84

Keys to HeavenGeorge Marshall Lies

pfioto 6y fraM Hwi

George Lies has 6een editoriafd'irector of two anthofogies Uanus ~5aM poieDerry Df9Is) pu6(isftd 6yGofdenRod Writers' Fowufation. He

has afso served as director of th£.annuaf GofdenROdConference,fot.mdd in Marek, 1983, aM is a

mem6er of th£. West Virginia Writers,Inc., execu.tive6oard. Formero/ ajournaCistfor th£. Pittsourgli Press, th£.Wasliington, D.C., Ro[[ Ca/4 aM th£.Br~H~~Geo~ehassince~mgrant writing, tecktticaL'cu.rricu.fu.mcksign, aM TV aM telUonferencescripts. His short story, ((KeystoHeaven," is part of a colTectionentitCed InA Heart Beat to 6e issuedin 2000.

Monongahela River mist seeps in through the space above thewindow sill and enters with a coolness. A universe of reflected lightfloats near the river's banks.

"He's out there somewhere-isn't he?" Leah hugs me frombehind; her moist breath tickles. "I worry about Jeremy when hedisappears for weeks at a time. Nothing we can do?"

"We've tried-all of us. But we can only do so much.""I miss his passion." She draws a heart shape in the moisture on

the window pane and scribbles, Leah + Michael. "Most of all, hisranting in monologues."

1 draw an arrow through the heart. "He's a different person," 1say. "Not the same, I'm telling you."

Faint voices rise from near the railroad tracks as Leah glances atthe wall clock.

"I must go.""Why not stay?""No, 1can't this time. 1need to think.""Come at dusk next time and we can watch the sun reflect off

those windows across the river-like the buildings are on fire. Ifthere's a storm, we can count the lightning bolts that hit the hill."

Leah pulls on her poncho, waves a shy goodbye. The door closesand a breeze sucks through the window. She's in shadow walkingdown the hill to the span bridge. She scans the lighted skeletons ofbuildings across the Monongahela River, then checks back to see if!am on the porch watching.

85 86

I drift back to a Saturday in late October. Leah and I leave themountains behind on a whim and travel east until land's end. Heavygrey clouds pressure the air as gusts carve a hole in a sand dune. Acrescendo of ocean douses the barren terrain where Leah stands, hermother-earth arms gathering the wind. She runs barefoot in and outof white foam along the shoreline. Gulls swoop in and pick at deadhorseshoe crabs as Leah turns toward the sea.

"Dolphins-Look! Dolphins!" she shouts. The wind chums herponcholike a sail. "Let's followthemup the beach." .

"No, you go," I cup my hands to call to her. "It's about to rain."But she is far along the flats and doesn't hear. Poncho already on thesand, she removes her pants and sweater. As I call to her, the windreshapes the drizzle into pellets, and I race toward the car, theheater. Leah splashes into the surf and turns her back against a wavethat rides over her. She beckons but I only beep the horn.

A bit later she finds me at a bar a couple of blocks inland. Herlarge eyes are bloodshot, beads of water glisten on her brow, and herblack hair is knotted loosely.

"Michael," she stutters from a chill. "Why do you act like you'resixty years old sometimes?"

"It was freezing.""Ocean's invigorating." She pulls something from her poncho: Her

blue panties splash in a bunch next to my mug of beer."Invigorating. "

railcars slip in around the silent mechanical ruins of the Osage coalmine.

I switch off the overhead light as a trumpet cracks the air and anarc of light from a Chessie System train fills the mist. The railcarshaul imported automobiles; the screech of steel melds with the echoof clup, clup-clup. The rumble vibrates the frame house, its windowpanes, and I imagine earthworms squirming in the unquiet earth.

Ocean images evaporate with the ebb and flow of darkness thatabsorbs the memories. The wall clock ticks in a rhythm-one-two,one-two-and I wonder if intimacy is random, shaped only in thespace of a heart on a window pane, and only for a specific momentand location. Leah told me she's two weeks late and needs to thinknow, but I only know that the world has changed a lot since my birthforty years ago. When miners worked shifts around the clock, thebellow of trains sounded two or three times around this hour. Now

Leah is cooking Thanksgiving dinner when Jeremy shows at therear door. He sits at the card table we've arranged in the front room,and I can tell he has a thought on his mind. Candlelight reflects fromthe baste of a twelve-pound turkey, casting a shadow in the valleyof Jeremy's high cheekbones and deep-set eyes.

"Coffee?" I go get a third cup."Water first." He snaps a hard roll, breaking the crust. "I found

out I was infected a year ago," he goes on, "but I couldn't bringmyself to say anything to anyone. Now I'm telling."

