Into This River I Drown

It’s four hours later and I’m regretting letting Cal out of my sight.

I sent him off with strict instructions ( You can’t go up to people you don’t know and spout off their names and birthdays and families and whatever else you want to say. Why not? People will just find it weird. But that’s how I remember everyone! I know, but if the whole idea is for you to remain incognito, then you can’t give yourself away on the first day. Let people introduce themselves to you should they want to. You act like I don’t know how to talk to people, Benji. Cal, you don’t know how to talk to people. Have a little faith, huh? Coming from an angel, that’s hilarious.) I found him an old wallet that I hadn’t used in years and gave him a wad of cash. I knew I was hovering when I asked him if he knew how to use money. “Oh, I don’t know, Benji; I’ve only watched humans for two centuries.” The bastard can be very sarcastic when he wants to be.

Which in and of itself is a paradox. Even after two days, I can see that there are so many sides to him. Maybe too many. There’s times he exudes such strength that it threatens to knock me flat. Push him into a corner and he will lash out. Make him angry and you will see it on his face, and God help you should it be directed toward you. Those are the times that I do believe he is an angel, that I do believe he guards us as he says he does.

Then there are his other sides, most specifically when he seems unsure, hesitant. While most of his insecurity has to do with things that I take for granted, it’s strangely amusing watching his attempts to adapt. His wonder is almost childlike in its mien. He sees things I no longer can because it is as if he’s experiencing everything for the first time. And what catches his eye seems to be inconsequential at first: marshmallows, a sunrise. The look on his face as the sun breaks over the horizon is one of pure wonder, and he closes his eyes as the sun’s rays first strike and warm his face. I try not to think about what his life must have been like On High. It sounds like it’s a cold, lonely place, even if he is working for God.

And then there’s the darker part of him. I will send you and yours into the black. I don’t want to think about that part. I don’t want to know what “the black” is. It’s only been two days since he fell from the sky, but those two days have shown just how little I really know about the world. What would happen if he turned that anger on me or my family? This town? For every story of an angel I’ve ever heard, there’s always been a counter to it, an avenging angel. Dark prophecies. Swords of fire. The devil was an angel at one point. There are things he’s keeping from me, I know. I don’t know how much of it falls under his supposed memory loss. It seems almost too convenient for me. But doubting him shames me. I don’t know if I can trust him, but how can I doubt him?

It’s not helping that my mind is completely jumbled from the conversation I overheard at the sheriff’s house. Maybe I’ve gotten too complacent about what happened to Big Eddie. There was a fire inside of me, after his death, a fire that burned so brilliantly it threatened to consume me. Maybe like any flash fire, it had grown so bright and hot it burned itself out, leaving only charred remains. But buried under my grief, I can feel the remains still smoldering, waiting for a spark to ignite them again.

I’m under no illusions about what the men in Griggs’s house were referring to last night. I might not be the smartest person alive, but the blatant way they referred to me left no room for misinterpretation. I don’t know how their so-called “operation” connects to my father, but it has to. Somehow.

The FBI agent’s card sits in my wallet, hidden away.

Three days ago, life was quiet. Life was routine. Solitary. Secluded, even. I knew what to expect from the world, at least my little corner of it. I knew it had teeth and could bite off my outstretched hand when I wasn’t looking. I knew it was easier to run and hide and bury myself in sorrow. At least there, I could let my soul bleed as much as it needed to. I knew I was drowning, but I was okay with that.

Now? This is how things are now:

Thirty minutes after Cal leaves, I am having serious doubts about letting him go off on his own, kicking myself for even suggesting it. He’s a grown man, I tell myself. A grown man who just had Lucky Charms and took a shower for the first time. I step out in front of the store, looking up and down Poplar, but that already familiar red hair isn’t anywhere to be seen. I go back inside.

And it starts.

Eloise Watkins comes into the store. She had been the librarian until the library closed due to budget cuts. She usually comes in on Fridays for a pack of Virginia Slims 120s, telling me each time this will be her last pack, she’s serious this time. She’ll proceed to smoke the cigarettes through the weekend, finishing the last one on her porch on Sunday evening. Monday she’ll tell everyone she’s quit smoking, that she doesn’t even feel the cravings, and why did people think it was so hard to quit? Friday will come around and she’ll back in for her smokes.

