Josiah, Emergent

"Well," he said softly, "I think I know what it's like to have a mom again. Just a little bit." He looked at her, turned his hand, and squeezed hers. Then he pulled it away. They had not asked about what he was doing in that firefight. They seemed to accept his explanation. He looked about to see if he was suspected and realized he might have a furtive expression on his face.

It was an interesting morning, as Mattie and he tried to learn about one another and her folks danced around them, probably wondering if he was okay for her, or if his lack of family was a debility, or if he was an evil. Perhaps they wondered if he were mentally stable from the war.

He wondered that himself.

Her dad said, "You sing? Mattie said you sang at Gene's funeral."

"Yes. I met up with a pianist and his girlfriend and started singing, and now people are paying me for it. I sang in the choir in high school. I'm shocked people are willing to pay to hear me." Josiah shook his head, smiling as if it were almost risible.

They were quiet, sipping coffee, and Mrs. Morrison was moving about completing mundane tasks like putting knives in the dishwasher. Josiah felt welcome. Talk was gentle and normal, about movies and work and weather.

After an hour he knew he should leave.

"I should go. Thank you, Mrs. Morrison, for breakfast. Mr. Morrison, pleased to meet you. Bye." They called out farewells and Mattie went along.

She walked him part way home when he left. Near his apartment she said, "I hope you'll come to nine o'clock next Sunday."

"Will I get breakfast afterwards?" he asked.

"Yes. Sometimes they work at the Homeless Shelter on Sunday. So I might have to make it."

"So Mass is like a date," he said.

She nodded. "See you then," she said.

He had a strange feeling in his chest as they parted. He made his way to his apartment. Vogel had warned him about life: "You're not done, Lieutenant. Your knees just suck."

He called Mattie a few days later, "Just to talk," he said. They discussed her work and his singing. He didn't run out of things to say. Two days later, she called him. They saw each other at Mass again.

*

A few weeks later, he surprised Mattie at her job. It was nine o'clock in the morning, and there was no one in the library but Mattie and a college-aged guy who worked mornings.

Josiah crutched in, having driven and parked in the lot. He remembered public libraries as peaceful and almost serene places. It had been many years since he'd been in one.

Mattie saw him. "Josiah! What a surprise!" She left the cart she was pushing and walked over to him.

"I need a library card," he said. "Do you still use library cards?"

"Yes, we do. Have a seat and you can fill out a request."

So he sat a few minutes filling out the form while she busied herself putting books on shelves. When he finished, she came over and sat with him.

"Josiah, when you came for that first breakfast, what was it you didn't say? When you told Mom and Dad about what happened in Iraq, you kept something to yourself, I could tell."

It was a simple request, made without judgment or insinuation, and possibly out of genuine concern for him. Josiah looked straight into her eyes. It was loud in his head suddenly, and it interfered with his thinking. Her eyes didn't waver looking back. He looked away because he knew somehow that he would be disingenuous, but not how.

He looked down at the table and finally spoke. "It was when I got shot. I can't remember all of it." He paused and took a breath. "Hundreds of civilians were walking toward us on a bridge. The fighting was still going on in their city, smoke was going up, bombs going off. There was a woman, holding the hand of her boy, walking funny. She was not far away, and she lifted her son to the concrete railing on the side of the bridge. I wondered, now why is she doing that? Is she going to drop him in the river? I stopped our Humvee and ran to them, but then she stumbled and fell with him into the river. That was when I was shot, was shot as I watched them fall. The mom looked up at me for a second." He shook his head. It was plausible, it might even be true.

Something screamed at him in his mind, not words, just anguish, an emotion sonifying in his head. He knew he'd gotten louder again.

Her eyes were different, looking into his.

"I failed. I could have saved them," he said. He felt perspiration breaking out on his forehead. Why did he perspire so much when he told the story? In the back of his mind a voice said, which story? You've told so many you can't keep them straight.

He couldn't meet her eyes.

He said nothing more. He shook his head, looked into his lap. He had to move, to go. He pushed himself up, his knees stiff.

"I should go. I must go," and he smiled at her and headed for the door. He abandoned her at a table in the library at nine in the morning. He was frantic, using his crutches, then banging the door into his one crutch and almost falling, but then getting out. He turned left to go home, forgetting his car parked in the lot to the right.

