The Law of Moses(78)

Surprisingly enough, it was Dad that convinced Mom that I’d survived Moses once and I would survive him again. I didn’t especially like his choice of words, but I held my tongue. Dad had been awfully quiet since our morning conversation the day after my very first run-in with Moses. Eli’s death was in the air again, the anniversary approaching and making us all cringe and hold our breath, wishing for it to pass us by. Moses coming into town this month, of all months, felt like an omen. And not a particularly good one. Mom was jittery, Dad was pensive, and I was a wreck, if I was being honest with myself.

It was probably a good thing that I had a few days to myself, that it was only me in the corral. The horses were tuned into me, and they didn’t like my mood at all. It took me a good hour, brushing them down, cleaning their hooves, getting my head straight and working out my own stress before I conducted a session with a small group I saw every week.

But my angst returned in full force when Moses wandered over at the end of my class. I didn’t want to draw attention to him or to myself, and when I realized he wasn’t going to talk or interrupt, I finished the session and bid the group goodbye as they loaded back into the treatment center van and drove off. I returned to the corral, hoping Moses had gone, but he remained, as if waiting for me. When he saw me coming, he climbed down from the fence and walked toward me. His brow was furrowed, and I tried not to give any credence to the way my breath caught and my hands shook when I watched him approach. He still appealed to me on a very primitive level. And I didn’t want that. I was afraid of it. I despised myself for it.

“He keeps showing me random things,” he said, shaking his head, not even pausing for a greeting or small talk. That was just like the old Moses, and I didn’t want to question him. I didn’t want to know what he was talking about.

“Eli keeps showing me random things,” he repeated, and I felt myself soften even as my heart lurched wildly. I could not resist the lure of Eli, of hearing about him, even if it was all a fairytale told by a man who I really wanted to hate.

“Like what?” I whispered, not able to help myself.

“His toes in the dirt, chicken noodle soup, Legos, pine cones, and Calico. Always Calico.” He shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “What do you think he’s trying to tell me?”

I suddenly found myself smiling. It was the oddest thing. It was the oddest and most wonderful, horrible thing. I was smiling and my eyes were filling with tears. I turned away, needing a moment to decide whether or not I was going to accept a new truth.

“Georgia?”

Moses waited for me to take several long, steadying breaths while I found my voice.

“Those are his favorite things. He’s telling you his greats.” My voice cracked and my eyes sought his.

His face went blank for a second and then his jaw dropped slightly as if a gong had sounded in his brain. He looked stunned. Flabbergasted even.

“His favorite things. He’s telling me his greats,” he repeated, almost to himself. “I thought he was trying to communicate something. Maybe teach me something.” Then Moses started to laugh.

“What? What’s so funny?” His baffled amusement was hard to resist, and I found myself smiling even as I wiped my eyes.

“That’s what they’re all trying to tell me. I never understood it before. The random items. The everyday stuff. It’s always driven me crazy.” He choked on the words, trying to speak around the mirth. And it really wasn’t that funny. In fact, maybe it wasn’t funny at all.

I just shook my head, still smiling at his wheezing laughter. “I don’t understand.”

“Do you know how many times I’ve painted a still life of the most mundane thing? Mundane things that never made sense, but that people, the dead, seemed to care about. Buttons and cherries, red roses and cotton sheets on the clothes line. Once I painted a picture of a worn-out running shoe.” He clasped his hands over his head, the laughter abating as the truth seemed to sink in. “And I always just assumed it had this great meaning that I just couldn’t grasp. The families love that stuff. They come see me, I paint whatever their loved ones show me. They leave happy, I make money. But I never understood. I’ve always felt like I was missing something.”

I wasn’t smiling anymore. My chest hurt and I couldn’t decide whether it was joy or pain that made it ache.

“And I was missing something, wasn’t I?” Moses shook his head. He turned in a circle, almost as if he couldn’t believe he’d just solved the puzzle that wasn’t ever really much of a mystery.

“They’re telling me what they miss. They’re telling me their greats. Just like Eli . . . aren’t they, Georgia?”





Moses



THE PAIN WAS A ROLLING, all-consuming wave inside of me. It had started small. Just an ache in my back and a weakness in my legs. I ignored it, pretending I still had time. It was early yet. But as the hours passed and darkness fell, the heat from the street found its way into my belly, and I was ripping at my clothes trying to escape the searing pain. I was being burned alive. I tried to run from it when it paused for breath, and it would abate as if it lost track of me for a few minutes. But it always found me again, and the wave of pressure and pain would roll me under.

But worse than the pain was the niggling fear in the back of my jumbled brain. I’d prayed so hard, just like I had been taught. I’d prayed for forgiveness and redemption, for strength and for a chance to start over. And mostly I prayed for cover. But I had a feeling my prayers didn’t rise much farther than the simmering air above my head.