.

“As far as my dad, and by the way, it’s Mr. Rust to you and me. I barely know him at all. He was rarely home and when he was, he was off limits. Mr. and Mrs. Rust weren’t exactly fun people�"too concerned about what the neighbors, the school board, and the gated community thought.”

“What do they do for a living?” Tuesday eased into her seat, resting her head on the cushion.  She gazed at me seriously.  She realized she still held my sweatshirt in her hand.  She offered it back to me.

I shook my head, indicating she could hold it for the duration of the flight. “Mom’s a realtor and Mr. Rust is a mortgage banker. Business is everything and family is second, unless you compete.  Then you got their full attention.  I guess that’s why I was a blue ribbon gymnast and diver in high school.”

“Really?  Can you do all those cool flips and stuff?” She smiled, wondering what I was capable of doing with my body. 

“Sure can. I almost made it to the state finals for gymnastics, but I was too tall and probably too muscular.  I overdid it on the weights.  I didn’t spend the time to limber up my body.  My coach always told me it would be my undoing�"not being as flexible as I should be.  I never thought my muscles would come back to bite me.

“Diving… well, it’s awesome.  I love it.  I love throwing my body off great heights.  I was too cavalier and too much of a daredevil to get the good scores. Too busy taking my body to the next stage.  I wanted to do things in the sport nobody has done before. My diving coach called me unreliable and inconsistent.  I was a risk taker, not too concerned about whether or not I lived.  It was a rush. Rushes make you realize how much you’re alive.  It balanced.”

“Sounds like you seek out a good thrill�"an adrenalin junkie.” Tuesday yawned a bit.  Her panic attack during the take-off must have taken the fight out of her.

“I love living in the thrill of the moment. That’s why I love dirt biking.  I probably talked to Ethel, my dirt bike, more than anyone, that is, before this summer.”

“Ethel means the noble one.  Why did you name your bike Ethel?”

“I don’t know.  Seemed like a good old fashioned name.  It suited her.  She was a good listener�"always purring and attentive.  I’d open the throttle up and she gave me a good rush. The only girl I loved�"Ethel, and her rushes.” I shifted back to the window seat, tired of crooking my neck to face Tuesday.  I leaned against the dirty window of the aircraft so I could look at the blond girl straight on. 

“Seems pretty lonely, always searching for a rush.”

“I guess that’s why I was sent to live with my grandmother for the summer. Temper my need for adrenalin rushes.  Temper my lust for life. That and purgatory for my sin.”

“Sin? Purgatory? See, you do think you have a soul.” She paid close attention.

“We all have a soul, that’s not the question.  The question is whether or not it’s our soul or is it someone else’s to control. Possession is a mortal concept. Is our soul meant for us? Perhaps it belongs to someone else.” She looked puzzled by the statement. The plane bounced again, another slight batch of turbulence. She reached for my hand, catching my arm in the process. She gripped it tightly almost drawing blood.

“What’s your sin?” Tuesday was desperate for conversation, but some things were taboo for now.  That is, until I got to know her better.   

“Let’s just say I was a bad boy.  Before I graduated I did something pretty foolish, pretty cowardly.  I did something I’ll regret for the rest of my life.  Probably longer, if I do have possession of my soul after I die.”

“What?  It can’t be all that bad.”

“I don’t exactly feel like talking about it.” I turned my head, hoping she would get the message to back off the interrogation.  I fumbled with the latch on the tray and put it down, thinking the stewardess would come by and offer a beverage�"something to distract her.

“You went to stay with your grandmother as a punishment�"is that it?”  Tuesday circled back to the safe point in the conversation.

“Yep, a whole summer with no cell phone, no I-Pod, no motorcycle, no computer, no internet, no Gameboy or Playstation.  It actually meant I would have to interact with live people, face-to-face.”

Tuesday smiled, I was glad she interpreted it as a joke. “I like old people.  It wouldn’t be a punishment for me.  I love listening to their stories and getting lost in their memories.”