He interrogated himself as he crutched away. "Do you have issues, Lieutenant? Have you not come to grips with your actions? Their results? Guilt is more complex than it should be, isn't it?"

No, not just guilt. Responsibility. That's what his nut doctor had said. You feel responsible for something.

For a few minutes, he closed his mind and had no thoughts. He was better than that, Josiah thought. He left someone he was thinking of loving alone and unanswered, wondering what was so hard to tell. He saw her eyes, clear and accepting and interested, and her eyes, accusing and hateful and dark as she loosed her grip on her son. What did it mean that he remembered Mattie's eyes and some anonymous woman's, of all the women in the world? He was forcing memories around something, as if there was a sphere of shielding in his consciousness that could not be broached.

What kind of man was he really? He stopped outside his apartment, closed his eyes and stood in the shade of a tree. How can you remember the same thing a different way each time you think of it, and you're sure they're all true?

His shrink said, "Your mind associates to protect you. You don't want to believe what you saw. Or what you did." Josiah didn't tell Mattie the truth. He told her what he remembered this time, this morning, in Ohio.

Three girls besides his mother and Aunt Dotty. Not girlfriends, any of them. Erin, who danced, who felt so electric under his hands, he would not forget despite innocence and youth. Ari El, who promised nothing and delivered his first sex, a woman he could never see as anything but a part of a senseless night. And now Mattie, who looked and acted like he was a man, who acted like she might like him, even love him, and who scared him somehow.

He was afraid to call her. What did he want from Mattie? He was crippled and would receive a government disability check the rest of his life. He could sing a little, or run for office. He was a lousy prospect for a pretty girl. No, she was better off without him. The best thing he could do for her was to leave her alone.

She was probably thinking, good riddance!

CHAPTER 8: Is He Crazy?

"Mom," Mattie said to her mother, "Josiah walked out on me. At the library."

"Why? Did you fight?" her mother said.

Mattie shook her head. "No, I don't think so. I asked him about what happened in Iraq. Remember Dad said he thought Josiah had some issues about it, the way he looked as he told us? Anyway, he looked that way again and he gave me a story about a mother and her boy caught in a firefight, and it just didn't make much sense. Then he stood up and left."

"Oh?" her mother asked.

"Another thing. He drove to the library, but his car was still there all day. I think he forgot his car. He had to use his crutches all the way home, almost a mile for him. I saw him coming back for his car just after closing time. His lips were moving like he was talking. I don't think he even noticed when I drove by him." Mattie shook her head.

Her mother was silent. She retrieved some cold tea from the refrigerator and sat down at the kitchen table. Mattie was her younger of two, somehow unmarried after a coterie of failed prospects, and seemed to be most interested in that poor soldier. She'd heard about mentally disturbed servicemen returning, beating their wives, becoming drug addicts, or unable to hold a job. She liked Josiah, but there was that strange story and the way he looked dark around his eyes. Getting louder had worried all three Morrisons.

She looked at her daughter and decided she wouldn't bring up Peter, the doctor who asked her to marry him, whom she'd turned down.

Was she trying to save this guy from himself?

"Are you in love with him, Mat?"

Mattie looked away, but then brought her eyes straight back to her mom. "No, not yet, but there's something there I can't describe. It's like he really wants to tell me something, something he just can't force out. No, I'm not in love. But he's the kind I could love."

"You know, you shouldn't love someone in order to change him. It doesn't work like that. Lots of women... "

Mattie smiled and shook her head. "No, Mom, I know. That's why I can honestly say I don't love him yet. It's only been a month... No, less. But he's a good guy at heart. There's a... strength in him. He's not ready to get involved. He's nowhere near that. If I ever hear from him again."

Her mother nodded. "You going to see him?"

"I was thinking at church. Maybe I'll go to a different Mass this week, over at St. Charles or St. Mary, and next week see if he's still sitting in the back. Give him a week to think about things. But I wish he'd call or something. Somehow I doubt it. I think something really bad happened to him over there. I wonder if he did something bad, or cowardly or something."

Her mother nodded. "Would that change things for you? If he'd done something awful or bad?"

Mattie responded quietly, "I wonder the same thing."

Her mother sat quietly and her father entered. "I heard you talking about your boyfriend."

Mattie protested, slightly humorously, "You know he's not that. Not yet, anyway."

"Holding hands is a commitment, I think," her dad said, smiling. "But really, you left out an option."