Which is why it’s weird when she comes in on a Wednesday, her eyes sparkling.

“Oh, Benji!” she exclaims, coming up to the counter. “You’ve been talking about me?”

I smile, not sure what she means. “You’re a couple of days early. And what do you mean talking about you?”

“I just had to come see you and say well done,” she says with a grin, reaching over the counter to rub me on my head. “He’s absolutely magnificent!”

I’m confused. “Uh, what?” Then: Oh, this can’t possibly be good.

“Your gentleman!” she says, the curve of her smile turning a bit wicked. “He stopped me on my way to the salon and asked me where the pants store was.”

“Oh, crap,” I groan. “What else did he say?”

She laughs. “He said that he wasn’t supposed to tell me, but that he knew my name and when my birthday was. And that smile he gave me….” Her eyelids flutter as she stares dreamily at me. “I didn’t even know you knew when my birthday was. Or that you cared,” she purrs, reaching over to rub her hand over mine.

I snatch my hand away as if she’ll set it on fire. “Eloise, you are sixty years old. And I’m gay.”

She sighs as she pulls back. “Yes, there is that,” she says. “And if I had a specimen like that man, I wouldn’t be looking for any on the side either.”

I blush furiously. This is not something I talk about openly. Ever. “I’m not… we’re… he’s not… I don’t know what you mean.”

She arches an eyebrow at me. “Well, at least one of you is sure. He told me that you belong to him and that he came because you needed him here.”

I groan again, laying my head on my hands. She laughs and runs her hand over the back of my head. “Love is so hard, isn’t it?” she asks.

“We’re not—”

“Anyway, I just wanted to stop in and say you have impeccable taste, my dear. Who knew you had it in you?” She turns and leaves.

I’ve just about made up my mind to close the store to hunt the bastard down when Mrs. Taylor Clark, of Clark’s, the medium-sized grocery down at the other end of Poplar, comes into the station. It would seem she’s met a certain large individual outside her store, opening and closing the door to the freezer that holds ice out on the sidewalk. When she asked what this gentleman was doing, he pointed out that he was just experiencing the difference between the warm spring air and the sudden burst of cold from the freezer. He pulled her next to him with his rather large arms and made her experience the same blast of air. He laughed, and she couldn’t not laugh with him, so she did. It would seem this gentleman was off to buy clothing, as Benji had ordered, but just between him and her, he thought he was just going to hate shopping. But, he said, it was what Benji wanted, and he would do anything for Benji, so off he went, if she could just point him in the right direction of the pants store?

“I wanted to climb him like a tree,” she tells me, blushing furiously, undoubtedly thinking of Mr. Clark, back at the store.

Ten minutes later, Jimmy Lotem from the hardware store stops in, telling me he just helped a peculiar fellow pick out a pair of boots. Apparently this fellow had told Jimmy that he needed a good pair of boots because he was going to work with his friend Benji, and if he needed to help others in town, he would, especially when he was called to. Oh, and how was Jimmy’s mother? the fellow asked. Jimmy, a bit surprised, had asked how this fellow knew about his mother. The fellow was quiet for a moment, then said that Benji had told him. Jimmy, unable to stop himself (and, admittedly, touched like he hadn’t been in a very long time), told him that his mother wasn’t doing so well, that the cancer had returned and his mother was no longer well enough to handle any more rounds of chemo. This peculiar fellow had stood and taken Jimmy’s hand in his own and said, “You will mourn when she passes, but just know that when she does, she will be taken to a place where she will be celebrated and revered for the life she led. And you will be with her again, one day.”

“It was like he knew, Benji,” Jimmy says, fighting back tears. “It was like he knew how scared I am. He was gone before I could say anything. You’ll thank him for me, won’t you? Or maybe he’ll be around?”

I nod, speechless.

But that’s not the end of it.

More come. Some in pairs, some in small groups. But most individually. The majority of the people who come in are here for curiosity’s sake, wondering where the redheaded man had come from. He had just introduced himself on the street, letting people know he was with me now. Many took that to mean more than it did, and I struggled to clarify our relationship over the way they grinned at me, watching me with knowing eyes that knew not of what they spoke. He was sweet, they said. He was kind. A bit odd, sure. But happy. And bright. Oh, he was so bright.

