Surviving Immortality Page 3

  He’s teaching me how to die. He stares death in the eye with his head held high, without speaking the name of God or using any other crutch.

  He set the tray on the counter and glanced at the Vicodin bottle sitting in the cupboard. That could wait, he thought. He dropped his shirt in the sink and cranked the tap, wanting to rinse it before tossing it into the laundry hamper. As the sink filled, he cleared the dishes from the table and stacked them on the counter. He turned off the faucet, and as he wrung out the shirt, something nudged his leg. He looked down and found Groucho standing beside him. The dog’s eyes were clear, and he was doing a full-body wag. He hadn’t looked this animated in months. Matt Reece dropped the shirt and knelt on one knee, hugging the dog. Indeed, he looked years younger, in the prime of life. Matt Reece placed Blake’s untouched plate of food on the floor. Groucho wolfed it all down.

  Matt Reece glanced at Kenji’s medical bag still sitting in the mudroom. If Kenji could bring Groucho back from the brink of death, why didn’t he use that power to help Grandpa? In the living room, Kenji’s voice rose to a furious shout. This was no time to question him.

  He tiptoed to the mudroom and searched the medical bag until he found a box holding the tricorder device. It had only one switch, and when he clicked it on, it gave off the same purplish light as before. A minute later his hand stopped hurting, and the blister melted.

  He switched it off, hustled back to Blake’s bedroom, and stood over the old man. He switched on the tricorder and waved it up and down the length of Blake’s sleeping body, moving his arm in measured passes. The light engulfed them both. Blake seemed to breathe easier. That, however, could have been from the Vicodin he’d swallowed earlier.

  He heard footsteps. He turned to find Kenji standing in the doorway, red-faced, too livid to speak.

  Chapter Three

  HOURS EARLIER that same day, Pedro crowed in the gray predawn, drawing Jessup from a turbulent sleep. Jessup rolled over and sank back into slumber, searching for that splendid sleep which comes from being at peace with the world. But he had not found that serenity at any time in the last six months, and he didn’t find it this morning either.

  Later, a few hard slaps to his face brought him fully awake. Buttery light poured through the front windows, burning his eyes. It took only a moment to realize Matt Reece was having an anxiety attack. He rose up and held Matt Reece, massaging those clenched chest muscles, gentling him like an unbroken colt. Once their breathing merged into a single, composed cadence, he continued to embrace the boy, like he used to do when Matt Reece was a child and fell asleep on his lap. At eighteen, Matt Reece still carried that musty smell that kids have, something akin to fresh-baked bread. He had brown hair as fine as corn silk, an oval face, and his hazel eyes held both the rough-puppy innocence of youth and the despair of middle age.

  When Matt Reece began breathing normally, he felt his own pain, a soul-crushing headache.

  He pulled himself off the couch and stumbled toward the mudroom, where Kenji was examining Groucho. He was aware of his disheveled shirt and hair. As he passed the oval mirror in the living room, he was tempted to look at his reflection, but he forced himself not to. Kenji’s reaction would tell all, because they hid nothing from each other.

  He and Kenji married eleven years ago. Some days it felt like eleven weeks, other days, this one for example, it felt like eleven well-lived lives.

  In the mudroom, the dog was now as ugly a crow bait as ever Jessup saw. Surely this day was Groucho’s last. It was time to end the dog’s suffering. Kenji rose and kissed Jessup, making him feel relieved that he somehow passed muster.

  Jessup lurched to the bathroom while Matt Reece prepared breakfast. He turned on the faucet and splashed water on his face, pulled the aspirin bottle from the medicine cabinet, and downed four pills. He needed more, but not on an empty stomach.

  He stood stock-still, wanting to postpone all the trappings of a sorrowful day. He needed to drive Matt Reece into town to round up a replacement pup, and he hated the thought of going out into that hostile world where anything could happen.

