Adam's Woods (12 page)

So he rode, even pedaling now to gain more speed, his terror exquisite, and still the van came closer. He screamed, this time the sound unheard even by his own ears, swallowed by the deafening mechanical symphony of the machine bearing down. He'd never ridden this fast, had gone down this hill on the bike but never with the guts to descend without braking. Now he switched to a higher gear to get more from each revolution of the pedals, his silent scream constant. His existence had never been so focused, pared down until the world had ceased to matter beyond the massive bulk of the van behind and the boundary of light defined by its headlights out in front.

At the bottom he hit the flat, and though he still rode fast, had only momentum from the descent to work with now and knew it wouldn't last long. He pedaled hard to take advantage, switching back to an easier gear so his legs wouldn't tire though they already felt loose and quivery. His whole body shook. The van kept pace, still close behind, and he expected at any time to hear the revving of the engine that would signal its charge and his end.

He passed the small sign that said, "Village of Lincolnville" and suddenly the van dropped back. It slowed and finally stopped, but the engine revved wildly like a doberman at the edge of its territory barking out an invitation to try him again. The boy kept riding but he knew now. He was to stay here, had been herded back to the village boundary. If he tried to escape, the man would kill him. How had he gotten ahead? How did he know where he'd be? Unless he wasn't just a man. A chill ran through him, similar to smaller tremors from the ghost story books but amplified by the ghost no longer content to haunt only the pages. He thought he'd known what fear was then. He looked back at himself, lying in his bed afraid but safe, and felt contempt for that stupid little kid, and also envy for the same.

So without any other ideas, exhausted and in despair and beyond caring, the boy went home and climbed into his bed with his clothes on. He'd thrown the bike down into the yard, could hear his mother yelling at him for being so careless. Right before falling asleep, the boy thought that he'd be willing to set the house on fire if only it would mean a scolding, no matter how severe.

Eric walked the short distance to the parsonage where Pastor Burroughs lived. It was a small house that sat at the edge of the church's dirt parking lot. The dwelling was simple, its primary function shelter and not meant as a statement of socioeconomic conquest or lack thereof. Eric approached with mixed feelings about tonight's dinner.

Pastor Burroughs had been instrumental in helping his parents, and by extension himself, through the first days and weeks after Adam's murder. He'd spent hours with them: sometimes sharing in their tears, sometimes in utter silence, and sometimes bearing the brunt of their rage against God by proxy as His representative on earth. This last expression had been primarily his mother's. Eric had shared her anger, but couldn't understand when she began coming to terms with it and refused to follow. But if for nothing except his comfort and counsel, Eric would forever be grateful to the pastor.

But he feared any conversation directed towards his own spiritual state, didn't want to discuss it. With some guilt, he admitted he wanted Mary there as much as a buffer to unwanted inquiries than simply as his date. He didn't want to get angry this evening, and didn't want Burroughs to be disappointed in him either.

Eric had been the gold star Sunday School pupil. He retained information well, and usually had an answer or a memorized scripture ready and extras just in case. He was to be baptized in October of the Year Adam Was Murdered, known to others as 1986, but it was forgotten, and he chose not to remind anyone. He'd been unwashed since, in more ways than one.

He knocked on the door, and while waiting decided on a plan: he would eat, engage in some polite conversation, and then, stricken with exhaustion, excuse himself and go home. Of course he'd promise to have Burroughs over soon, and might even follow through, but with Mary in attendance.

The door opened, and his first impression of the aging minister, as it had been on his earlier and brief visit, was a man bearing many burdens but wearing a smile no less warm or genuine for it. He thought of the many stories he had read, some in his writers' group, where the introduction of a religious character guaranteed the entrance of a villain used expressly to illustrate hypocrisy and wickedness hiding behind some version of a laughable God. Of course some of the criticism was deserved, and the 9/11 attacks proved without a doubt, if any fool still needed it, that religion indeed could produce monsters. As far as Christianity went, they had the Crusades and the Inquisition and witch hunts to draw from, so why bother rocking the boat? There was something to the bumper sticker that he'd once seen and had almost bought, that read, "Jesus Loves You, But Everyone Else Thinks You're An Asshole." But Eric felt that more respect was due those that struggled with belief in things higher than themselves. There were charlatans, thieves, and child molesters in God's house, sure, and if you wanted to stop there you could, but not without being disingenuous. He doubted that most authors had ever bothered to actually talk to someone displaying true faith. And they certainly hadn't met Pastor Burroughs.

As a child he'd been in awe of him. He didn't present himself as self righteous, always had time to listen without making snap judgments or quick condemnations but probed gently for information and reflected on the answers before having his say. He lived out the faith he professed, caring for the elderly and poor, speaking kindly to those that needed it and rebuking them when necessary. Eric felt some of his trepidation fade as he took the offered hand, which Burroughs enfolded with his other.

"Eric. So glad you could come over. Please come in."

"Hello Pastor Burroughs," he answered, stepping into the small but tidy home. He smelled something Italian and his mouth watered. Cooking wasn't a strong point of his and he'd lately existed on lots of peanut butter, Ramen noodles, and cold cereal.

"Oh, call me Patrick. No need for titles, unless you want me to preface "Eric" with "The New York Times Best-Selling Author?"

Eric smiled. ”Okay, Patrick. But that wouldn't be exactly true. I haven't broken into that list yet, but who knows?" He set his coat on the back of a chair and looked around. He'd stood in the living room, and immediately noted the lack of a television set, just shy of heresy in America. There was a couch, a rocking chair, and a recliner that now doubled as his coat rack.