A few others say he spoke with them longer. He told John Strickland that he was sure his crisis of faith would pass, and that God would be there waiting for him. John tells me that, for the life of him, he can’t remember how the topic came up but he’s glad it did, because the few words Cal has spoken to him make more sense than anything he’s heard in years. “I think I want to pray on it,” he tells me, looking astonished at his own words.

Then there’s Margaret Sims, a young slip of a woman who works as a secretary for old Doc Heward. Cal spoke with her as she sat out in the spring sunshine, taking a break. He told her that he sure was happy that he wasn’t alone anymore, that it had been a long time since he’d had anyone to talk to. “But then Benji found me,” he supposedly said, even before he’d told her his name. “Or I found him. I’m not quite sure yet. Maybe we found each other at the same time. I don’t know that it matters.” He sat with her, in the sun, and told her that he didn’t want anyone to be alone again. She confessed to him that she missed her grandmother since she’d passed away last year, and that she felt alone too. “She wouldn’t want you to feel that way, I don’t think,” Cal had told her. “Life is for the living. It’s time for you to live.” He’d then kissed her on the forehead and stood and waved as he walked away.

Life is for the living.

And others:

Terry Moore, who says she could see kindness in his eyes, but that they looked sad.

Larry Roberts, who says Cal shook his hand and told him about the sunrise he’d seen this morning, and how the colors had been so alive.

Janice Evans, who is at a loss to explain what he’d said to her, just that she’s been able to see through a fog of despair for the first time since her daughter died last year.

Rosie Duncan, of Rosie’s Diner fame, calls to tell me Cal stopped in and asked for a bowl of the green things from Lucky Charms. When she told him she didn’t have any, he smiled at her and told her that was okay. She was so taken by him that she’d sent one of her waiters down to Clark’s to buy a box and then Cal sat at the counter while he picked out the green clovers.

And still more. So many more, in all a total of forty-three people I count over the space of four hours. But it’s the last one that almost causes me to break.

My mother walks into the store.

“Hey,” I say, glancing out the front windows for the tenth time in a minute, trying to see if Cal is on his way back.

“Benji,” she says in greeting. She makes her way back to the cooler and grabs a bottle of water before coming back to stand in front of the counter. She studies me, though I’m not sure what she’s hoping to find. “So,” she says.

“So,” I say, playing her game, hoping it isn’t going to be what I think it is.

“I was in town making a delivery to Rosie’s,” she says. “Also picked up an order for the Jump Into Summer Fest.”

“Oh?”

“Yep.”

“Big order?”

She shrugs. “I guess. The coordinators want pies. Lots of pies. More than last year. Apparently summer means pie.”

“That’s good,” I say, glancing out the window again, craning my neck to see down the street further.

“Looking for something?” she asks. “Or someone?”

I eye her warily. “I’m pretty sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m pretty sure you do.”

I groan. “Did he get you too?”

She shakes her head. “No, but he’s made quite the splash. It’s all anyone would talk about. And imagine my surprise when everyone started asking me questions. Questions I had no idea how to answer. How did Benji and Cal meet? How long is Cal staying? Are they serious?”

“Mom, it’s not like—”

She interrupts me. “Do you care for him?”

“Well… yeah, I guess. He’s my friend.” My weird, weird friend who fell out of the sky.

“Friend?” There’s too much emphasis on that word. I know what she means.

I blush. “It’s not like that,” I try again.

“It’s not?”

“No.”

“Does he know that?”

“Cal’s just… really friendly.”

“Friendly isn’t going around telling people that you belong to him,” she points out.

I wince. “He has a tendency to speak like he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“And he was out… what? Shopping for clothes that you told him he needed to get?”

I hate small towns. “Mom, it’s not what you think.” Then I stop and think about it for a moment and allow myself to get angry. “And even if it was, what business is it of yours? I’m twenty-one. I live in my own house, under my own roof. My life is my life.”

“I’m not questioning that, Benji,” she sighs. “I know that. Trust me, out of everyone in the world, I know that probably better than anyone. And I’m not trying to…. Benji, I’m just worried.”

“About what?”

She turns and looks out the window, staring down Poplar Street. “Regardless of our standing in this town, regardless of what goodwill your father left us, this is still a small town. There’s going to be prejudice here. You have to know that.” “There will be prejudice wherever I go.”

“That’s not the point,” she snaps without looking at me.