Leah clasps Jeremy's hands as he sobs. I want my heart to feel thecompassion Leah has but I simply absorb Jeremy's news. Jeremydecides on beets, greens, and mashed potatoes. On my plate I createa montage of yam, cut com, white turkey meat, part of a leg, gravy.

"Do you know what it's like, Michael?" In the dim room, I can'tdistinguish the stuffing from the dark meat. "Do you?"

He smooths through his thinning hair, and in a deep nasalmonotone begins a litany. He tells one episode after another, of howhe cared for alcoholics, then buried both his mother and father. Hetells of friends who no longer return his phone calls, of how his loverleft him, then used a V-Haul van late one night to steal furniturefrom their apartment.

"Friends don't recognize me," he says. "They care not to see. Soif God grants me another day, then damn them all. I'll change myname-and I'll have it changed legally, too." Then he pulls a green,pocket-size Gideon from his pouch, riffling for a passage. He reads

I

I

I

\

I

I

8887

first from Saint John, turns to the Psalms, and then chooses apassage from Revelations.

"I don't want to die," Jeremy says, staring into his cup, "but I'mpreparing. I can go anywhere I want-whenever. 'Cause I'm holdingthe keys to heaven."

I take my plate and go stand near the light of the kitchen window."By the way-" he goes on, "did I leave my appointment book

here? I can't find it anywhere.""Haven't seen it," I answer."Sure?" He goes through all his pockets and scatters tiny piles of

scribbled notes among the plates: clippings, matchbooks, andpenciled names, numbers. "I feel lost without it. Do you know whatthat's like, Michael?"

As Leah goes to the coffee maker, Jeremy looks up, eyeing theclutter of my bookcase.

"There's something I want you to read," I say, switching on thelaptop, trying to turn his interest to something else. "Tell me whatyou think."

He touches the screen's glow, his fingers leaving dust streaks."Leave out the line, 'I feel caught by a web.' It's a cliche. Get rid of

this other line, 'I feel each moment is an important scene, a momentto remember.' You've said it already."

"Just read and don't be so critical.""I know, Michael.""It's a first draft," I say and move away from him."It's a sensory mystery. Like when you feel something physical,

but the entire feeling won't come out on the page. You feel it in yourgut, like a chill, but you can't get your mind or heart to understand."

"Okay, okay.""Build each section." Jeremy seems to carve words in the air. "Go

back to make the connections.The parts will fit together later, if givenenough time alone, and the connections may lead to newdevelopments."

Silver light surrounds this man as he sits typing words on thekeyboard: "So, this is the thing that I'm after. What seems, on anygiven day, lost to the waking mind. Remembered E-motions hoverin half-existence at the edge of dreams, and take shape in things notgiven easily to understanding or interpretation." In the light of theroom, Jeremy resembles a monk in an old black and white film. Hefondles the keyboard and tells me, "I want one of these. I want one."

Three weeks later Jeremy returns, his beard fully grown like thatof a Beat poet. He wears a leather jacket and carries the treasures ofhis inner landscape: a carved wooden cane from which hang pigeonfeathers and Indian amulets.

"Here, take these." On the kitchen counter, he tosses vials ofVitamin C and assorted sample packets of generic aspirin. "Fromthe Health Center. They're all free." From his backpack, he pullsout green beans in a cellophane bag and loaves of day-old bread. Heunzips his jacket but doesn't stop there. "I ache," he says, removinghis other layers, one by one: a sweater, a workman shirt, a tom T-shirt.

"Hey-" I turn from the refrigerator."My lymph nodes," he says. "It's where the disease settles in, and

with the arthritis, I'm sore all over.""What do you want?""Give me a rubdown." Jeremy sits naked from the waist up in a

chair at the kitchen table. He's holding a tube of medicated skincream.

"Wait. I can't do this.""Where's Leah?"

"Upstairs, resting. Sleeping over.""Call her."

Leah spreads a slick of white cream over Jeremy's spine, workingthe balm into his pale shoulders and ribs, tendering his arms. His

I

I

\I

I

I

I

I

I

\

I

I

I

I

I

89 90

bony rib cage protrudes as he stretches toward the ceiling, thendroops silently in a slouch.

I break through, asking what he's been doing, where he's staying.He's quiet for a while, then begins a new story as I walk away.

"You're not listening," his voice rises, "so forget it.""No, I'm listening," I say. "Go on."''No, you're not.""Pinto bean soup?" At the stove Leah, the peacemaker, lights the

burners under two large pots. "Pasta?""Okay, but no red sauce." Jeremy breaks the heel of a loaf of hard

Italian bread and lets it soak among the greens in the soup. Hesprinkles Parmesan cheese over the linguini. "I've sworn off ham."

