VIOLET
Remaining wanderings 1 and 2
Milltown, population 815, sits close to the Kentucky border. I have to stop and ask someone how to get to the shoe trees. A woman named Myra points me toward a place called Devils Hollow. It doesn’t take long to run out of paved road, and soon I’m driving down a narrow dirt trail, looking up, which is what Myra told me to do. Just when I think I’m lost, I come to a fourway intersection that sits surrounded by woods.
I pull the car over and get out. In the distance, I can hear the sound of kids yelling and laughing. Trees stand at all four corners, their branches filled with shoes. Hundreds and hundreds of shoes. Most are draped across the limbs by the laces like oversized Christmas ornaments. Myra said she wasn’t sure how it began, or who left the first pair, but people travel from all over just to decorate the trees. There’s a rumor that Larry Bird, the basketball player, left a pair up there somewhere.
The quest is simple: leave a pair behind. I’ve brought a pair of green Chuck Taylors from my closet, and a pair of yellow Keds from Eleanor’s. I stand, head tilted back, trying to decide where to put them. I’ll hang them together on the original tree, the one heaviest with shoes, which has been struck by lightning more than once—I can tell because the trunk looks dead and black.
I pull a Sharpie from my pocket and write Ultraviolet Remarkey-able and the date on the side of one of the Chuck Taylors. I hang them low on the original tree, which looks too fragile to climb. I have to jump a little to reach the branch, and the shoes bob and twist before settling. I hang Eleanor’s Keds beside them.
That’s it then. Nothing more to see. It’s a long way to drive for trees of old shoes, but I tell myself not to look at it that way. There might be magic here too. I stand watching for it, shading my eyes against the sun, and just before I walk back to the car I see them: way up on the highest branch of the original tree, hanging all alone. A pair of sneakers with fluorescent laces, TF in black on both shoes. A package of blue American Spirits pokes up from the inside of one.
He was here.
I look around as if I might see him right now, but it’s just me and the kids who are laughing and hollering from someplace nearby. When did he come? Was it after he left? Was it before that?
Something nags at me as I stand there. The highest branch, I think. The highest branch. I reach for my phone, but it’s in the car, and so I run the short distance, throw open the door, and lean across the seat. I sit half in, half out, scrolling through my texts from Finch. Because there aren’t many recent ones, it doesn’t take long to find it. I am on the highest branch. I look at the date. A week after he left.
He was here.
I read through the other texts: We are written in paint. I believe in signs. The glow of Ultraviolet. It’s so lovely to be lovely in Private.
I find the map, my finger following the route to the next place. It’s hours away, northwest of Muncie. I check the time, turn on the engine, and drive. I have a feeling I know where I’m headed, and I hope it’s not too late.
The World’s Biggest Ball of Paint sits on the property of Mike Carmichael. Unlike the shoe trees, it’s a designated tourist attraction. The ball not only has its own website, it’s listed in the Guinness Book of World Records. It’s a little after four o’clock by the time I get to Alexandria. Mike Carmichael and his wife are expecting me because I called them from the road. I pull up to the structure where the ball apparently lives—in a kind of barnlike shed—and knock on the door, my heart beating fast.
When there’s no answer, I try the handle, but it’s locked, and so I walk up to the house, heart going faster because what if someone has been there since? What if they’ve painted over whatever Finch might have written? It’ll be gone then, and I’ll never know, and it will be like he was never even here.
I bang harder than I mean to on the front door, and at first I think they aren’t home, but then a man with white hair and an expectant smile comes walking out, talking and shaking my hand and telling me to call him Mike.
“Where are you from, young lady?”
“Bartlett.” I don’t mention that I’ve just come from Milltown.
“That’s a nice town, Bartlett. We go there sometimes to the Gaslight Restaurant.”
My heart is beating into my ears, and it’s so loud, I actually wonder if he can hear it. I follow him to the barn-shed, and he says, “I started this ball of paint nearly forty years ago. The way it came about, I was working in this paint store back in high school, back before you were born, maybe back before your parents were born. I was playing catch in the store with a friend and the baseball knocked over this can of paint. I thought, I wonder what would happen if I painted it one thousand coats? So that’s what I did.” Mike says he donated that ball to the Knightstown Children’s Home Museum, but in 1977 he decided to start another one.
He nods at the barn and unlocks the door and we walk into a big, bright room that smells like paint. There, in the middle, hangs this enormous ball, the size of a small planet. Paint cans cover the floor and wall, and another wall is lined with photographs of the ball in different stages. Mike tells me how he tries to paint it every day, and I cut him off and say, “I’m so sorry, but a friend of mine was here recently, and I wanted to see if you remembered him, and if maybe he might have written something on the ball.”
I describe Finch, and Mike rubs his chin and starts nodding. “Yep, yep. I remember him. Nice young man. Didn’t stay long. Used this paint over here.” He leads me to a can of purple paint, the color written on the lid: Violet.
I look at the ball, and it isn’t purple. It’s as yellow as the sun. I feel my heart sink. I look at the floor and almost expect to see it lying there.