“Mom, no one gives two shits about me. They could—”

f*cking faggots why don’t we just kill them now

“—care less what I do.”

“Maybe before, but this? Benji, how well do you even know this guy?” “We’re not doing anything!” I’m getting pissed off now.

“But you want to,” she says, turning back to me. “Benji, I can see it in your eyes. Even now, there’s something there. Something I haven’t seen in a long time. Not since….” She can’t finish.

I look down at my hands, scraping my thumbnail against a chip on the countertop. “And you’re questioning it?” I ask bitterly. “You see me happy and you want to stop it? How f*cking fair is that?”

“Benji—”

“And since when did you give a rat’s ass about me being gay? It’s never been an issue before. Or at least it wasn’t for Dad.”

“That’s not fair,” she says, looking hurt. “I am just as much on your side as your father was.”

I feel like a bastard, but she was trying to push me into a corner. “You’ve got a weird way of showing it sometimes.”

“But—”

I wave my hand at her. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing’s going to happen. You don’t have anything to worry about. We’re too different.” Understatement.

She hesitates, looking unsure. But then she reaches out and covers my hand with her own. “I just want you to be safe,” she says, her voice cracking. She shakes her head angrily when I look up, obviously pissed at herself for breaking down in front of me. “You’re all I have left.”

“You have the Trio,” I say, trying to stop myself from pulling my hand away.

“You’re all I have left of him,” she says, and I understand.

“Mom,” I sigh, not wanting to think about it anymore. “Cal’s a good… guy. Just give him a chance, okay?”

She nods, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “Everyone seems to like him,” she says with a soft chuckle. “I just worry about you.”

“Yeah. You are my mom, after all. It’s kind of in the job description.”

“And you better not forget it,” she says, bending over and kissing my hand on the counter. I look away before my own eyes start to water.

She grabs her bottle of water and turns and heads for the door. “I’ll expect you both for dinner soon,” she calls over her shoulder, our rare display of emotion held like a secret between us. “If he’s going to stick around and cause you to gaze out the window with that look in your eyes, I need to get to know him.” She pushes out the door before I can respond.

“I’m not gazing out the window!” I shout, even though I totally was. She waves her hand like she hasn’t heard me.

I scowl after her.

And I’m still scowling when he walks into the store thirty minutes later, numerous bags in his hands. “Benji,” he says with a grin.

“You,” I growl at him, “are in so much f*cking trouble.”

He cocks his head at me, not looking particularly intimidated. “Why is that? Hey, I didn’t hate shopping like I thought I would. It was actually pretty okay. I got some pants from the pants store and there were these boots that almost didn’t fit my feet and I almost didn’t buy them because why would you need to wear boots when you can just walk bare—”

“I am pretty sure I don’t need a rundown of your entire day, since everyone you spoke to has already told me all about it.”

He has the decency to look somewhat guilty. “Ah. About that. See, I didn’t want to be rude and people were looking at me like they didn’t know me, so….”

“It’s because they don’t know you,” I remind him through gritted teeth.

“Well, yeah. And I felt bad, because I know them, so I thought it would be rude if I didn’t introduce myself. And then we got to talking about stuff, and before I knew it, I had talked to a lot of people. I still went shopping, though, like you asked,” he says, showing me the bags in his hand. “Even though I didn’t want to.”

I am incredulous. “Are you trying to guilt-trip me?”

“Is it working?”

“No!”

“Oh.”

“Cal!”

“Benji.” He smiles, and it causes my heart to stutter. He puts the bags on the floor and takes a step toward the counter. “You’re looking at me differently,” he says with great interest.

I take a step back. “I am not,” I snap at him. “I was just worried is all. You can’t go around being like you are!”

He frowns. “How else am I supposed to be? If there’s one thing I’ve learned about human nature, is that it is imperative to be who you are.”

“You’re not human,” I say, instantly regretting my words as his face falls.

“I know,” he says, looking down at his hands.

“That’s not what I—”

“It’s okay, you know. You’re right. I’m not human. I shouldn’t be expected to act like one.” He shakes his head. “But of all people in this world, Benji, I thought it would be you who’d understand what it’s like to be different.”

Shit. I’ve hurt him. I think. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

He looks up at me again. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.” He tries to reassure me, the small smile returning, as if he hopes what he’ll say next will please me. “You know what I found today?”

“What?”