  The moment came when he could wait no longer. He hauled himself to the dining table and stared out the window, across the enormous sweep of silent space to the amber light on the distant mountain peaks. He heard the ice-blue river tumble over smooth stones, accompanied by chickens scratching the hard-packed work yard. Much as he loved those sounds, loved the ranch, all he felt was dead tired. The three of them worked for five days with their growing cattle herd, branding, earmarking, castrating, dehorning, and inoculating. On the fifth day they switched to horses, driving mustangs down from the mesas. Now they would work their butts to the bone branding the yearlings. Ranch life was never easy, except when it rained. He glanced up at the unblemished blue dome and sighed.

  Kenji sat at the opposite end of the walnut table. “You look done in already.”

  “Thanks. You look just dandy yourself.”

  “No rest for the wicked.”

  That word “wicked” stung like an accusation. It was Kenji, Jessup thought, who brought home an enormous mirror three weeks ago and hung it over their bed. They both drank whiskey (so unusual for Kenji) that night and had sex under it. There was something tragic and desperate about the way they made love, more like gladiators fighting to the death. What started as intimate fun evolved into playful slaps and then grew into rage vented on each other. They had gone at it without the slightest sentiment. Pure animal lust. It proved a delightful escape from this house shrouded with impending death. As salacious as it still seemed, it was the last time they’d made love.

  Jessup said, “I’ll dig a grave after breakfast.”

  “Hold off; he might pull through. He’s a tough old mutt.”

  Jessup looked up to see the hope in Matt Reece’s eyes. He hated giving the boy optimism when there wasn’t any. It’s easy for Kenji; his beliefs teach him that life is suffering and relishing that anguish brings one closer to Enlightenment. He sees misery as a sacred lesson, but that’s no reason to drag Matt Reece through the mud.

  At one point the coffee boiled over, and Jessup grew angry at himself when Matt Reece refused his help. It was then that he saw something different about the boy, who wore his normal jeans, snap-button shirt, and cowboy boots. Jessup admired how manly he looked—short for his age, just shy of five foot seven, slender, his brown hair needing a cut. He was serious—like his older brother—and he often demonstrated a high intelligence. Jessup realized his boy stood on the threshold of manhood. He couldn’t put his finger on what made him see the boy in a new light, but something did. He thought about something his grandmother once said: “A boy grows into a man when more is expected of him.” Indeed, every child believes his family is immortal, and when death shatters that illusion, he has to ask that tortured question: “Why?” And when acceptance comes, the child becomes a man. That told Jessup his son had accepted Blake’s passing before even he did.

  Jessup believed the boy was as fragile as a May butterfly, but there was also a core of tough self-determination in him, a quality Jessup thought of as “cowboy spirit.” There was a fair amount of that attribute in his father, Blake, and also Audrey, his grandmother. And that spirit shone crystal clear when the boy announced he was quitting the ranch to live in Berkeley.

  Six months back the boy insisted they stop calling him by his pet name, Mattie, and start using his middle name, Reece. It was a sign he was maturing, but Jessup had made little of it. At least the boy kept something of his childhood, he thought, by using a double name. Now he’s a man. Pride rose up in Jessup’s throat, and he swallowed it down with overcooked coffee.

  Nobody spoke again until Matt Reece set food on the table. While eating, they kept the conversation on the roundup and branding. Jessup wanted to talk about the dog, but not with Matt Reece listening. He assumed Kenji would inject Groucho with something that would gently pull him into death. Jessup hated the thought of using a bullet.

  Ma
tt Reece took a tray of food to Blake’s room. Jessup reached for a tortilla and took his time eating. There was no need to hurry into a day that had already turned bad and would no doubt get worse. He sopped up the last of his egg yolks with a final bit of tortilla, sighing.

  He pushed back his chair, feeling subdued by a sense of loss, and said he’d go dig the grave. Kenji scowled but didn’t try to stop him. Jessup knew he would soon dig a second grave, but he recoiled from thinking of that hardship now. He instinctively knew that it needed to happen, and the sooner the better. They all needed to move past this darkness so they could grieve and mend. That thought brought him to his real problem, perhaps the only one he had the power to influence. He glanced at Kenji. “The agency sent me another contract. They need three more scripts.”

