Nathan Ballingrud - She Found Heaven Read online

  NATHAN BALLINGRUD

  SHE FOUND HEAVEN

  She found heaven lying like a crippled animal by the side of the road. It was

  small and glowing, and looked rather like a phosphorescent armadillo in the

  deep-morning darkness. She got out of her car to examine it. She looked up, but

  the sky was a vast desert of stars, and she could not see the place from which

  it fell. She poked it with her finger, and it rolled slightly, although she felt

  no physical substance beneath her touch. She did, however, feel a warmth that

  coursed through her bones and her blood, and she caught a scent of Ireland, a

  place she had been once as a child and had never forgotten. She gathered it up

  in her arms and brought it to the car. She stuck it in the glove compartment so

  that its light would not reflect off the windshield and interfere with her

  driving; but the light that bled out around the edges of the glove compartment

  door, silver and wavering, with the oily ripples of gasoline or of heat rising

  off pavement, proved to be equally distracting, and she almost died twice when

  the temptation to gaze upon it stole her attention from the road. * * *

  A week later she placed an ad in the St. Petersburg Times; although her first

  inclination had been to keep the piece of Heaven (and she was convinced it was

  only a piece; she could not fathom a Heaven so small and disposable), she felt

  that it probably belonged to somebody who lost it on the freeway, and she did

  not want to incur the wrath of God in only her first week in Florida by stealing

  it.

  *

  FOUND:

  One piece of Heaven, about a

  foot long, slightly crumpled;

  call Sally Baxter at 555-8264

  Since the Heaven had been found only an hour out of town, she hoped its owner

  would see the ad and call her. In the meantime, she folded it in half and set it

  in an old shoebox, which she stored in her closet.

  Sally had moved down from Virginia to Florida because she wanted a taste of what

  she called "real life." She had no solid idea of what this "real life" entailed,

  but she knew that it must be dirty and filled with Cuban drug dealers. She was

  twenty-four years old, fresh out of college, and filled with a righteous flame

  that compelled her to repair all that was damaged in the world. Florida seemed

  as good a place to start as any, and the beaches didn't hurt.

  Hello, you've reached the horn e of Sally Baxter. I'm not in right now, but if

  you leave your name and number at the sound of the beep, I'll get back to you as

  soon as I can.

  Beep!

  Yeah, uh, this is the lady with the Heaven, right? I'm the guy who lost it. It's

  like what you said in the paper, it's all crinkled up, and it 's pretty short,

  but still it's mine and I'd like to get it back. My name's Lance Washington, and

  my number's 555-9038. Call me back as soon as you can, 'cause I need it pretty

  bad.

  Her apartment was small, but it had a large picture window that overlooked the

  Gulf of Mexico. She kept the window open to admit the ocean breeze, which rolled

  into her apartment carrying the scent of distance and the speeches of pelicans

  and seagulls. Evening came, and she reclined on her couch so she could watch the

  changing colors of the sky. As it turned from red to purple, and as the first of

  the stars lit up behind the clouds, she closed her eyes, and it seemed to her as

  though the physical fry which bound her to the earth fell away in great clumps,

  and she rose off the couch and drifted out into the night. She floated above the

  waters, her nightgown billowing in the sky like diaphanous wings, and it was

  only the light spray of the ocean on her face that kept her from wheeling away

  into the stars.

  Beep!

  Yes, hello, my name is Ruth Landis, I'm calling about your ad. I live in a rest

  home here in northern Tampa, and a friend of mine showed it to me the other day

  and said I should call. You see, my husband died last month, and I've lost my

  faith in God. I haven't been able to pray or even read the Bible for weeks now,

  and when I pass by the church on my way to the store l get to feeling cold. I

  think you have my Heaven. Please, call me at Westlake Rest Home, and ask for

  Ruth. They know I'm making this call. They're good people, and they hope I can

  get my Heaven back, and I just know you were sent from God to give it to me. I

  almost believe again, just seeing that ad. Call me. I'll be waiting.

  Beep!

  Yeah, this is Lance Washington, I called yesterday? Maybe you didn't get the

  message. That Heaven you have is mine, I just know it is. And you know it's not

  just me, it's my wife and kid too. It's kinda like a communal Heaven, you know?