Mattie and her mother looked at him. "What do you mean, Dad?"

"What if he feels bad because he did something really brave?"

"Is that possible?" his wife asked.

"Well, think of this. What if he shot a terrorist but then is second guessing whether or not it was a terrorist? Second thoughts about something bad. Something like that."

"So," Mattie said, "you're saying he might be a hero, but it was morally unclear to him whether it was right?"

"Yeah," her dad said. "I know lots of guys followed orders and were still haunted by it. Justified orders. Vietnam had lots of that."

They sat at the table for a while in quiet. Mattie's fingers drummed on it, her nails clacking. She was thinking that she left Peter, because he was obsessed with sex, for Josiah, who was obsessed with something in Iraq. He'd shown no interest in sex with her, but it was early for that. She had deflected Peter's desires almost as soon as they started dating.

"He's a pretty good singer," she said.

Her mother responded, nodding, "Rose was saying the performance he gave at Mass with the organist and clarinetist was tremendous. She says he used to sit behind her at eleven o'clock and she had no idea he had such a good voice. She said Grant thought he was a vagrant, passing through, but then he kept coming." She was smiling. "Says he sounds like Bing Crosby."

"So you've been checking out my boyfriend, huh?" Mattie joked.

"Ah, so you admit he's a boyfriend," her dad said.

Mattie smiled in surrender. "I give up. Yeah, he's a boyfriend. But he's on thin ice. I think he's a liar."

Her mother said, "Lying either gets you an advantage or it protects you from harm."

"They all have baggage," Mattie thought. "Even good men are flawed. Am I wrong about Josiah?"

Her father said, "I think he's hurt."

Mattie asked, "Hurt enough to not say the truth, or not know it? Do you think he's crazy?"

No one spoke.

CHAPTER 9: Ava Once More

Playing at Merciful God proved to be a turning point for Sing, Cora, and Josiah. Gigs began to find them. They had performances at first every month, then every other week, then occasionally two in a week or on a weekend. They became busy. They rehearsed when they were free. Sing worked with Josiah, careful not to overwork his voice.

"Of Hope and Love" became their most-requested song after they performed it once. People wanted to hear it again. They prepared to play it with lyrics once and as an instrumental another time at most functions. It fit some religious ceremonies or as a romantic dance song.

Sing called Josiah one afternoon.

"I found her," he said, a hint of the jubilant in his voice.

"Who?" Josiah eloquently replied.

"Ava Fortner's mom. I found her. She lives near Columbus," he said. "Her last name's Crimmins, now."

"Wow," Josiah said. "How'd..."

"Contacted her through a lawyer who was involved in Ava's father's estate. Her mother remarried after her husband died, all since Ava passed."

"Have you contacted her?" Josiah asked.

"Just quickly, by phone, a minute ago. I said I'd like to talk to her about Ava. Said I'd heard a song she'd written. She invited me over. I said I'd come with a friend."

"When?"

He smiled. "She was very eager. She asked, 'Tomorrow? Nine?'" Sing laughed. "Cora can't make it; she has a rehearsal with Cincinnati since they need another flautist this weekend. Get you at 7:15?"

Josiah said, "I'll be ready."

Sing said, "I have some things to do now. See ya tomorrow."

Sing used his friend Bobby's equipment to clean up the recording of "Of Hope and Love." He removed most of the raspiness and some unfortunate echo as much as he could, and transferred the recording to several CDs. He brought along a CD player and the cleaned-up recordings, hoping the effort would be appreciated.

So they drove to the Grove City suburb of Columbus, finding Mrs. Crimmins's sister's house to be a two story brick with a full front porch on a street shaded by old trees. They parked beneath a huge tree on the street, hoping the shade would keep the car cool. Mrs. Crimmins met them at the door. She wore light pants and a loose, comfortable, nice shirt.

.

"Mr. Sing?" she asked as they walked up the steps. Josiah was slow, and Sing knew he wanted to make it on his own. He was using his crutches. Mrs. Crimmins was patient, too.

"Yes," Sing said as Josiah reached the top step, "this is my friend, Josiah." Sing watched for any wobble or stumble as Josiah surmounted the obstacle. Sing put his hand out to be sure he didn't relax too much and fall back. Mrs. Crimmins was solicitous.

"Hello. Hurt my knees a few years ago," Josiah said, smiling and nodding that he'd made it.

