Kristopher Reisz: The Drowned Forest

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my parents, James and Denise Reisz, as well as my friends Josh Olive and Leslie Crowe, for their support, encouragement, and endless patience in reading early drafts. (Also, Leslie, sorry about killing off the dog.) In addition, Haley Hardwick gave me more anecdotes about the lives of struggling musicians than I could ever fit in one book. My agent, Joe Monti, told me the ugly truths about the publishing world while still keeping me laughing. And finally, Brian Farrey-Latz, Sandy Sullivan, and everybody at Flux Books took in this redheaded stepchild of a story and treated it like their own.

This book couldn’t have happened without y’all. Thank you.

But it’s a beautiful day, Holly. It’s the most beautiful day.

Pastor Wesley stands in the river, frog-green water swirling around his thighs. Sunlight ripples in his outstretched hands and across the white robes of those about to be baptized.

“ … Nobody can carry these burdens on their own. We’ve all tried. All of us have struggled.”

One of the converts sobs, head hanging against his chest. Others lift their arms to Heaven.

“We’ve come to set our burdens down. At long last. Knowing God will always shoulder them for us.”

Tyler plucks out the opening hook on his guitar, and we raise our voices. “ I’m gonna lay down my heavy load, down by the riverside, down by the riverside, down by the riverside. I’m gonna lay down my heavy load … ”

This song is in our bones, the song we sing every Rivercall. People clap or lift their hands. Bodies sway with the grass. Good church shoes churn up the thick red Alabama clay. Faye, a bouncing ball of taffeta, jumps around to a rhythm all her own. You see her, Holly?

“ I’m gonna put on my long white robe, down by the riverside, down by the riverside, down by the riverside … ”

Pastor Wesley takes the hand of the first convert, leading him into the water. He’s lowered into the coldness, down into the dark and quiet of death.

Just for a second, though. Then he rises up again. He is reborn. The Spirit caresses him in tongues of holy flame. His struggles are over, and he knows it. I can see from his face that he knows it.

One by one, men and women, boys and girls, let who they used to be drown. One by one, the redeemed emerge from the river. Sometimes, spilling over with new life, they jerk and buck. The deacons hold them up, under their armpits, until they can walk to shore. They are washed clean in the blood of the Lamb. And this is the most beautiful day, Holly.

But my heart is shut to it all. I can’t stop thinking about how, one month ago, you fell into the river and vanished. No singers lending you courage, no hugging afterward. Just the cold and dark and endless quiet.

Your pa-paw stands on the edge of the crowd wearing clean jeans and a bolo tie. He sees me looking and smiles. I smile back, then Faye slips in the dewy grass. I scoop her up before she starts crying. Whispering in her ear, I coax her to sing.

“ Well, I’m gonna meet all of my brethren, down by the riverside, down by the riverside, down by the riverside … ”

I sing as loud as I can, but I can’t feel tongues of holy flame. I’m just dizzy and wilting in the heat and deviled by sweat bees.

Tyler stretches the song out while one last buzz-cut boy and his mom get baptized. While they’re led off to change into dry clothes, the congregation drifts toward the picnic shelter. Fried chicken, steaming hot rolls, sweet white corn, and plenty more crowd the wooden tables. Everybody starts filling their plates; everybody except your pa-paw. He pushes against the crowd, going to clap Tyler on the back.

I need to say hey, but not right now. Instead I turn to Faye, asking, “Ready for some chicken?”

Faye gets to carry the drinks. I load our plates with food and we sit with Mom, Dad, and Yuri. The wind is sweet—smelling of grass. Our picnic blanket flutters, held down with rocks. The fried chicken skin crackles like tracing paper between my teeth. I tear through it, and a sputter of hot juice hits my tongue.

Know why Baptists make such good fried chicken, Holly? Because we have to. We can’t drink, gamble, or cuss. That’s a lot of carnal urges that have to be satisfied through chicken. If you took this away, we’d go crazy.

“Jane, you say hi to Tyler?” Dad asks, cutting Yuri’s chicken into pieces with his pocketknife.

“I will.”

“Well, tell him how great he played.”

“Yes, sir.” I tuck a napkin into the collar of Faye’s dress. She’s got her corncob clutched in both pink fists, and the niblets are flying. “He doesn’t have to show off, though. All those noodley-noodley parts in the middle.”

Dad laughs. “That’s just his style. Every musician needs their own style.”

Remember when you played at last year’s Rivercall, Holly? You played the song clean. You knew that “Down by the Riverside” doesn’t need noodley-noodley parts to be beautiful. It’s more beautiful without them.

“I’m just thankful he came,” Mom says. “Go say hello.”

“I will. Let me eat first.”

“Take your plate with you. Jane … ” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Remember what Dr. Haq said? You’re not supposed to isolate.”

“I’m not—yes, ma’am.” I have to show that I’m keeping it together, so I don’t argue and stand up to go over. Mom adds, “And tell Tim he better get some food before it’s gone. I’m not fixing lunch today.”

My brother is exploring the shore with his friends. I shout at him to go eat, but they’re busy flipping over rocks and watching whatever scurries or slithers out from underneath. I’m not going to chase after them if they’re having fun.

Tyler’s talking to Bo now. Where’s your pa-paw, Holly? I search the picnickers, but I guess he left already. Tomorrow, I’ll stop by your house, just check in on him. I know, I know. I’ve been saying that since your funeral, but this time I really will. Tomorrow. No excuses.

Except your house must still smell like you. I don’t think I can walk in there without falling apart. But I’ll try. Tomorrow. I promise, promise, promise.

“Hey, Jane!” Bo waves me over. “I was telling Tyler how awesome he was today.”

“Yeah, you were great.” I go to hug Tyler, but he hesitates. Then he reaches out, but I hesitate, one arm hanging in the air. It’s like we’re trying to reach around the empty space where you should be.

Tyler says, “I saw your mom and dad. I was gonna go say hi.”

“You should. They ask about you a lot.”

“Sorry I haven’t been around lately. I just—”

“No, I mean, they’ve just been worried about you.”

We fall into stiff silence, smiles frozen in place. I say, “You really did play great.”

“Thanks.”

More silence.

Tyler says, “I did email you a while—”

“Yeah, I got it. I just—”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Seriously.”

I smooth out imaginary wrinkles in my dress. Why is talking to him so hard? How can I have nothing to say after all the youth group stuff we’ve done together? After all the times he’s been at my house, wrestling with Tim on the living room carpet? He was your boyfriend, Holly; he loved you as much as I did.

But everything’s strange now, and everybody’s a stranger. Even Tyler.

“Okay. Well, I’m going to get some food before it’s all gone,” Bo says. He squeezes both our shoulders, telling Tyler, “You have a real gift. Thanks for sharing it.”