  We share it between us, and now we're all without. My kid, she's only seven

  years old, and she don't understand why her daddy can't get no job. How do you

  explain that to a seven-year-old kid? All she knows is her daddy goes to the

  unemployment office every day. And I been married to Alice going on six years,

  and she ain't once backed down from my side, she ain't once accused me of being

  a bad father, even though sometimes I gotta do questionable things just so I can

  put some food on the table, and keep the bills paid up. But she ain't

  invincible, she can't put up with all this forever. Please, Ms. Baxter, call me

  back. My humber's 555-9038, and I'm desperate. If you want me to beg it from

  you, I will. If you want money, I'll get together what I can. I'm here most of

  the day. Please call me. I don't know how much longer we can hold out.

  Beep!

  Um . . . is anybody there? Um . . .

  Beep!

  Is anybody there? Um, my name's Paul, and am . . . do you still have the Heaven?

  It might belong to More, 'cause she's crying all the time now, and I'm pretty

  sure if she had it she'd stop. She doesn't know I'm calling you, so don't tell

  her. She might get mad. Right now she's at the store, um, buying something to

  drink, so it's okay ff I talk for right now, only don't tell her. I think my dad

  stole the Heaven, and he prob'ly just threw it out the window of his truck,

  'cause that's what he does with all his trash. More says he's a polluter. Ever

  since he left all she does is cry, though, and she won't even talk to me

  anymore, so I think if she could have it back everything would be okay again. It

  was hers anyway, Dad shouldn't a taken it, but he does stuff like that

  sometimes. Um . . . if you could bring it over sometime today, that would be

  good. Um . . . bye.

  Sally lay naked atop the sheets of her bed, staring at the ceiling. It was

  night, and it was hot.

  There had been fourteen messages on her answering machine that day. She was

  sweating profusely, drifting in and out of consciousness.

  Sometimes it seemed as though other people were in her room, but she could not

  tell who they were or how long they stayed; they rema
ined a series of vague

  recollections that dissipated under prolonged scrutiny.

  The most insistent of these memories was that of a young woman sitting at her

  bedside, reaching over occasionally to sprinkle Cold water onto her forehead.

  She was dressed oddly, in long brown rags and white cloth, and she smelled

  vaguely of manure, but she had a kind, radiant face, and her smile was

  beautiful. As the woman leaned over her, Sally detected a silvery shine to her

  cheeks, but she did not know if these were tears or the light of the moon

  reflecting from her face.

  At some point in the night Sally arose from her bed and walked to the small

  window tucked away above her bureau, and she looked out at the city sprawling

  below her. It blazed hotly in the darkness, but with a different kind of light

  than she expected; it was possessed of a frantic radiance that suggested fevers

  or great holes punched through the crust of the earth. And as she looked more

  closely, pressing her forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane, she saw

  that these were not city lights at all, but a long, winding procession of

  torches, each held aloft by a stumbling bearer, tracing a crooked path through

  the rain.

  "Westlake Rest Home."

  "Yes, I'd like to speak to Ruth Landis, if I may."

  "Oh, yes, hold on one moment. Is this Sally Baxter?"

  "Yes."

  "Hold on."

  Then:

  "Yes ?"

  "Mrs. Landis?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm Sally Baxter, I had the ad about the Heaven."

  "Oh, yes! I called you!"

  "I know, I --"

  "Do you need directions? Would you like me to meet you somewhere? Or would you

  rather just mail it? No, I think I'd feel safer if I took it straight from your

  hands, that way I could thank you in person!"

  "Uh, Mrs. Landis --"

  "Call me Ruth."

  "Okay, Ruth, look, I'm not sure it belongs to you yet."

  ". . . oh."

  "I'm sorry, but I've been getting a lot of calls for it, and I need some more

  information before I can figure out who lost this particular piece. Do you

  understand?"

  "Yes, I suppose so. You can't go around giving it to just anybody." "No. So,

  could you, uh, could you describe it to me?"

  And she did. She said it was small, about a foot long (she was only an old woman

  and didn't need much space to move around in), and it had big green winds and

  smelled of lilacs. It made you feel warm to touch it, she said, and yes, it had

  probably suffered a little crumpling when it had fallen out of her husband's

  body, along with his spirit.

  Sally sighed and said, "Ruth, I'm not sure this is yours. There aren't any big

  green winds, and I smell no lilacs. On the contrary, when I smell it, I smell

  Ireland. Have you ever been to Ireland, Ruth?"

  "No."

  "Oh, it's a lovely place. I was only there once, a long time ago. But this just

  brings it all back. I remember a house on the beach, and there were big gray

  rocks all around, and it was always raining. And there was fog every- where. It

  was really quite beautiful."

  "It sounds desolate to me."

