The Law of Moses(43)

“Who has PO Box number 1?” he inquired immediately.

“God,” I said, not missing a beat.

“And box number 2?” He was laughing as he asked.

“Pam Jackman.”

“From down the street?”

“Yes. She’s like one of the Kennedys.”

“She drives the bus, right?” he asked.

“Yes. Bus driver is a highly lauded position in our community.” I didn’t even crack a smile.

“So boxes 3 and 4?”

“They are empty now. They are waiting for the heirs to come of age before they inherit their mailboxes. My son will someday inherit PO Box #5. It will be a proud day for all Shepherds.”

“Your son? What if you have a daughter?” His eyes got that flinty look that made my stomach feel swishy. Talking about having children made me think about making babies. With Moses.

“She’s going to be the first female bull-rider who wins the national title. She won’t be living in Levan most of the time. Her brothers will have to look after the family name and the Shepherd line . . . and our post office box,” I said, trying not to think about how much I would enjoy making little bull-riders with Moses.



When Mom delivered my letter, her eyes got tight and I could tell she wished she could just toss it and keep Moses away for good. But she didn’t. She brought it to my room, set it softly on my dresser, and left without comment. The best part of opening any highly-anticipated letter or package is the moment before you know what it is. Or what it says. And I had been waiting for something from Moses for months, praying for something. I knew as soon as I opened it I would either be filled with hope or crushed beyond repair. And I was too worn out for either at the moment.

I ended up going for a long ride, taking the letter along, tucking it inside my coat so it wouldn’t get wrinkled. It was February and we’d finally gotten a snow storm after a very cold, dry, couple of months. Rumor was that they’d found Molly Taggert’s remains near the overpass where Moses had painted her picture. People were talking again and people were staring at me too, all the while trying to pretend they weren’t staring. The lack of snow had made it possible for the dogs to work, to find her, but I was glad the dry spell was finally broken.

The empty white world was welcome, and when Sackett and I were far away from everything and everyone, I pulled the letter out and carefully opened it, as if I might inadvertently tear away something important. Maybe my own dry spell was finally broken. I pulled out a folded piece of thick drawing paper and carefully opened it, tucking the envelope back inside my coat. With shaking hands I studied the picture in my hands. I didn’t know what to make of it.

It was beautiful, but more abstract than I would have hoped. I wanted concrete. I wanted words. I wanted him to tell me that he was coming back for me. That he couldn’t stand being apart. But I didn’t get concrete. I got a picture. How very Moses.

It was a woman, but she could be any woman. There was a child, and it could almost be any child. The woman was created from swirls and suggestions, breasts, hips, embracing arms and folded legs, all enclosing a small child with a brief sweep of dark hair. I looked at it for a long time, not knowing what to make of it.

Was it symbolic? Was it pointed? Was he making a statement about the loss of his grandmother? Was he trying to tell me he understood what I was going through? I didn’t know how he could. And so I stared at the lovely, confusing bit of correspondence from the boy who had kept me guessing from the beginning. After a while, my hands grew cold and Sackett grew restless, and I headed back for home.

I framed the picture and hung it on my wall, determined to get some sense of peace from it, from the fact Moses had thought of me at all. But mostly I felt afraid and unequipped to tackle the days ahead, still unable to completely give up on Moses Wright. Mom had taken one look at the picture and turned away, and Dad just shook his head and sighed. And I settled in for a long wait.





Moses



IN A SHALLOW GRAVE piled high with rocks and debris, fifty yards from where I’d painted her smiling face, the remains of Molly Taggert were uncovered. Tag said the truck stop nearby was called Circle A. The neon sign that marked the establishment was a red A inside a circle—just like at the top of Molly’s math page. I’d never noticed it at all in my travels back and forth across the ridge between Levan and Nephi. I’d driven by that truck stop a hundred times and never made the connection. Too lost in my own head, definitely not Sherlock Holmes. The back of the truck stop butted up to a stretch of field that led into the little hills that rose into the mountain ridge that stretched along the east part of town and continued south for hundreds of miles. A golf course was wedged between those hills, and every year fireworks were launched from the first tee around the fourth of July. The red A and the fireworks were both easily visible from the overpass where I’d painted Molly’s image, marking her resting place and not even knowing it.

Tag had cried when he told me. Big, wracking sobs that made his shoulders shake and my stomach tighten painfully, the way it had the night Georgia had told me she loved me. “I think you do love me, Moses,” she’d said, tears coating her throat. “And I love you too.” I didn’t do well with tears. I didn’t cry, so I didn’t know why other people did. And Tag cried for his sister the way I imagined I should have cried for Gi. But I didn’t cry, so I just waited until the storm passed, and Tag mopped up the tears on his cheeks and finished telling me the rest.