  “Perfect timing,” Kenji said. “Taxes are owed midmonth, and Patrick’s tuition for the summer semester is due in May.”

  Jessup prided himself on being a graduate of the Cornell University writing program. He had the ability to compose any kind of fiction—short stories, novels, screenplays. His real passion, however, was poetry. Whenever he wrote, his prose propelled him past the concerns of his life. He felt a mysterious inner faculty push aside his intellect and emotions and pour from his diaphragm onto the page. Most people called this inner force a soul, but being an atheist, Jessup thought of it as creativity channeling through him—a crystalline stream gurgling through a forest. He had no words to describe what he felt while it happened. Something took him over, reducing him to a state of transcendental perception, bodiless.

  In that state, his writing often—for short periods—touched genius.

  But it was a long dry spell since the last time he had experienced that feeling. To earn money to keep the ranch going and put Patrick through college, he contracted with a Los Angeles advertising agency, writing scripts for television commercials.

  “I know we need the money, but I’m having second thoughts.”

  “You love your writing,” Kenji said.

  “One-minute screenplays for Cap’n Crunch or Dawn dish soap or Crest toothpaste is as satisfying as a low-carb, low-fat, gluten-free diet. These days, I hate to even sit at the computer, let alone attempt serious work.”

  “But it’s not just the writing. The reason the agency keeps coming back to you is your creative imagination. Nobody dreams up shit like you can.”

  “Let’s tone down the BS, okay? I’m not one of your 160-IQ science nerds who doesn’t have enough common sense to tell fiction from fantasy.”

  Kenji laughed. “Just trying to cheer you up. It seems obscene to waste your gift simply to make money for people already richer than God. Write whatever you want. We’ll get by on my salary. And in a pinch, we’ll sell some mustang stock.”

  Jessup nodded, making no commitment either way.

  He poured another cup of joe on his way to the back door. In the mudroom, he pulled on work boots, pushed his Stetson on his head, stuffed rawhide gloves into his hip pocket, and stepped outside. He finished his coffee as he crossed the work yard. He slung the dregs into the dirt and entered the toolshed, leaving his mug on a shelf. He balanced a pick and shovel on one shoulder and moseyed back out, heading for the patch of earth near the top of the hill where his ancestors rested.

  A silence lay on the land. No animals moved about, and the air was so still that the leaves of the oak stood unmoving. In that silence, and combined with the relief of having Kenji’s support for his writing, he could feel his heart pumping in smooth gushes.

  Glancing northwest, he noticed a black stone spire not as high as the crests around it. It reminded him of something his grandmother told him: spirits reside in sacred sites—mountain summits, rocky outcrops, groves of trees, waterfalls—and if you damage the natural world or upset the earth’s flow of energy, you anger these spirits, and then you suffer the consequences. He thought of Kenji’s resistance to Groucho’s looming death. On the Promesa Rota, things aged, deteriorated, and died. The old and the new grew out of each other. To resist that balance of life and death was to oppose nature, and that would surely piss off those spirits.

  He reached the handful of gravestones and began to dig next to the one marked Patch. He worked up a sweat. It felt good doing something purely physical, if only to sweat last night’s alcohol out of his system. Over time his hangover retreated and he thought more clearly, and as with most people dealing with death, he took stock of his own life.

  He gazed down at the valley where pastures glistened with waving grass. Wildflowers were in bloom—purple and blue and gold. The range cattle staggered under their fat, and their coats looked tight and sleek. Even the mustangs looked sturdy. Yes, the ranch was healthy, an island safe from the world. He loved it as much as he loved the people who lived here. But loving something doesn’t necessarily make one happy.

  As he gouged the earth with his pick, he realized that he desperately needed to feel joy again. But happiness didn’t just fall out of the sky and hit you on the head. It had to be fashioned over time. And only one person could make that happen.