“The ball’s been painted over,” I say. I’m too late. Too late for Finch. Too late once again.
“Anyone who wants to write something, I get them to paint over it before they leave. That way it’s ready for the next person. A clean slate. Do you want to add a layer?”
I almost say no, but I didn’t bring anything to leave, and so I let him hand me a roller. When he asks what color I want, I tell him blue like the sky. As he searches the cans, I stand in place, unable to move or breathe. It’s like losing Finch all over again.
Then Mike is back and he has found a color that is the color of Finch’s eyes, which he can’t possibly know or remember. I dip the roller into the tray and cover the yellow with blue. There’s something soothing about the mindless, easy motion of it.
When I’m finished, Mike and I stand back and look at my work. “Don’t you want to write anything?” he says.
“That’s okay. I’ll only have to cover it up.” And then no one will know I was here either.
I help him put the paint away and clean up a bit, and he tells me facts about the ball, like that it weighs nearly 4,000 pounds and is made up of over 20,000 coats of paint. Then he hands me a red book and a pen. “Before you leave, you have to sign.”
I flip through the pages until I find the first blank spot where I can write my name and the date and a comment. My eyes run over the page, and then I see that only a few people were here in April. I flip back a page, and there it is—there he is. Theodore Finch, April 3. “Today is your day. You’re off to Great Places! You’re off and away!”
I run my fingers over the words, the ones he wrote just weeks ago when he was here and alive. I read them again and again, and then, on the first blank line, I sign my name and write: “Your mountain is waiting. So … get on your way!”
As I head home to Bartlett, I sing what I can remember of Finch’s Dr. Seuss song. When I pass through Indianapolis, I think of trying to find the nursery where he collected flowers in winter, but instead I keep driving east. They won’t be able to tell me anything about Finch or why he died or what he wrote on the ball of paint. The only thing that makes me feel better is that, whatever Finch wrote, it will always be there, underneath the layers.
I find my mom and dad in the family room, my dad listening to music on his headphones, my mom grading papers. I say, “I need us to talk about Eleanor and not to forget that she existed.” My dad removes his headphones. “I don’t want to pretend like everything’s fine if it isn’t, like we’re fine if we’re not. I miss her. I can’t believe I’m here and she isn’t. I’m sorry we went out that night. I need you to know that. I’m sorry I told her to take the bridge home. She only went that way because I suggested it.”
When they try to interrupt me, I talk louder. “We can’t go backward. We can’t change anything that happened. I can’t bring her back or bring Finch back. I can’t change the fact that I sneaked around to see him when I told you it was over. I don’t want to tiptoe around her or him or you anymore. The only thing it’s doing is making it harder for me to remember the things I want to remember. It’s making it harder for me to remember her. Sometimes I try to concentrate on her voice just so I can hear it again—the way she always said, ‘Hey there’ when she was in a good mood, and ‘Vi-o-let’ when she was annoyed. For some reason, these are the easiest ones. I concentrate on them, and when I have them, I hold on to them because I don’t ever want to forget how she sounded.”
My mom has started to cry, very, very quietly. My father’s face has gone gray-white.
“Like it or not, she was here and now she’s gone, but she doesn’t have to be completely gone. That’s up to us. And like it or not, I loved Theodore Finch. He was good for me, even though you think he wasn’t and you hate his parents and you probably hate him, and even though he went away and I wish he hadn’t, and I can never bring him back, and it might have been my fault. So it’s good and it’s bad and it hurts, but I like thinking about him. If I think about him, he won’t be completely gone either. Just because they’re dead, they don’t have to be. And neither do we.”
My dad sits like a marble statue, but my mom gets up and kind of stumbles toward me. She draws me in, and I think: That’s how she used to feel before any of this happened—strong and sturdy, like she could withstand a tornado. She is still crying, but she is solid and real, and just in case, I pinch her skin, and she pretends not to notice.
She says, “Nothing that happened is your fault.”
And then I’m crying, and my dad is crying, one stoic tear at a time, and then his head is in his hands and my mom and I move like one person over to him, and the three of us huddle together, rocking a little back and forth, taking turns saying, “It’s okay. We’re okay. We’re all okay.”
VIOLET
Remaining wanderings 3 and 4
The Pendleton Pike Drive-In is one of the last of its kind. What’s left of it sits in an overgrown field on the outskirts of downtown Indianapolis. Now it’s like a graveyard, but in the 1960s the drive-in was one of the most popular sites around—not just a movie theater, but a kiddie park with a mini roller coaster and other rides and attractions.
The screen is the only thing that remains. I park on the roadside and approach it from the back. It’s an overcast day, the sun hidden behind thick, gray clouds, and even though it’s warm, I shiver. The place gives me the spooks. As I tramp over weeds and dirt, I try to picture Finch parking Little Bastard where I parked my car and walking to the screen, which blocks the horizon like a skeleton, just as I’m walking now.
I believe in signs, he texted.
And that’s what the screen looks like—a giant billboard. The back is covered with graffiti, and I pick my way across broken beer bottles and cigarette butts.