  "Well, it's all a matter of perspective, isn't it?"

  "Yes. I suppose so."

  "But the winds of Ireland are gray and chalk-colored, not green." "You don't

  smell the lilacs?"

  "No, I'm afraid I don't."

  "Well."

  "I'm sorry, Ruth."

  "That's . . . that's all right. It was silly of me to begin with. I'm sorry I

  wasted your time."

  "Oh, you di --"

  Click.

  And later:

  "Hello?"

  "Hello, my name is Sally Baxter, I'm calling for Lance Washington."

  "Who's this?"

  "This is Sally Baxter. Is Mr. Washington there, please?"

  "This is his wife."

  "Oh, you must be Alice!"

  "Why don't you tell me what the hell this is all about before you go usin' my

  first name."

  "Didn't he tell you? I'm the one who placed the ad in the paper."

  "I don't read no paper. Lance is the reader in the house. What ad are you

  talkin' about ?"

  "The ad about the Heaven? He didn't mention it?"

  "No. He ain't said nothin' bout no Heaven."

  "May I speak to him, please? He called me and left a message on my answering

  machine."

  There was a pause.

  "Mrs. Washington?"

  "He ain't here."

  "Well, is there a good time to call him back? He was pretty intent on talking

  about it."

  "He ain't gonna be back. He got busted last night."

  "Oh . . ."

  "They caught him sellin."

  "Oh, I'm . . . I don't know what to say."

  "Lance done what he had to do. Now I guess I will too."

  "Well, I, I'm sorry I bothered you. Good-bye, ma'am."

  "What was that ad about, anyhow?"

  "Oh, I uh, I found a piece of Heaven lying by the side of the road about a week

  ago, and I'm just trying to find out who it belonged to. Your husband seemed to

  think it might be yours."

  "Mine?"

  "Well, yours and his, and your kid's...the family's."

  "He did, huh?"

  "Yes. Did you lose Heaven, Mrs. Washington?"

  "Yeah, I reckon we did."

  "Well maybe it is yours. Can you tell me what it looks like?"

  "Oh, now, I don't know . . ."

  "You have to try, Mrs. Washington. Otherwise how will I know?"

  The woman was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, she spoke tentatively, as

  though she were unused to expressing abstract thought: "It's solid," she said,

  "good and solid. It feels like the earth, like roots and leaves and hard-packed

  dirt. If you set it in your lap, it makes music, like drums, like oh, hundreds

  of drums hidden behind the trees, and if you close your eyes it takes you away,

  it lifts you right out of your body and brings you to where the drums are, and

  there's dancing, and laughing, and the sound of bodies touching in the

  nighttime."

  She fell silent.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Oh yes. Oh yes, I'm sure."

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Washington."

  The others fared no better. She was cried to, cursed at, and begged, and when

  she was through she collapsed to the floor, the receiver resting loosely in her

  slackened fingers, and her chest burned with futility. She tried to cry, but

  there were no tears to be had. She was exhausted. The light was growing dim; the

  setting sun cast its red glow into her apartment.

  She looked toward the closet, where the Heaven sat safely tucked into the

  shoebox. She was afraid to go to it.

  Somewhere between the sun's immersion in the sea and the moon's rise to its

  zenith, where it hung like a cold stone, she drifted into sleep. When she awoke,

  the stars gazed in through her window, and the sea was painted over with the

  pale white color of bones. Someone was knocking at her door.

  Sally pulled herself to her feet, grimacing at the aches that rioted in her

  joints, and padded to the door. She glanced at the digital clock next to the

  couch: 11:47.

  "Who is it?"

  "My name is Lucas."

  "What do you want?"

  "I
'm here about the Heaven. Please. It's important."

  Sally thought for a moment. She did not have a gun. She could not defend

  herself. She should just turn him away and go to bed.

  But she found that she did not have the strength to turn away another person.

  Through telephone conversations she had denied Heaven to more people than she

  cared to count, dangling it over their mined lives like a taunt, pulling it away

  when they began to hope. She felt poisoned. She could not do it again.

  She unlatched the door and held it open. Lucas was an average man in every sense

  of the word: a little under six feet; light brown hair, brushed off to one side;

  an open, pleasant face. He wore a light brown sports jacket and tan slacks. He

  looked to be somewhere in his forties, but he wore his age comfortably, like a

  favorite hat. He held out his hand, and she took it.

  "Thank you," he said. "I was afraid you'd turn me away. I know it's an odd time

  to come calling."

  "How did you know where I live?"