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THE NURSING HOME FUGITIVE
BY GEORGIANN BALDINO
Chapter
1
So Spake the Prophet
What
is this place?
Have I been here before?
Doesn't look familiar.
Strawberry fields to the left, recently plowed ground to
the right.
Out in the middle of nowhere.
Smells good though, this rich, black soil.
What is this place?
Have I been here before?
Nice looking, but not where I want to be.
How far have I gone?
What would Sam say? He’d tell me, ‘Do some reconnoitering’.
Clive Parisi
consulted his journal, but the entries didn’t tell
him what he wanted to know.
What is this place? How far have I managed to go?
He closed the book.
Where does this road lead other than around that bend?
God, I hate this, not being able to remember from one moment
to the next. Up there is a road sign. That will tell me
where I am.
This is no time to feel sorry for yourself; go over and
look.
He grabbed
the Paper Mate pen out of his shirt pocket and shambled
over to the sign. Then he opened the journal again to the
page with the paper clip. The clip marked the entries for
today, but he scanned the words as if seeing them for the
first time.
Got up at 5:23 am. Had breakfast at the Starlight Motel
and Café. Westbound on County 14.
Writing it all down anchored him; otherwise he drifted off.
He peeled back his cuff for a peek at his watch and copied
down the time and place.
Millstone, New Jersey. Pop. 573. 2:30pm.
The top line reminded him today was March 22nd.
He grabbed
an energy bar from his backpack.
Can’t even rely on my stomach anymore. Haven’t
had lunch yet; no record of it in my journal.
He wrote down the time of his snack. Without a written record
it could be any time, anywhere. His book also kept him focused
on the ultimate goal. He recorded all the details of daily
life he could no longer hold in his head.
Clive also
used it to catalog the people he met, writing down a person's
name the moment he learned it, followed by one of his quick-code
symbols. He had to get a person’s identity down within
seconds or lose it. The symbols later told him his first
impression and whether someone represented friend or foe.
A star meant the person was a good guy. A minus sign told
Clive the person was up to no good. On rare occasions he
drew a circle after a name. The circle meant indecision.
He never worried about being fair. He knew his judgments
were totally subjective and of no value to anyone but him.
But as soon as he decided about a person, Clive filled in
the circle, using one of the other symbols in his code.
Many times a first impression had turned into a lifesaver.
The stroke he had suffered hadn't robbed him of all his
gifts. Clive still knew instinctively how much trust he
should place. Circumstances had broken his memory but, by
god, not instinct.
So far
today I haven’t met anyone; that’s unusual.
Again he consulted his watch. Only two minutes had passed.
It was now 2:32 in the afternoon. His feet ached like it
had to be much later. Too bad the road was so deserted.
He could have used a ride, but just as soon as the feelings
of fatigue and loneliness claimed him, they were lost.
Clive’s
eyes ran up the hill in a way his legs couldn't. Not much
of a hill really, but the old pegs weren’t what they
used to be. The sun warmed the back of his neck and for
a while he just stood there, letting the radiance ease away
a few kinks. While he soaked up the warmth, a strange figure
ambled over the hilltop. Clive balanced his journal on his
left forearm, getting ready to write.
Who’s
that ahead? Looks like a monk. Funny fellow, using an old
bicycle pump as a staff. He’s struggling hard to get
up the incline. Is he a monk, or not? He wears a coarse
robe. The hood completely shades his head. His shoulders
stoop like years of devotion has bent his bones into a permanent
posture of prayer. But what’s that on his feet? Battered
tennis shoes with florescent green swashes peak out from
the hem. Is he a monk, or isn’t he?
Clive decided
to close the distance and smiled, eager to acquire a companion.
The guy’s worse off than I am. Why is he traveling
this godforsaken road? That robe of his belongs in the Middle
Ages, but actually it’s a great getup for traveling.
The hood and long sleeves provide good protection from the
sun.
He took off his cap to see what he was wearing.
This old Sabers cap … Why am I looking at my hat?
Who is
that up ahead?