“I didn’t feel that way at all. I was anxious about staying with Grands.  I didn’t know her at all before the summer. I imagined she was dull and boring. I thought I would have to change her diapers and monitor her Geritol dosage.  I was pretty convinced we’d spend all summer putting together a jigsaw puzzle or something lame like that. That was my preconceived notion.  When I arrived on her doorstep in mid-May, right after graduation, she immediately blew my mind.”

“Tell me about her, Zach, what’s she like?” Tuesday cocked her head, waiting for me to spill my guts.  She folded the arm rest up and edged her legs on the middle seat. 

“Grands?”

Tuesday nodded. She wrapped her arms around my sweatshirt, becoming comfortable. 

 

“…       Well, to start it all out. I was trapped in a car with Mr. Rust, driving a slow 65 mph for more than six hours. I felt like I deserved whatever punishment for the summer the old broad and Mr. Rust could throw at me.  I deserved worse, so I’m lucky this was all they could think of. It wasn’t until Mr. Rust reached the city limits of Paradise that he started talking to me.  Maybe it took him five hours to cool down long enough to hold a civil conversation. Maybe he was rethinking the punishment.

“You remember what I told you about Grands?” He said from the front seat.  I peeled myself off the back window and leaned forward to hear him.  The last time I didn’t pay attention to him he boxed my ears.  He had a fist that could reach the good length of a car seat if he needed to.  He could cold-c**k me without taking his eyes off the pavement.  “You remember?”

“Yes, sir.”  I had my manners about me. I thought I knew who was going to pay for my college at Dartmouth in the fall. I respected him for that. He was a good financial provider for his children.  Not emotional, just financial.

“Your Grands is a little weird.  Help her out around the house like I promised you would.  You’re going there to work.  Not for money, but for redemption.” He turned onto Willis Avenue.  It was a long street with old, run-down homes.  They looked interesting enough, but shabby to a casual observer.    

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re going to stay there until college starts up.  I don’t want you calling me and telling me you have to come home.  You’re not a quitter.  You stay and you do us proud. Don’t embarrass me in front of your Grands.” He looked about the avenue for a particular house. He inched his way down the corridor lined with maple trees setting their late spring leaves. 

“Yes, sir.”  I anticipated his lecture.  Typical Mr. Rust�"no frills, all orders, and above all, don’t embarrass the family. 

“You don’t have a choice in the matter.  You got it.  You don’t matter.”  He slowed down to a snail’s pace, trying to eye the house numbers from the comfort of his Audi driver seat.  “You get through this and you have your college paid for�"forty grand a year for four years.  It’s worth keeping your mouth shut and minding an old woman.”

“Yes, sir.” Repetitive I know. I didn’t exactly want to meet Grands with a black eye or a bruised jaw.

“There it is. Your new home.” He edged the sedan next to the curb. He applied the brakes and turned the engine off.  Frankly I was surprised he didn’t keep it running and push me out of the car. “God have mercy.”

I looked out the car window.  It was an old Victorian house, three stories with a substantial attic.  The paint was beige with rust and olive highlights. The architecture was ornate and fancy, lots of trim work and scrolling.  It had a massive wrap around porch on the first floor.  A medium-sized deck hung off the second floor.  It had peaks and a fancy turret.  An old weather vane was well positioned on the tallest point.  The large windows were the most noticeable aspect of the house. It would be quite breathtaking if the top floor wasn’t covered in dirt. The windows on the third floor were completely filthy, dusty, and grimy.

The house occupied a double lot.  A wrought iron fence lined the edges.  Old fashioned gardens surrounded the entire perimeter.  I don’t know the names of the plants, but they looked like the only welcoming aspect of the property.  The flowers were big and bold, a wide variety. 

Mr. Rust opened the car door.  He stood and arched his back. I inherited his sinewy body.  I didn’t inherit his conservative taste in clothing.  His jeans were designer and his polo shirt properly displayed a fashionable logo.  He rubbed his face and scratched his mustache.  He removed his aviator sunglasses.

I swallowed my sigh of discontent. Best not to mutter too loudly.  Best to keep my sheer horror too myself. I guess this wasn’t Paradise, Iowa. It was purgatory, my purgatory�"one rightfully deserved.