He leans onto the counter, flexing his big arms, the fabric of the shirt straining against him. “I’m pretty much bigger than anyone here,” he says confidently. He flexes again. He watches me watching him and the smile grows. “Many people told me how big I am. How strong I look.”

“Did they?” I manage to choke out.

“Yes, there was one lady who wanted me to take her to dinner. She told me to call her. I told her I don’t have a phone and she said that was okay, we could just go around back where no one could see us.”

I see red. “Did she?” I snarl, unable to stop myself. I bet it was that stupid bitch Suzie Goodman who works at the pharmacy. That f*cking slut—

“No,” he says, eyes sparkling. “That was a joke. I found out today that I enjoy humor and I can tell jokes after all. It turns out I am pretty funny. Isn’t that great?”

I look away. “Bastard,” I whisper.

“Look at me,” he says, his voice changing, becoming deeper, stronger.

I can’t stop myself. I don’t want to stop myself. He looks into my eyes and I hold my breath. “Yeah,” he finally says with surety in his voice. “You’re looking at me differently.”

Dammit.

“Why were you telling people I belong to you?”

Cal grins. “Because you do. All of you here do. I am the guardian angel of Roseland. It is my job. You all belong to me.”

“Oh,” I say, unable to stop it from sounding like I’m disappointed.

He turns away from the counter to pick up his bags. “But especially you,” he says over his shoulder as he heads for the small office in the back.

I stare after him.

I can see it in your eyes, my mother whispers in my head. Even now, there’s something there.

He will need you as much as you’ll need him, Big Eddie says.

You’re looking at me differently.

I am so f*cking screwed.





revelation

I am at mile marker seventy-seven.

The gray sky opens up and rain falls down.

I stand on the river’s edge.

Feathers. Crosses.

A truck crashes and flips into the water, its rear angled up.

I am in the river.

A shadow of a figure stands on the road, watching.

“Benji,” a voice calls. It is not my angel.

My angel, I think, confused.

The water is up to my chest. It’s cold, causing my teeth to chatter. The mud in

the riverbed is up to my ankles and is as strong as it’s ever been. Each step is nearly impossible. My legs strain against the suction and current.

“Benji,” the voice calls again.

It’s coming from the truck.

A strong arm around my chest and I’m pulled away, away, away.





I am wary of him over the next few days. There are times I wake up in the middle

of the night and he’s gone, following threads only he can see, the nest outside my bedroom door empty. These are the moments I feel relief I won’t admit to out loud, a small part of me thinking it might be okay if he doesn’t come back. This can’t last long, I tell myself. People will begin to ask questions. My mother and the Trio will begin to ask questions. How long can the name Cal Blue and the person behind it hold up to inspection? He can only end up bringing my carefully constructed world crashing down, and I don’t know if I have the strength to build it up all over again. So it’s good, I think, looking down at the blankets on the floor outside my door. It’s good he’s gone. He doesn’t belong here. He’s an angel. I am a little speck of dust that means nothing. This won’t be any more than that. He is big and bright and strong and powerful. And I am nothing.

But that’s only a small voice.

Inevitably, I’m up and pacing the floor in the living room in the dark, glancing out the front windows every few moments into the night, hoping to see a large figure ambling up the driveway toward Little House. The longer it takes, the more I begin to eye my keys hanging on the rack. What if he’s hurt? I ask myself more than once. What if he’s lost? What if he’s trying to find his way back to Little House and he can’t? What if he needs my help? And, as if he can hear me thinking, as if he understands I’m about to break, that is the moment I see him, a flash of the red rust on his head, his creamy skin illuminated by the moon and stars. Relief washes over me. These are strange feelings, new feelings, feelings I don’t think I can or even should be having. I watch him for a moment as he moves toward me. I think how handsome he is, how strong he looks. I think how the small voice that wants him to leave is undoubtedly right, but I will ignore it for as long as I can, because I don’t think I can go back to the way things were. Being alone, being haunted. I allow myself to think these things for just a moment, because any longer will be too much for me to handle.

As he approaches Little House, I melt back into the dark, down the hall, stepping over his blankets and then shutting the door behind me. I crawl into bed and lie on my side, facing the door. Moments later, I hear footsteps walking down the hall gently, as if he is trying to be quiet so he doesn’t wake me. Shadows shift across the floor as he stands in front of my bedroom door. And then his voice, softly saying, “I’m back, Benji. I’m here.”