The traveler’s lurching gait drew Clive close.
He needs help.
The man stumbled and almost fell. Clive ran forward to catch
him, but the man whirled, as though ready to attack.
Behind the
tangled thicket of his mustache and beard, a voice erupted.
“Beware.”
“I
mean you no harm.”
“Harm
is inherent, my son.”
Then just
as quickly as he had gotten angry, his booming voice softened
and he laid a hand on Clive's shoulder. “When will
you learn?”
“Guess
I’m way past learning.”
“I
hear not the rebuke of others.”
What
does that mean? Best keep still.
The stranger
thrust the hand holding a bicycle pump forward.
Clive jumped
away, because it seemed the guy would hit him with it.
“My
name's Elijah.”
He passed
the pump to the opposite hand and held out the empty one.
Oh, he
wants to shake. Can’t take the time. Hurry. Scribble
Elijah's name, then a circle.
Elijah threw
back his hood and peered over the edge of the book. While
neither of them was speaking Elijah hummed, his voice idling
like a diesel truck badly in need of repair. “Rr-rr-hhtt-rrr.”
It seemed the man kept his throat running so he could slip
it into gear at a second's notice. Chunky sound but better
to keep it running, diesels and old men’s voices don’t
overheat no matter how long they idle.
Elijah peered
into Clive’s journal, jiggling the book like a child
demanding attention. When Clive met his eyes, Elijah smiled
broadly. His two front teeth were chipped, creating a V-shaped
opening. His hair was greasy yet somehow managed to stick
out wildly in a dozen directions. Its gray tangles held
burrs and small twigs, as if Elijah had slept headfirst
in a hedgerow.
An uncommon
face; handsome in his own grizzled way. Too bad about his
eyes though, glaring and wildly animated.
Elijah’s
smile cooled, and he began to study something hovering above
Clive's head.
“What
do you see?”
“Too
bad.” Elijah folded his hands in prayer.
Clive added
three stars behind Elijah’s name and a note that the
man focused on concerns not of this world.
“Your
aura. The whole is no longer whole, no longer of a piece.
The spiritual being begins its split from the corporeal.”
Elijah laid a hand on Clive’s shoulder, shook his
head sadly and then wandered off, resuming his trek, voice
box churning a tempo for his legs to follow.
Clive marched
alongside but apparently too close.
Elijah came
to a halt. “Stand clear.”
“Sorry.”
“I
do not fix my gaze on others.”
“I
just wanted to walk with you a way. Is that okay?”
Elijah's
volume rose. “Heathen, think not that I don't see.”
“See
what? I'm looking for some company is all.”
Elijah took
offense at this and the longer he pondered the thought of
company, the stiffer his body became. “I walk a lonely
path. My miracles are the genuine ones. All others are empty
appearance.”
“Sorry
to be a bother.”
“Bother?
Brother, what bother? Not a bother. People crank their car
windows closed rather than listen to my Word. Others beat
a path in the opposite direction. A few cast stones.”
His eyes drifted heavenward. “Father, I can handle
deflation, humiliation and even the Dark Night of the Soul.”
Clive got
more confused than ever, but thought that he, not Elijah,
had lost the thread of conversation.
If I just keep still a while longer, Elijah will tell
me. Most people carry the conversation when I let them.
This guy seems to know what he’s talking about.
Clive didn’t have to wait long.
The answer
exploded not only from Elijah’s mouth but also from
the center of his being. “I cannot take up your burden
too.”
“My
burden?” That’s the last thing Clive wanted
to talk about. “You don’t have to. How about
I take up part of yours?”
Instantaneous
transformation cooled Elijah’s face. “Do as
you must.”
“Good.
I'll walk with you awhile.”
More than
Elijah’s face had changed. Having a companion must
be all right now, because this time when Elijah started
out, he pulled Clive along. “Why do you write in your
book? And what is that you draw beside the names? Are they
holy signs?”
“Things
I can't remember.”
Elijah withdrew
his hand. “Like what?”