I got out of the car and headed to the trunk to get my luggage.  I wasn’t allowed more than what I could fit in to a black, duffle bag.  It was ok.  I don’t have too many clothes, and I was banned from all the really important stuff (like my games, music and other social vices). 

“Wait here,” Mr. Rust asserted as he left the car and walked toward the front gate.  It squealed with delight, probably because someone actually used it.  He jogged up the walkway lined with small silver plants and up the stairs to the large, wooden, double doors. He rang an old time buzzer.  It whirled away inside the house, announcing company.  Mr. Rust fondled his shades in his hands, shifting them back and forth.  He was just as nervous. 

The door creaked open.  It was slow and ominous. I saw Mr. Rust disappear inside.  The door closed part way.  It hid whoever opened it and greeted Mr. Rust in the foyer.  I continued to look over the house.  It was large and ugly.  The condition of the third floor windows alone made it look uninhabitable. It looked like a haunted house from a "slasher" film, except for the gardens. 

I flung the duffle bag over my shoulder.  I decided it was ok to enter the gated property.  After all, Mr. Rust didn’t tell me to stay with the car.  Paradise didn’t exactly look like a place where I should be concerned about someone hijacking an Audi in the middle of the afternoon.  I pushed open the gates.  They were just as tall as I and made much more noise.  I made sure I latched them behind me.  Not sure whether or not Grands had a dog or anything that could escape through an unlocked gate. 

I surveyed the gardens as I walked toward the house.  The flowers, small tress, the shrubs were all beautifully tended to.  It was gorgeous.  I’ve never seen anything like it�"not even when my botany class toured the Chicago Botanical Gardens in my senior year. Grands’ garden was considerably smaller; however, the collection and variety of flowers boggled my mind.  It was wonderfully composed.  I stood by the steps leading to the front porch, captivated by the gardens. 

Around the bend, behind some purple flowering shrubs, I noticed a figure tilling the soil with a pitch fork.  He was a young man, blond and shirtless. He was bronze and well built.  His muscles were well defined�"not bulky, more sculpted.  He was tall, about my height. His hair was long and curly.  He had very long mutton chops, extending across his broad jaw to his chin. He wore tan, canvas pants and work boots. Sweat covered his body. It stained his pants. 

The man continued to pry the pitch fork in the ground, ripping apart an established group of plants.  He evenly divided the clump into two pieces.  He returned one half in the original hole. He tenderly replaced the dirt. He took the other half of the plant behind the house. Something about him drew me in.  I was tempted to follow. I wanted to see what he would do with the rest of the plant.  He was mysterious in an earthy way�"grounded, yet ethereal.  Attractive and compelling…”

 

“What’s his name?” Tuesday distracted me. 

I found myself becoming lost again with the first time I laid eyes on the bronze, mythological figure.  He was like a statue that I could study for hours, sketching every detail of his face and body into my memory. Somehow recalling the first time I saw him caused me to stutter. “Tr… Tr… Trinity.”  I shuddered as I said his name out loud.

“Unusual. What does it stand for?” Tuesday obviously had an appreciation for the hidden meanings behind people’s names.

“I think it can mean different things to different people.” I smiled, thinking about Trinity’s long blond hair and broad shoulders.  I smiled when I thought about everything he taught me and how he patiently guided this wayward kid during the course of my summer.

“Maybe it means the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit�"the Divine Trinity.”  Tuesday studied my eyes to see if it made sense.  “It’s pretty obvious he’s special to you.”

“Yeah… but, you know what’s funny? I still don’t think I know how special. He’s so deep in my thoughts. I could think about him for the rest of my life and still not be satisfied.  I think he’ll influence me for years to come.”

“It’s wonderful when that happens.  It’s like how I view God.  I know so little about him or her, yet the little I do know, makes me want to know more.  I could spend the rest of my life studying God, be completely satisfied, and still be curious.”  Tuesday sighed.  I nodded, it’s exactly the way I felt about Trinity.

 

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I like the conversation. A good storyteller can weave a great tale and relieve the listener mind. The story is amazing. You have my attention also. A very strong chapter. I will read on.
Coyote