Cross Roads (13 page)

Tony was sliding. It felt warm and comforting, headfirst, facing up in pitch-black but enveloping darkness, and there was nothing to do but enjoy the sense of being carried, lifted, and finally deposited into a room that hummed and beeped with flashing lights.

He looked down and was shocked to see himself. He was not looking well.

“What the…?!” he exclaimed, trying to remember what had gotten him here. He had fallen asleep in Grandmother’s mud living room, in front of a fire, with Jesus. What had she just said? Oh yeah, she had said it was time. And now here he was, looking at himself in a hospital room, attached to
uncomfortable-looking tubes and all manner of high-tech mechanical paraphernalia.

He watched in the dim light as a chubby finger slowly rose to where his lips should have been.

“Shhhh!” someone whispered loudly.

Tony decided that was probably good advice, especially as a door swung open and a woman stood there looking at him, frazzled but relieved. He heard her exclaim, “Baby” or “Coffee,” which made no sense whatsoever, but a wave of something wonderful cascaded over him and a tumbling sequence of jumbled images followed. A glimpse of the floor, some furniture and machines, and then flying straight at this strange woman and being enveloped in her arms. Instinctively, he had reached out, but felt only an empty pressure, and while he had a sense of his own body, there was nothing tangible to grip or with which to catch himself. He didn’t need to. A force kept him upright and steady regardless of what was happening outside, as if he were caught and held inside a gyroscope. The only thing that seemed consistent was the window of sight in front of which he was suspended. It occasionally, and for only the briefest of instants, went dark. Even in the collision with the woman, he had not felt the impact, but could smell the sweetness of her perfume mingled with a little anxious perspiration.

Where in the world
, he wondered,
am I now?

T
ony desperately tried to process the muddle of images, but he felt trapped on an emotional tilt-a-whirl at a cosmic carnival.

The woman leaned down and looked right at him, inches from his face. “Cabby, you have to stop playing hide-and-seek without telling me. Especially when we come to visit Lindsay, okay?”

She was stern but kind, and Tony found himself nodding along with Cabby, whoever he or she was. Soon he was gliding through hospital corridors, down an elevator and out toward a parking structure, where they buckled into an old-model Chevy Caprice.

Desperation car
, thought Tony, a twinge of conscience
riding on the wave of his snap judgment. It was a habit and not one that was likely to change quickly.

As they descended a hill, Tony finally recognized where he was, on the winding road through the wooded area between the Oregon Health and Science University hospital and the city. It was almost as if this woman were heading toward his condo. But on Macadam they passed his buildings and continued toward the Sellwood Bridge where they crossed the Willamette, then on to McLoughlin Boulevard and into the backstreets by Milwaukie High School.

This much Tony had figured out. He was “inside” someone’s head, someone named Cabby who was the son, maybe, of the woman driving this car.

He wasn’t certain who could hear him if he said anything, so he quietly spoke. “Cabby?”

The head snapped up. “What?” came the slurred speech.

“I didn’t say anything, honey!” came the voice from the front driver’s seat. “We’re almost home. Maggie’s making supper tonight, and I have some root beer and ’nilla for you for dessert; would you like that?”

“ ’Kay!”

“Then it will be time for bed, okay? We’ve had a long day, and tomorrow I need to go back and visit Lindsay at the hospital, okay?”

“ ’Kay. Cnabby go!”

“Not tomorrow, sweet boy. You have school tomorrow, and Maggie-buddy wants to take you to church with her tomorrow evening. Would you like that? Go to church to see some of your friends?”

“ ’Kay.”

So Tony now knew he was inside the head of a boy who was not the best communicator in the world. He also
realized that even though he was peering out through Cabby’s eyes, it was more like looking through a window. It was an odd sense, to maintain his own visual focus regardless of what Cabby was looking at, as long as Cabby had his eyes open. The flashes of darkness were blinks, and already Tony hardly noticed it.

Tony tried to catch a glimpse of Cabby’s face in the rearview mirror, but it was enough out of the boy’s range of sight that he couldn’t make it work.

“Cabby, how old are you?” Tony asked.

“Sicktheen,” Cabby instantly responded, and then began to look around for the voice.

“Yes, you are, Cabby, sixteen. You are my big boy. Who loves you, Cabby?” came the soft words from the front seat, words that carried comfort and normalcy. Tony could feel Cabby relax.

“Mommy!”

“Right again! And always will, Cabby. Mommy will always love you. You are my sunshine!”

He nodded while still looking around the backseat for whoever was hiding.

They arrived at a modest four-bedroom in a modest neighborhood and pulled into the driveway. A newer sedan was parked on the street, a dent prominent in the driver’s-side rear quarter panel. They entered through a small mudroom where Cabby seemed to know the routine, doffing his coat and hanging it on one of the hooks along the wall, then taking his boots off after undoing the Velcro straps. He placed them perfectly in their spot, repositioned a couple of other pairs, and followed his mom into the kitchen where another woman was bent over a pot of something that smelled wonderful, steaming on the stovetop.

“Maggie-buddy!” shouted Cabby and threw himself at her, a well-framed, well-apportioned black woman, an apron protecting her hospital scrubs.

“Well, who might you be, you handsome man?” She beamed at him, holding him at arm’s length.

“Cnabby!” he announced, and Tony could feel the unabashed affection this young boy had for her. It was not only that he was seeing through his eyes; he could feel the emotions tumbling through the boy’s inside world, his soul, and everything screamed trust regarding this woman.

“Well, if it isn’t Cabby, my very own favorite Carsten Oliver Perkins. Not-too-shabby Cabby. Do you have one of your special hugs for me?”

They engulfed each other. Cabby tilted his head back and laughed. “Hungrey!”