“I
can't remember.”
“What's
wrong with you that you can't remember?”
“I
can't remember.”
“Can't
remember what's wrong?”
“Can't
remember anything.”
“But
what's wrong with you?”
Clive paused,
trying to devise an answer, but lost his place in his thoughts.
So he said nothing. During these last blurry days and weeks
silence had always proven best. Self-proclaimed prophets
were really no different from everybody else. Everyone he
met took silence as submission. Clive saved countless hassles
by just keeping his mouth shut.
Elijah let
go of the conversation and replaced it with nothing except
the steady hum of his internal combustion engine. The two
of them resumed their journey. When they came to a fork
in the road, Elijah headed west.
“Good
choice,” Clive said. “Just the direction I would
have picked.
After a while,
they walked to the cadence set by the countryside, a rhythm
Clive could appreciate, slow and steady, glad for human
companionship and the fellowship of nature. Then suddenly
a car bore down on them. Clive turned to meet it. “Shall
I try to hitch us a ride?”
“Never
touch the stuff.”
“Where're
you headed?”
“The
rose garden of philosophers.”
Elijah thrust
his bicycle pump out in front of him and took a long stride,
acting more like a knight preparing for the joust than a
derelict stumbling through life. He menaced the car with
his pump. Rust had fused the handle fully extended, and
Elijah wielded it like a lance. “And I must enter
by the left-hand path, only the left-hand.”
The car closed
the distance.
Clive blinked.
“Shouldn't you step back?”
Instead Elijah
charged the street. “The secrets are not published.”
The radio
blared. Clive could hear heavy metal through the closed
windows. The closer and louder the music got, the more agitated
Elijah became. Clive ran forward hoping to pull Elijah back,
but he dug in his heels. Clive made the sign of the cross
and prepared for the worst.
At the last
moment, the car swerved and sped past them, so close it
tore the bicycle pump out of Elijah’s hand. Nobody
in the car turned to look to see if he was all right. Instead
the driver floored the accelerator, forcing the whining
car into overdrive.
Clive watched
it disappear around a curve. When he turned back, some strange
monk knelt on the blacktop. Clive nudged his backpack, shifting
the weight of his worldly goods to a new, less weary spot.
Who is this man? Why is he praying in the middle of
the street? Best not interrupt. Where’s his stuff?
The fellow carried no bedroll, no grip. No worldly goods
of any kind.
The monk
finished his prayers then staggered to his feet and over
to an old rusted bicycle pump some ten yards away. Using
the pump as a crutch, tip to the ground, he charged after
the car, speeding away from them. Unsteady on his feet yet
firm in his convictions, he shook his fist and adopted a
pulpit voice. “Heathens, hear me well. I am the ritual.
I am an act of worship. I am the food to be offered. I am
the sacred herbs. I am the chant, the melted butter. I am
fire. I am the outpouring!”
Clive consulted
his journal and found out they’d met. Even under these
confused circumstances, he knew better than to interrupt
the prophet now.
Elijah carried
on this way for about ten more verses. “I am the heavenly
host. I am … ” When he had exhausted all of
his states of being, Elijah turned to Clive, waved his bicycle
pump in a figure eight then wiggled the tip in Clive’s
face like a magic wand. “And what are you, my son?”
Clive had
only one vocation. “I am the artist.” He peeked
at his journal and saw that the man meant no harm.
Elijah's
frown disappeared. He nodded knowingly, as though nothing
could be more natural, meeting an artist on the road. “You
shall help me.”
“How?”
“Let
us sit.”
Elijah didn't
wait for agreement, didn't look down to see where he was.
He plunked himself down in the gravel at the side of the
road.
“Don't
you think you should back up a bit?”
Clive moved further off the road and settled down on the
grass.
“You
must give me a sign.”
“What
kind of sign?”
“You
must paint me a sign.”
“Oh,
paint. I can do that.” Clive turned to a new page
so he could record Elijah's instructions, but got distracted
when he saw the note reminding him to take his medication.