Suddenly I’m having one of those moments that you have after losing someone—when you feel as if you’ve been kicked in the stomach and all your breath is gone, and you might never get it back. I want to sit down on the dirty, littered ground right now and cry until I can’t cry anymore.
But instead I walk around the side of the screen, telling myself I may not find anything. I count my steps past it until I’m a good thirty paces in. I turn and look up, and the wide white face says in red letters, I was here. TF.
In that moment, my knees give out and down I sink, into the dirt and the weeds and the trash. What was I doing when he was here? Was I in class? Was I with Amanda or Ryan? Was I at home? Where was I when he was climbing up on the sign and painting it, leaving an offering, finishing our project?
I get to my feet and take a picture of the skeleton screen with my phone, and then I walk up to the sign, closer and closer, until the letters are huge and towering above me. I wonder how far away they reach, if someone miles from here can read them.
There is a can of red spray paint sitting on the ground, the cap neatly on. I pick it up, hoping for a note or anything to let me know he left it for me, but it’s just a can.
He must have climbed up by the steel latticework posts that anchor the thing in place. I rest one foot on a rung, tuck the paint can under my arm, and pull myself up. I have to climb one side and then the other in order to finish it. I write: I was here too. VM.
When I’m done, I stand back. His words are neater than mine, but they look good together. There we are, I think. This is our project. We started it together, and we end it together. And then I take another picture just in case they ever tear it down.
Munster is almost as far north and west as you can get and still be in Indiana. It’s called a bedroom community of Chicago because it’s only thirty miles outside the city. The town is bordered by rivers, something Finch would have liked. Our Lady of Mount Carmel Monastery sits on a large, shaded property. It looks like a regular church in the middle of some pretty woods.
I roam around the grounds until a balding man in a brown robe appears. “May I help you, young lady?”
I tell him I’m there for a school project, but I’m not sure exactly where I’m supposed to go. He nods like he understands this and leads me away from the church and toward what he calls “the shrines.” As we walk, we pass sculpted tributes of wood and copper to a priest from Auschwitz, and also St. Therese of Lisieux, who was known as “The Little Flower of Jesus.”
The friar tells me how the church and the tributes and the grounds we are walking on were designed and built by former chaplains from the Polish army, who came to the States after World War II and fulfilled their dream of creating a monastery in Indiana. I wish Finch were here so we could say, Who dreams of building a monastery in Indiana?
But then I remember him standing next to me at Hoosier Hill, smiling out at the ugly trees and the ugly farmland and the ugly kids as if he could see Oz. Believe it or not, it’s actually beautiful to some people.…
So I decide to see it through his eyes.
The shrines are actually a series of grottoes built out of sponge rock and crystals so that the exterior walls sparkle in the light. The sponge rock gives the place a kind of oyster-shell, cave quality that makes it seem ancient and folk-arty at the same time. The friar and I walk through an arched doorway, a crown and stars painted across the top of the face, and then he leaves me on my own.
Inside, I find myself in a series of underground hallways, cobbled in the same sponge rock and crystals and lit up by hundreds of candles. The walls are decorated with marble sculptures, stained-glass windows, and quartz and fluorites that capture the light and hold it. The effect is beautiful and eerie, and the place seems to glow.
I come out into the cool air again and go down into another grotto, another series of tunnels, this one with similar stained-glass windows and crystals built into the rock walls, and angel statues, heads bowed, hands folded in prayer.
I pass through a room arranged like a church, rows of seats facing the altar, where a marble Jesus lies on his deathbed above a base of glittering crystals. I pass another marble Jesus, this one tied to a pillar. And then I step into a room that glows from floor to ceiling.
The archangel Gabriel and Jesus are raising the dead. It’s hard to describe—hands reach upward and dozens of yellow crosses race across the ceiling like stars or airplanes. The black-light walls are lined with plaques paid for by families of the dead who are asking the angels to bring their loved ones back to life and give them a happy eternity.
In the outstretched palm of Jesus, I see it—a plain, non-glittering rock. It’s the one thing that looks out of place, and so I pick it up and exchange it for the offering I’ve brought—a butterfly ring that once belonged to Eleanor. I stay awhile longer and then go blinking into the daylight. In front of me are two sets of stairs, side by side, and a sign: PLEASE BE REVERENT. DO NOT WALK ON THE HOLY STAIRS! YOU MAY ASCEND ON YOUR KNEES. THANK YOU!
I count twenty-eight steps. No one is around. I could probably walk right up them, but I think of Finch being here before me and know he wouldn’t have cheated. So I drop to my knees and go up.
At the top, the friar appears and helps me to my feet. “Did you enjoy the shrines?”
“They’re beautiful. Especially the black-light room.”
He nods. “The Ultraviolet Apocalypse. People travel hundreds of miles to see it.”
The Ultraviolet Apocalypse. I thank him, and on my way to the car, I remember the rock, which I’m still holding. I open my palm and there it is, the one he first gave to me, and later I gave to him, and now he has given me back: Your turn.