“I bet you are, after a hard day’s work. Why don’t you go and wash up while I pour you a bowl of your favorite mushroom-and-peas-made-from-scratch noodle soup.”

“ ’Kay!” Cabby raced to the bathroom where he reached for the soap and turned on the faucet. Tony looked in the mirror and for the first time saw the young man in whose mind he was intruding. One look and it was obvious to Tony that Cabby was a boy with Down syndrome. That explained the communication issues, as well as his interactions with those around him. Cabby leaned closer and smiled at Tony, as if he could see him, a full-faced beautiful smile that lit him up, inside and out.

Tony had never known a “retarded” person. He wasn’t even sure if that is what you called them; maybe it was “mentally handicapped” or something else these days. His opinions on most nonbusiness matters may not have been founded on evidence or experience, but he was sure of them. People like Cabby were an unproductive drain on
the resources of society; they were valuable only to their families. He believed they were tolerated because of liberal persuasions, not because such people had any intrinsic worth. Tony could recall himself spouting such views at cocktail parties without the slightest stab of conscience. It is easy to create a category of persons, like retarded or handicapped, and then pass judgment on the group as a whole. He wondered if that was not the heart of all prejudice. It was so much easier than considering each as an individual, loved and loving.

When it came time to eat, the three held hands around the small table and Molly turned to Cabby.

“Cabby, who are we thankful for today?”

What followed was a list of people who, whether they knew it or not, had found a place inside the grateful hearts of these three. It included one another, Jesus, Lindsay, the doctors and the nurses at the hospital, the farmer who grew the vegetables that were in the soup, the people at the dairy who milked the cows for the butter and milk and especially the ice cream, Ted, friends at school, people who made root beer, and a host of others who participated in expression of God’s affection. Tony almost laughed out loud when Cabby snuck a piece of bread during the expressions of gratitude.

During the meal, he listened and experienced. As Cabby ate, Tony could literally feel the flavors in the soup and fresh bread, and how everything resonated inside Cabby, especially the ’nilla (vanilla ice cream) and root beer. By watching through his eyes the unspoken or truncated sentences that passed between Maggie and the mom, Molly, he learned that Lindsay was Cabby’s younger sister and very sick up at Doernbecher, one of two children’s hospitals on the OHSU campus. Molly had already made arrangements
with work to take the next day off, and Maggie, who shared this house with her and the kids, would oversee Cabby, picking him up from school and probably taking him with her to church in the evening.

When Cabby had to pee before bedtime, Tony self-consciously averted his eyes, but felt the sense of relief he had taken for granted all his life. Such little things that make up everyday routines, largely unheeded and unnoticed, but quite essential. Cabby donned Spider-Man pajamas, brushed his teeth, and climbed into bed.

“Ready,” he yelled, and a few moments later Molly entered the bedroom, switching on the ladybug night-light on the bedside stand and switching off the overhead one. She sat down on the bed next to where he lay, and for a second bent over, her face in her hands. Tony could feel Cabby reaching out to her emotionally, trying to tell her something. The best he could do was touch her, patting her on the back.

“ ’Kay, Mommy! ’Kay?”

She took a deep breath. “Yeah, Cabby, I’m okay. I have you, and Lindsay, and Maggie, and Jesus. It’s just been a long day and Mommy is tired, that’s all.”

And then she leaned down and laid her head on Cabby’s chest and began singing something that Tony hadn’t heard since… when? Not since he was a little boy. Now in this woman’s voice he could hear his own mother’s song, and suddenly he was deeply sad. He felt tears sliding down his face as this mother sang, “Jesus loves me, this I know.”

Cabby sang, in a slow, halting monotone, “DJE-SUS LUB MME.” Tony tried to sing but couldn’t remember the words, his emotions toppling in a cascade of memory and longing.

“Cabby, honey, why are you crying?” Molly was brushing tears from her son’s face.

“Sad!” Cabby tapped his heart with his fingers. “Sad!”

Tony woke, tears collecting in his ears. He sat up and took a deep breath. Grandmother was tapping his chest to wake him, and handed him a cup of what looked like coffee but smelled like tea.

“Here, blow your nose!” she directed, handing him a clean cloth. “We should give you a good Indian name, One-Who-Cries-a-Lot.”

“Whatever,” was all he could think to respond. He was still caught in the aftermath of unexpected emotions, and the remnants were not quickly dissipating.

Finally, he collected his thoughts enough to ask, “How was any of that possible?”

She grinned. “Powerful stuff, quantum fire.” She continued, “Just think about who is asking the question—a guy in a coma in Portland, Oregon, asking a Lakota woman inside his own soul about how he could end up inside the eyes of a very special boy in Portland, Oregon. Seems to me,” she said with a chuckle, “it is all self-explanatory.”

“Of course it is,” and this time it was Tony who was grinning, but then he grew somber. “So all of that is actually happening? Lindsay is really sick, and Cabby, you know, and his mother and Maggie?”

“Real time,” responded Grandmother.

“And this is not real time?” asked Tony.

“Different real time,” she grunted. “More in-between time. Don’t ask, just drink this.”

He did, careful at first, but whatever disgusting thing he had braced himself for was immediately proved false as the flavors of this liquid dropped into his chest, warming him thoroughly and leaving a sensation of complete gratification.

“I am not going to answer that either,” she said, anticipating his question. “Trust me, you don’t wanna know. And don’t go tellin’ me I could make a lot of money if I sold this stuff.”

He looked at her sideways but didn’t pursue it. Instead, he asked, “So, why was I there, and why am I back?”

“There are lots of reasons why you are there,” she began. “Papa never does anything for just one purpose, and most of these you will never understand or even know. All part of the weaving.”