Oh no. Did I forget, or did I take it and forget to
write it down? Where’s that bottle?
Elijah had
closed his eyes. “Sit, my son.”
“I
am sitting.”
“A
good obedient son … rrrrrrr.”
The last
thing Clive wanted to be was the man's spiritual son. He
could admire him for following the strength of his convictions.
He just didn’t need any new beliefs. He liked the
old ones just fine thank you. Clive guessed he was older
than Elijah. Hard to tell, but he might be as much as twenty
years older. Rather than say something rude, Clive stared
at his journal, where he saw an important reminder. He rummaged
through his backpack.
“I have to find my medication.”
“The
only obligation you have … your only duty…
” Elijah raised his voice and spake like the prophets.
“Is to save your dream. Never waste yourself in idle
pursuits or in sacrifice to the wrong cause.”
“It's
got to be here.”
Elijah outstretched
his hands, as if blessing a multitude of followers. “I
have spoken.” Then he clamped his mouth shut over
chipped teeth. The pressure forced his overgrown mustache
to stick out like pikes planted in the ground, guarding
the approach to the castle. His throat grumbled, “Grr-rrr-rrrrrrrrr.”
“The
pills will prevent another stroke. I got to find them.”
“My
son, you are exalted above all temporal change. The present
means no more or less than any year in the one-hundredth
century before Christ.”
Clive jumped
to his feet. “I have to go back. I must've dropped
them.”
Elijah jumped
up and blocked his path.
“You have to cut ties, disengage from the roles you
have learned to play.”
Clive stood
in one spot trying to puzzle things out.
Elijah ripped
the journal, tearing away the entry reminding Clive about
his medicine.
Clive lunged
for the stolen bit of paper, but the notebook fell from
his hand. More important than any one page, Clive lurched
to retrieve his journal. He couldn’t let anyone take
the book.
Elijah wadded
the paper and stuffed it in his mouth. When Clive stood
back up, they eyed each other. Elijah chewed. Clive’s
face twisted into confusion. Something to remember.
Something is not right. What, I’m not sure.
With difficulty
Elijah swallowed. Then his words tumbled out.
“As a chosen one, you have rights others do not. You
overcome obstacles. You have to capture the exertions of
your soul. The world will understand.”
Elijah's
hands reached out to encircle the Earth.
Why does
he make me so nervous?
“Say
again….”
“You
must capture the exertions of your soul. And only that.”
Clive dusted
off his journal.
Why is it dirty? What happened?
He flipped through the pages. The book opened to a page
that listed four paintings he had done along the way and
sold to eager buyers who happened to cross his path. He
had accumulated a tidy sum passing through New York and
New Jersey.
Was it always so? Did I have to struggle as a beginner?
No matter how long he had worked to hone his craft, painting
wasn’t the exertion of his soul. Painting wasn't exertion
at all; it felt like therapy. Elijah twirled around; arms
up like a whirligig. Not the right time to correct the prophet.
Elijah's
voice rolled like thunder. “You must assert yourself.
Surpass each past work of art. In only that way will you
obtain the new.”
Clive let
go of each work before the paint dried. He never remembered
the composition or colors. With artwork, as with all other
details of his life, Clive had to consult the list recorded
in his journal to remember what subjects he wanted to explore
and which he had finished. Inspiration came from the journal,
not from the world around him. All his subjects were autobiographical.
Once he completed a painting, he wrote that down too, so
he could remember which he’d done and which he had
left.
Elijah filled
the silence with vocalizations. Clive took a couple steps
back, but it didn't matter if anyone listened. It didn’t
even matter if Elijah had something to say. He made noise,
growling, rolling up and down his vocal range, consonant-vowel-consonant,
a string of vowels, any sound at all. The tempo of creation
vibrated in his larynx. “Gr-rrrrowwwwouuuph.”
Eventually the sounds struck a coherent tract, stuck to
one another and became words. “I am the fire of the
altar and the oblation sacrificed. I am the lamb.”
