Uncle River - Passing the Torch

“It was the day before. I thought there was something wrong with the drain.”

“Or the drainage.” Peter looked out the window where the rain continued to pour down from the once again impenetrable night sky. “Did it rain a couple of days ago?”

“Some.”

“I could look under the house.”

“I’d appreciate it,” said Esther, “but this will do till daylight.” She tossed him an old towel.

By morning, the rain had slowed to an intermittent drizzle. The creek, double its usual width and two feet deep, flowed muddy and turbulent. Peter ran out, delighted to watch it rumble past. Esther put on an old yellow rain coat with a nice, snug hood and joined him.

“This is great!” Peter shouted over the rushing water. “How long do you think it’ll last?”

“At least all day,” Esther shouted back, “even if it doesn’t rain anymore.”

A little later, over a cup of tea and the pipe, Peter looked at his greatgrandmother, seriously, and said, “Gra… Esther, do you think… that is… Could I… Could I stay here?”

Esther was not really surprised by the question, but she thought before answering. He was having an adventure now. That would wear off. She would feel useful, and she had to admit it would be a help. But her privacy… She had a brief flash of suspicion. Had Jennifer put him up to this? She felt ashamed of that thought at once. I’m getting as paranoid as Prabaht, she thought. The world’s getting loonier all the time. He’d certainly be safer here. Finally she answered, “Wouldn’t you be bored to death?”

“I don’t think so. Prabaht was talking about running a trap line…” “Heaven help us!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Prabaht tried that last winter. He has got to be the world’s least competent trapper. His total take consisted of one jack rabbit—by accident, because he forgot to bait that trap.”

“He told me about that. He wasn’t properly equipped. He only had his traps out the last couple weeks of the season.”

“What makes you think he’ll do any better this year?”

“I’ll be with him.”

How could she answer that? It wasn’t important. What mattered was his future, and, for her, whether she could live with a sixteen-year-old boy. He would have friends. He would have girlfriends. He would have his own taste in music.

“We could try it, maybe, if your grandmother agrees.” She felt a twinge at leaving his mother out of the picture, but Sylvia was out of the picture. “I’d want you to go to school.”

“What for?”

She was a little shocked he was so forthright. “I’m not sure, but it is still important to finish high school… I think.”

“Well, okay.” He sounded a little less enthusiastic.

“You still want to stay?”

“Yes.” Almost defiant.

“Let’s see.”

“I could help you out.”

“I know that.” She didn’t intend the edge to her voice she knew was there.

Peter didn’t notice. “Grandma says…”

“…Says I’m too old to take care of myself and shouldn’t stay up here alone anymore.”

Peter heard the edge now. “I didn’t mean…”

“I almost croaked the other day.”

Peter’s mouth fell halfway open.

“But 1 didn’t. Maybe I’ll drop dead right now. Maybe I’ll live to be a hundred and fifty…”

Neither of them knew what to say.

What if I become incapacitated in a year? Esther thought. Should a boy his age be saddled with that? It was the thing she really feared most, far more than she feared the possibility of dying messily alone. “Let’s see how we both feel in a week,” Esther finally said.

“Okay,” Peter answered.

It rained off and on in the night, but by morning there were patches of blue. The creek was still up. About ten, Prabaht showed up with a newspaper, only slightly damp. He spread it on the kitchen table so they all could see it.

“Top Officials Deny Responsibility,” read the biggest headline. So what else is new? Esther thought.

“Here’s the real news.” Prabaht turned to page five.

Esther’s eyes landed on the largest headline on the page: “Ohio Attorney General Doubts Warrants.” The article began: “Citing several cases making their way through the courts, Ohio Attorney General Arthur McGuire doubts ‘John Doe Warrants’ will suffice for female detainees.”

“See.” Prabaht pointed to a smaller article. Esther read the headline: “Bishop Deplores Suffering.” The article was about how the Diocese of Las Cruces was helping people displaced by the continuing civil disorder.

“I don’t get it,” said Peter.

“What bishop?” Prabaht pointed to the end of the brief article.

Peter read aloud: “ ‘On behalf of the bishop, Special Aide Father Luis Morales.’ So? It’s crazy in Cruces too.”

“You left out the important part,” Prabaht replied ominously. He read: “ ‘Special Aide Father Luis Morales, S.J.’ ”

“So what?” said Peter.

“Don’t you see? ” said Prabaht. “The whole thing was a set-up by the Jesuits!”

Esther tuned out.

If Peter stayed, she’d need to move the squash and put a stove in that back bedroom. She had plenty of firewood anyhow.

Prabaht said something about logging trucks rolling again.

“In this slop?” said Peter.

“On pavement.” Then Prabaht veered off to expound on the effect on local employment of a proposed $1.50 a gallon fuel tax.

Much as it pleased her that Peter understood such an issue, Esther’s concerns carried her away from the conversation. “I could do with some quiet. Why don’t you take it out in the sunshine,” she said.

Peter and Prabaht went outside. Esther sat in her comfortable chair and contemplated.

Subjective and objective. Esther felt that she understood, at least a bit more, what she perceived in the spirit realm. Out there in the big world, the events of the last few days made everything just a little more disjointed, made everyone just a little more dissociated from a social order that had seemed so certain when Esther was Peter’s age.

I’ve been fighting Jennifer over my independence, Esther thought. The objective and subjective meet in funny ways. I’m still not sure about living with anyone, but it is getting harder to manage. And Peter needs something too. That makes it all different.

Worth my privacy? Worth my independence? Better him than a stranger. I could tell him about the cigarette and the awning. A story like that would only annoy Jennifer, only frighten Sylvia. Peter would get a kick out of it, and because he would, he would learn a little of the so-solid world I was that girl in.

I have no idea how he should live, but he could use to hear of a world that was solid once, to know such a thing is possible. Jennifer can’t give him that, just because she’s too solid herself. Subjective and objective.

There’s been a special light in my life. I’ve called it Freedom. I’ve called it this canyon. Jerome never saw it. Jennifer seemed determined not to see it. Sylvia… I’m not sure she’s ever been there enough to know what she sees, like Prabaht.

Am I indulging in wishful thinking, hoping Peter is someone to pass the torch to, wanting the end of my life to have meaning?

I don’t have to answer to that question, Esther thought, and smiled. I see his hand reached out, to receive and to give—even if neither of us knows quite what.