I glance at Leah, then grab a book, as Jeremy pulls a sweater overhis head.

"I need to make a call, not long distance. Can I?"I hand Jeremy the cordless and turn on the ceiling light, forgetting."Ahh, no-" Jeremy stands abruptly, whirls about, and covers his

eyes. He stumbles further into the kitchen, balancing against thecounter, the walls. He leaves palm marks from the white cream here,there. "Turn off that light."

"Damn." I stonewall. "I'm trying to read, and I can't see.""Then I'll sit in the dark."He shifts to a shadowed comer next to the basement door. He

squats, balancing the phone on his knee, his belongings strewn overthe Mexican tiles. He makes a call and quotes from the Bible, andhangs up. He depresses the button for another dial tone, preaches,then hangs up.

Jeremy repeats this before handing me the phone, saying, "Helpme with these." He tugs at a package inside one of his bags. "I gotthese candles at the Dollar Store. Help me take the wrapping off."

In the dark comer, with Leah next to Jeremy on the cold floor, wepeel the cellophane wrapping from scented candles. As he stands toleave, with bits of plastic wrap clinging to his sweater, Leah hugshim. They go outside onto the patio for another hug goodbye.

After I see that he's gone, I get a heavy duty cleanser. I spray thecordless and wipe away grime, the wall and counter, and the cup hedrank from. With a paper towel, I wipe white smears from a planterthat holds a seedling he traded for the massage.

For a moment, I remember Jeremy telling me of sunglasses that helost. Now he wanders in the shadows, away from the headlights thatcause him dizziness. He's part of life's changes, a floater who seeksthe solitude of alleyways and backyards. At night, he walks theDeckers Creek footpath; by day, he reclines under a water maple'scanopy. He escapes from life's ordinary rhythms. He drops in onfriends at any hour; or finds a closed storefront, spreads hisbelongings; or goes scrounging through trash bins for recyclables.His ritual turns like a page in his journal where he jots this and that.

Friday night a week later, Jeremy rushes in, slamming the door.It's about eleven o'clock. He's bundled in heavy sweaters and holdsan empty, blue plastic bucket in each hand.

"Someone stole my leather jacket.""What do you mean?""Like I said-they stole my leather jacket. It's one of a kind." His

tone is heavy, angry. "I had food stamps in the inside pocket, and ahundred fifteen dollars. Not sure about my driver's license, myWalkman. . . Don't know." He utters a curse I've never heard himuse. "That kid down the block took it."

The air around us fills with a sour odor as he flails the air

pretending that he's punching and kicking that kid on the floor. "I'llfind him. If I do, I'll get that kid down on the ground, hold him, andnever let go."

I start to make a pot of coffee."Oh, can I take a shower," he goes on without pause. "I've got no

water.""What?"

91 92

"The water bill? I gave it to the welfare office, but the person lostit on her desk. My water was cut off and I haven't had a shower forsix days."

"Why the hell didn't you tell us?""I've been drawing rainwater from the wooden barrel outside my

door but now that's dry."As I fill the buckets with water, and set them outside, a loud thud

comes from the hallway. I move quickly, finding Jeremy sitting onthe top step, holding onto the rail. A wet towel, damp clothes, and anIndian pendant lie bunched on the landing.

"Your hot water's too hot. The heat zaps my strength.""Here, let me help."''No. Go away."In slow motion, he descends to the landing and walks past his

posseSSIOns.

"Wait." I collect his stuff in a white trash bag. "It's cold.""Need the air, I feel faint." He's already at the front room and he's

wearingslipperswithoutsocks."Bringmythingsby later." ,

He forgets the buckets full of water outside my door. After heleaves I find a strong disinfectant for the sink, the shower stall, andthe toilet.

When, I go to his place later, Jeremy doesn't respond to myknocking. His cat weaves from the living room to the kitchen andscratches at the inner screen door. Outside, near a rain barrel, wherehe left his leather jacket before someone stole it, I deposit his bag ofclothes.

"Leah," I breathe in and swallow my passion. She is just ahead ofme, as the doors open, walking away in a white blouse and tightjeans, neon patches swishing left and right. "We need to talk." Sheturns, starts to speak, but what's on her mind doesn't come out. Sheholds back unvoiced questions and I fear she's afraid. It's as if shehas to weigh all the pros and cons, and innumerable outcomes. "Isit okay, here?" I hope that in her time alone she has decided topursue our life and shape the parts to last. "I want you."