"I'm so sorry," she said once he steadied. "How were you hurt?"

"I got shot," Josiah said, "in Iraq." He surprised himself with the abrupt detail.

Her hand went to his left arm then, an expression of dismay on her face. She just shook her head, but she squeezed his arm.

"Thank you both for coming. Come in, please." She held the door and they went inside. They found seats on the sofa and a chair; she had cookies and coffee ready on the coffee table beside a picture album.

She served the coffee and cookies as they talked; the house was air conditioned and cool.

"Now, what brought my daughter to your attention?" she asked. She picked up her own coffee to sip.

"A song, 'Of Hope and Love,'" Sing started. "We were told it was written by an Ava Fortner."

"Wow," she said, smiling and musing then. "She worked on that song for months, trying this version and that. She sent off a cassette to a recording studio, but she never heard back. I think she recorded it sitting on her bed up in her room, in our old house, using an old recorder of my husband's." She shook her head at the pleasantness of the memory of her daughter.

She went on after a short moment. "About then is when she was diagnosed. Glioblastoma," she said. "So we had other things to worry about. But it was a disappointment for her."

Sing looked at Josiah, who looked back. It was the same disease that killed Mattie's cousin, whose funeral they played. Glioblastoma was a quick killer sometimes, and apparently didn't always wait for old age.

She hesitated, with a dreamy expression on her face. "Would you like to see pictures?"

Sing and Josiah both nodded. "Very much," Josiah said.

Mrs. Crimmins opened the album, and they all three sat on the couch looking at it. There was Ava as a high school kid, playing in the school band, kicking a soccer ball, smiling at the camera. Unremarkably beautiful as most adolescent girls are, there was Ava hiding braces for a year or two, brown hair long. She was a winsome child with a ready smile, and shy; "I don't think she was much over five feet tall," her mother mentioned. She was just a regular kid, modest and nice. There were some pictures of her in decline then, two with her head swathed in bandages and with sunken, gaunt eyes, and finally her mother closed the book.

"She was all those things you want in a kid," her mother said, not crying but sadness tinging her words. "Gentle and happy and friendly."

"We are so sorry for you, and her," Josiah said. "Our loss not to know her."

Mrs. Crimmins shook her head. It was quiet for a moment.

Josiah said, "I heard the tape when I was maybe 13. Patrick and I listened to it over and over. I memorized the words. I thought it was so beautiful."

Mrs. Crimmins looked thoughtful. "Ava died 12 years ago, now, and the tape was maybe a year before that. I heard her sing that song so many times, changing this and that." It was quiet for a moment as she remembered.

Sing said, "Uh, we have the tape."

Mrs. Crimmins was obviously startled. "The actual tape? With her singing?" she asked, surprised.

Sing held up the disk. "I enhanced it, transferred it to disk. Would you like to hear it?"

"Yes! Oh my..." she said, eyes big. "Oh, I assumed... Shelly isn't here, I wish she'd been able... Or Jack. He never met her." Josiah wondered at the emotions a man might have hearing his wife's deceased child for the first time.

Sing said, "I can leave the disk, several actually, I have others. If you have a player?"

"Oh, yes," she said. Her hands, holding her coffee cup, trembled. Josiah realized she was trying to control herself. She managed to put the cup down without spilling.

Sing slipped the disk into his player and turned it on. Some guitar chords were played and then Ava sang. Mrs. Crimmins inhaled sharply as she heard her daughter's voice for the first time in 12 years. Her eyes were tightly shut, she didn't even seem to be breathing.

Josiah and Sing watched her. She sat back, relaxed, legs crossed at the ankle. At the second verse, a single tear escaped her right eye. She didn't seem to notice. The beautiful voice and melody filled the living room for several minutes. The recording ended and hung about them.

They were silent for perhaps two minutes more. Mrs. Crimmins was like a statue, eyes still tightly shut, hands folded in her lap like a Catholic school child. Sing looked at Josiah, who shook his head slightly, encouraging Sing to preserve the moment for her.

Finally, Mrs. Crimmins started to talk but no sound emerged; she shook her head, eyes remaining closed. She pursed her lips. Eventually, calmly, she whispered, eyes still shut, "What a wonderful gift you've given me." A long moment more of silence ensued. Finally she opened shining eyes. She turned to Josiah and kissed him on the cheek, holding the kiss for more than the usual. She did the same with Sing.