  The moment transformed into a life-changing decision. He would make Groucho’s death the starting point of rebuilding. He was done with commercials. This afternoon he would begin something that would challenge his talent. A novel based on the theme of passing the torch from one generation to the next, something simple and direct. The first two acts will build using playful humor to draw the reader in, bridging into a third where death is confronted—ending with a jolt of gravitas. The third act will contrast the first two upbeat acts and expose the underlying darkness of the theme that was there, hidden all along.

  He smiled. Who knows, perhaps this time next year I’ll be working on a full-length screenplay of the same story.

  As he swung that pick, every deep-drawn breath became sweeter. The pleasure of working his muscles became as satisfying as a great, stretching yawn. He dug until the grave was three feet wide, four feet long, and four feet deep. The rocky soil made for tough work, but hard toil had never bothered him.

  A clattering of hooves lifted his head. Below in the work yard, Kenji and Matt Reece were mounted, urging their horses away from the barn at a run. “What the….”

  He thumbed his hat higher on his forehead. He assumed they were riding out to gather more mustangs, but a third horse trailed them, a packhorse loaded with supplies. And Jessup noticed a dog running with them. From that distance it looked like Groucho, but the old mutt hadn’t displayed that kind of pep in months. Still, what other dog could it be? It was more startling than if his grandmother’s ghost rose up from her grave and demanded a cup of ginger tea.

  Jessup left the pick and shovel at the gravesite and walked back to the house. In the mudroom, there was no trace of Groucho. He hung his hat on a peg. On the kitchen table lay a yellow envelope holding a handwritten note and a computer flash-drive device. He hesitated, knowing this could only spell trouble.

  Jessup,

  We are about to suffer violent times. I must go into hiding to protect myself from those who will no doubt come looking for me.

  I’ve taken Matt Reece because he exposed himself to an experimental treatment I’ve been researching. He needs constant monitoring, and rest assured I’ll do everything possible to keep him healthy and safe.

  Don’t try to find us. Once things settle, we’ll contact you.

  What I’ve done will spoil the quiet life you’ve tried so hard to maintain, and I’m sorry to put you through this ordeal, but I have no choice. Nothing less than the future of our world depends on what I’ve put into play. Stay on the ranch, hidden, because the meek are about to inherit the earth, and I want you included in that assembly.

  Please know that I’m taking Matt Reece to the one place that is perfectly safe, because lightning never strikes the same spot twice.

  Over the years, you’ve given me the greatest possible joy. I don’t think two people could have been happier, and I pray that when we reunite, we will hav
e a rewarding life together, well into the future.

  For your protection and ours, stash this flash drive in a secret place and never tell anyone you have it. It holds mysteries both wondrous and terrifying. Trust no one. If something happens to me, give it only to someone calling himself God.

  I will love you through eternity.

  Farewell.

  K.

  Never before had Jessup felt so unexpectedly gut-shot. He reread the note, lingering over the “farewell” and the fact that Kenji couldn’t be bothered to sign his full name. All Jessup rated was a single initial.

  He struck a matchstick, set the note on fire, and dropped it in the sink. He felt as if the world had folded in on itself, and everything was now rushing backward.

  After hearing his father’s prognosis six months back, Jessup did his best to remain upbeat and to keep his family together. Sure, they had problems—didn’t everyone?—and he knew Kenji disapproved of his drinking, but there never was any sign of them separating. During their first three years, they suffered a score of shouting matches, weeks at a time without talking to each other, and even came to blows once. But their relationship matured. These days they talked through their differences, handling each other in a supportive way.

  Jessup glared at the flash drive with cold fury. He detested this experimental treatment that drove his son and lover away. He was a writer and rancher, and like his grandmother, he mistrusted anything that claimed to make life easier, because there was always a price to pay for every convenience. And what really burned his butt was now he had to cope with a dying father alone.

  Jessup dropped the flash drive into his shirt pocket.

  The handwritten note stung as much as the hasty departure. They sat in this kitchen not two hours ago. Why couldn’t they have talked it out? Why didn’t Kenji trust him enough to explain face-to-face? Nothing more than scribbled lines from the man whom for eleven years had shared his home, bed, food, tears, and laughter. A man who wrote, “I will love you through eternity.”