The first night he said this, I was sure he’d seen me in the window, that he knew I was awake. But then he said it again the next night. And the one that followed. And the one after that. Finally, on the seventh night, I stayed awake as long as I could, to see if I could hear him when he left. It was just after midnight when he stirred. He stood and leaned against the door. “I’ll be back, Benji. I promise. I will come back.”

But regardless of when he leaves or when he comes back, he knocks on my door shortly before dawn, waking me from a fitful doze I’ve just fallen into. “Benji?” he says. “It’s almost time.” And then he walks down the hall and out the door.

There are moments when I tell myself to stay in bed, that I don’t need to put myself into this any further. It doesn’t mean anything, I argue with myself. It can’t mean anything. But then my feet find the floor and I’m standing before I can even think about it. I walk down the hall. I take my father’s jacket from the coat rack and slip it on. I put on the old work boots by the door. I go outside, the sky already beginning to lighten in the east. The grass is slick with dew. The stars are still visible overhead, though they are now fading.

I reach the ladder and climb up one rung, and then two. There is movement above me and I look up. The angel Calliel is there, hand outstretched. There is no hesitation now as I reach up, his big paw engulfing mine. He pulls me up the rest of the way and then moves back to his perch at the edge of the roof. I sit a few feet away from him, but by the time the sun shoots itself above the horizon, with that first blinding ray over the Cascades, I’m pressed up against him, his arm heavy across my shoulders, my head in the crook of his neck.

I asked him once why he wanted to see the sun rise every morning, what it was that caused him to be out here at the crack of dawn every day.

He watched me for a moment before looking back at the horizon. “Its beauty,” he said. “It reminds me every day that there is beauty in the world. That even though it may feel like we are alone sometimes, we are never truly alone.” The sunlight hit his face and his red hair and beard turned to fire. He looked down at me again, pressed up against him. “Why are you here every day?” he asked.

I looked into his dark eyes and said the first thing that came to mind. “Because you’re here.” I immediately blushed, realizing how the words sounded. The smile that bloomed on his face was bright and knowing. I looked away, but not before he pulled me tighter against his chest.

The times he disappears during the day are more difficult, because those are the times I worry most about his visibility. He tells me he’ll be fine, that he isn’t doing anything that will bring more attention to himself, but that does little to calm me. Whenever the threads call, he follows. There are times we’re in the middle of a conversation when he breaks off, staring off into the distance. “I have to go,” he says after a moment of silence. “I’ll come back, I promise.” Sometimes he asks for the keys to the Ford, but most of the time he takes off on foot. I watch him and contemplate following. I even tried to, one time, but he moved so quickly I lost sight of him within minutes.

He never tells me what he did, and I never ask. I don’t feel it is my place to, nor do I think I have a right to know. But things happen around Roseland that I can no longer associate with normalcy. The Wallace family was displaced after their house burned down one night, a freak electrical thing. They escaped through the window. The house burned to the ground, but the Wallaces were safe. Mr. Wallace later said that he’d awoken because of what he thought was a hand on his shoulder, but no one had been there.

How lucky! breathed the town. How fortunate! said its residents. God must have been watching over the Wallace family that night—it’s the only explanation!

I thought there might be another explanation, as Cal had come home that night smelling of smoke.

Little Becky Newhall went missing after she went outside to play two days after the Wallace fire. Her parents were frantic, and a large mass of people gathered, ready to comb the woods for any sign of the girl. But even before they could all set out, she was discovered on the porch swing at her house, covered in a blanket, her arm clutched to her chest. She’d fallen into a small sinkhole, she said later. The fall had broken her arm. She cried for a long time and screamed for someone to get her, but she grew tired and tried to sleep. She woke sometime later and she was being carried by someone who told her everything would be okay. She went back to sleep and when she woke again, she was on her porch at her house.

Who saved her? the town cried. Surely the hero would come forward and receive the praise and blessing of Roseland? No one came forward. It’s the will of God, some said. He works in mysterious ways, others whispered. Little Becky Newhall surely had her guardian angel watching over her, all agreed.

“It’s the threads,” Cal tells me when he comes home, slick with mud and grime. “I follow the threads.”

I say nothing as I turn on the shower, getting the water scorching hot, knowing he likes it that way.