One wall was overrun with books packed into a large bookcase. Mostly Christian works - C.S. Lewis, E.M. Bounds, John MacArthur - but a section of paperbacks caught his eye, and with some squinting could make out the two volumes of his "Special Dark" Forces works. He cringed, thinking of some of the prose within and his nervousness returned. He decided not to mention the books again unless Burroughs brought it up.

"I cooked some lasagna, and I hope you're hungry because I made a lot. Matter of fact, I'm planning on sending the leftovers home with you. I'm sure Miss Collins is tired of feeding you."

He smiled and nodded, pleased that Burroughs appeared to approve of his match with Mary, or at least pretended to. He wondered if Fisk knew, decided he probably did, and also decided that he didn't care.

He followed the man to the dinner table, the dining room actually a corner of the living room, and sat down in the chair indicated by Burroughs. A small kitchen lay beyond, but the smells didn't emanate from there but from the food already on the table and waiting on them to eat.

"Ready to dig in? I can't count how many times I've been invited over for dinner, and end up sitting on the sofa waiting for the food to be prepared, starving and trying to carry on a conversation. Shouldn't complain, and probably should know by now to keep a pack of crackers in my pocket, but there you are. So in retaliation I've vowed not to be guilty of the same. So let's eat, and we'll get caught up afterwards, okay?"

"Sounds good to me." A rumble from Eric's stomach seconded the plan.

"Great. Would you like a beer?"

After both had settled into their seats, Eric bowed his head for grace, a practice long forsaken but rejoined without effort. As they ate, the lasagna spicy and delicious, the rolls fresh baked and a gift from a widowed, elderly member that Burroughs believed had intentions towards him, and a fresh salad of greens and vegetables from Perry Rice's garden, Eric studied the man of myth from his childhood.

His hair was full but gray, and he wore a pair of jeans and a polo shirt that made him look like a banker on casual day rather than a minister. He was trim, maybe even a little bony, and had a long lined face that Eric felt made him look older than his sixties, reinforcing his initial impression. But he supposed as a minster, he'd be privy to things no one else knew, maybe sordid and embarrassing situations and predicaments even God's people got themselves into. And the hard stuff of course, the deaths and kids on drugs and divorces of parishioners. And the murder of little brothers.

He looked at the walls and found some photographs of a young and unlined Burroughs and his wife, whom Eric knew had died of cancer when he'd been five. Photographs taken before a known tragedy fascinated him. Especially his own. To see himself, his father, mother in earlier versions that didn't know what was coming. Adam, too. But subtracting the time it took for him to die, he never had to live with the knowledge and try to find a way to carry such an awkward and heavy burden that seemed built entirely out of sharp corners. Ignorance is bliss, indeed. And photos taken after, although full of smiles, never seemed to contain the same all-star effort again. You knew now what could happen, could run fingers lightly over scars or the stump in remembrance. And you held on with no assurance against it happening again.

There were also some photos of his son Isaac, but none that appeared recent and Eric wondered at that. Isaac had been much older than him, easily eighteen to his ten at the time of leaving. He was a quiet boy, and kept to himself. It never occurred to him as a child, a fact that seemed obvious now, that Isaac was one of the kids that didn't fit in. At ten, all the older boys seem like minor gods.

"How's Isaac? Does he still live around here?," Eric asked while hefting a particularly large chunk of sausage on his fork, and he held it before it reached his mouth as he saw a shadow pass over Burroughs' face, the lines suddenly deeper.

The older man paused, vacantly staring at a photograph of his son - one that looked like a graduation picture - with a small, hollow smile. Eric wished he could take the question back, expected to hear the tale of a car accident or a lost battle with leukemia. He hoped it wasn't the latter, on account of his wife.

Still looking at the picture, Patrick answered, "No, he doesn't live around here. I don't know where he is, Eric...excuse me." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes, then cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry...I didn't mean to..."

"No, no I'm all right, Eric. And I'm going to tell you this because you might be a father someday. So indulge an old man and listen, okay?"

"Sure, Pastor," he said, and cautiously began eating again.

"You know my wife died of cancer?"

Eric nodded but said nothing.

"She was the world to me, Eric. God's finest gift. And when He finally took her...she was in so much pain at the end that more than once I considered sending her back myself...I couldn't...didn't know what to do. So I poured myself into my work, my ministry, but in doing so neglected my son. I didn't give him the time or attention that he needed, especially after losing one parent. I think it was because in our suffering we drank from the same well, and I didn't know how to openly face it in myself let along guide him through it. Looking back now it seems cruel and I'm ashamed. I was so much younger then. But really no excuse is good enough."

He took a sip of his beer and his eyes locked on Eric's.

"Before I knew it, he'd grown up. And we butted heads about everything, often regarding theological issues which he spent hours alone studying. You would think that a boy that hated his father would reject everything I stood for. Not Isaac. But he had a good mind and debated to win, to put me in my place, not to clarify a point or have a mutually beneficial discussion of spiritual matters. And I was foolish and proud enough, at least in the beginning, to indulge him. I disliked him so much, Eric. My own son. He didn't appear to have any intention of leaving after he graduated, and I finally told him he needed to find another place to live. I wanted him to go to college, think of his future. But mostly I just wanted him gone. Because I wanted the evidence of my failure as his father gone. I'm still waiting for that last part.

"He had been working for Paul Myers out on his dairy farm, and moved into a small house on the property. Then one day, Paul called me up, and I went out to find all his belongings gone as well as his car. The only thing left was a letter for me. Let's just say it wasn't a missive explaining how well I'd done as a father and heaping me with praises.