The muscles around his eyes writhed and contorted, living
a full, expressive life of their own, independent of Elijah’s
control. “And you will paint my sign.”
Clive scribbled
a note about what Elijah asked for and then stopped, waiting
for the prophet to tell him what kind of sign he wanted.
When Clive wasn’t painting, his abilities were limited
to a narrow range. He struggled to pay attention to Elijah,
but failed. Clive’s mind drifted back to his routine.
Each morning, he picked a road. He never consulted travel
guides or looked for tourist attractions. A destination
caught his interest because it had an unusual name. Millstone
sounded like the right kind of place for Clive and his recent
troubles. Just like Puzzletown and Perspective had sounded
good last week and the week before. He headed for small
towns along the road, seeking out hamlets and backwater
locales that promised faces without frowns. He didn’t
have much time left. He would rather not spend it looking
at frowns. He didn’t care if people didn’t smile
to welcome him, just so long as they didn’t frown.
Or make too many demands. The goal was to travel in a westerly
direction, always toward the town with the most picturesque
name of all and the one locale that held the promise of
forgiveness. Clive wondered why he hadn't made this journey
before. But in his heart he realized that years ago a journey
like this wouldn't have worked nearly so well. He was striking
out cloaked in an old body and addled mind; foolishness
was easier to excuse. He could walk away from Elijah right
now just as he had walked away from everything else. He
had learned to think of himself as a free man. No more obligations
to anyone; as free as a man can get.
His back
and legs often ached, but what was that? Nothing unmanageable.
He hitched rides or when he couldn’t go any further,
holed up. People were kind. They took him along. Clive wasn’t
foolish enough to think he could walk across country, not
in the time remaining. He didn’t need to cultivate
an engaging smile. He already had one. Conversations scared
him, of course, but no matter what the difficulty, people
dismissed his lapses. A confused face and silence worked
like a charm. If nothing else, Clive had learned how to
cope.
He stayed
put, for now, because he wanted to know more about this
prophet. His interest in people hadn’t evaporated.
In fact, people mattered more than ever. Struggling to understand
others kept Clive lucid. Elijah’s florid speech tested
the limit of his ability.
“Mark
well,” Elijah said. “Art of this world conceals
nothing except the secrets of the artist. A visionary can
never reveal himself to the sundry. Were that to happen,
the man would be accursed. The wrath of God would descend.”
“Wrath?”
“All
error in art arises, theretofore, because men do not begin
with the ritual of purification.”
Clive wrote
it down. Begin with the ritual of purification.
Swaying side
to side, groaning a fair imitation of a Gregorian chant
— monodic, complex and hypnotic — Elijah subsumed
his humanity. His conscious self disappeared from the roadside.
He hid beneath the melody his soul sang and seemed to go
to a place where he could envision all that an artist can
do; all God’s glories in heaven and all mankind’s
follies on earth.
Clive waited.
He looked down at his page where he had recorded the promise
to paint a sign for Elijah. He waited and waited. In the
meantime he broke off a long, straight branch from a tree
then tore away as many of the small twigs as he could to
make Elijah a proper staff. Then he waited some more.
When the
prophet came back to his mortal body, he rejected the hastily
constructed staff, preferring instead his multipurpose bicycle
pump/lance/wand. Leaning on his trusty staff, Elijah now
had the answer.
“The two of us, together, will achieve bliss.”
Bliss?
Oh, shit. What’s this new look in his eyes?
“There
are many things, in heaven and in earth, of which a man
may not speak and must use signs. Such matters must be transmitted
in mystical terms, like poetry employing fables, wrapped
in a parable.”
Clive closed
his journal and scrambled to his feet fast as he could.
“Stay!”
Elijah commanded.
“I
have to get going.” Clive took the branch staff and
hurried off.
Elijah jumped
up. “You will stay. We must create.”
“No,
I'm going.”
Elijah sprang
onto Clive's back and clung like a leech.
God, the man smelled. More like a stale mackerel than
a person.
Clive squirmed but couldn't get the sucker off.
©
Georgiann Baldino 2004
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