"This is going to be for real?" Leah bites her lower lip. "Isn't it?""Yes.""Not an illusion?"

"I don't weave intricate plots, Leah.""Okay. Then, I want it."

Thin, adolescent dogwoods waver in a gentle breeze outside a newbuilding where Leah works. A glow of pink tints the far hills andmingles with smoke from the portal of an abandoned mountain coalseam, closed by fire and still smoldering after a year. Within thedark, reflective glass walls, scientific researchers grow newtechnology. I head for Leah's office, gray elevator doors opening tounveila matchingcorridor. ,

The parts connect. Later in the spring, on an afternoon, we hike amountain ridge with a view of the Monongahela River flatlands.Near an old tree, I lie back across a wooden bench, a small limbpillowing my head. Leah pitches a knapsack my way: a Swisscheese sandwich in wrapping falls out; an orange bounces amonggreen growth.

"You're too much," I say as she straddles me."Too much?" After adjusting her belt, she leans back in a stretch,

balancing. Her full weight gravitates on my gut. "You don't like methis way?" She twists and teases, and I gasp when she pushesagainst my shoulders. Her necklace tickles my nose; a blush flushesher cheeks as a group of botanists walk by in khakis. I look past hersilhouette, up through an underbelly of green to the blue sky beyond.

Later that day, at sundown, Leah snaps a bunch from newvegetation that grows beneath my kitchen window. She pinches aleaf and takes a whiff. "Here, smell this."

"Mint," I say as I kick at a rusty spike near a pile of uprootedrailbed ties, the trackbed naked, a rocky path abandoned tobicyclists.

93

94

Her other hand rests on a round belly warmed by a shawl of herown making. "How about 'Erica' if it's a girl?" She asks, as thoughthe baby inside her owned the name. "Do you like that?"

"Yes, I like it." Leaves flutter and I get a chill, as if from a coaltrain passing in days gone by. "But Erica with a 'c' and not a 'k'."

Leah scans the river and I point out the red brick buildings on fire.

"Good, I can see." He relents, adding, "Coffee? You'll have tomake it. I don't feel like moving. Say, later, will you rearrange thefuton for my bed?"

"We did that last week, and I hurt my back doing it.""I know. But I don't like it this way. I'll make the coffee if you

d "o.

Colombian coffee is on the kitchen sink, now a receptacle forstained mugs, dried tea bags, grounds. Stacked by the wall are cansof a baby formula he uses to build body weight. His table is piledhigh. Cans of corn, beets, green peas. Stale loaves of rye, white, andwhole-wheat breads. Dead or dying plants. Notepads with scribbles,a headless Barbie doll, a tattered Annie doll. Shreds of pigeonfeathers.

He asks for his pills."No, not that one. To the left."

He's got so many different vials among the herb canisters andpotion bottles on the shelf that it's difficult to find the one he wants.

"The one with the labeL"

Dry mint leaves dangle over the shelf, fragile, hanging from arusted spike that once held a steel rail.

"That one."

Afterwards, I ransack with a green plastic bag. I gather bananapeels, half-eaten apples, 'cigarette butts, and bread growing bluemold. I pack the trash bag, tie it, and tell Jeremy I have to go.

"Oh, wait," he motions from the floor. "Keep these for me. I maylose them."

I take the keys from his hand and put them in my pocket."And this, take to Leah." He points to a daffodil bulb in fresh

potted soil. "Plant it soon. Water it. Watch it grow."

At my kitchen window, I light a cigarette and imagine Jeremy inhis alley apartment, on fire, his burning candles bumped over by hiscat.

I go there and knock at the door. Through the glass, I notice thechanges. He once kept his place immaculate-for a man of thirty-five. He told friends to smoke' em outside and instructed us where toput empty cups, saucers, drained tea bags. He forgets, says heck withcleaning for appearances, and doesn't concern himself withvisitors, now that he's gathering things for a trip to heaven.

Finally Jeremy pokes his head from inside. Eight minutes he takesto unfasten the lock. He goes into the living room and sits cross-legged on an oriental carpet. Chairs are full of books, photos,papers. A dozen candles flicker around him in the room.

I lean against the door frame."Michael, throw those boxes in with the others in the room. I've

got to make space. I need room."

His studio, where he once typed stories on an old computer, isdeep in odd things, books, photographs, and newspapers. Thebathroom door is blocked by a pile of clothes heaped in dust andsweat.

It's dark in the hall and I forget, again."No, don't," he covers his eyes. "The light's too bright. Turn it

off."

I step over rolled rugs and balance against the wall. Flick theswitch.

~~~-..\mdf"-