Without lights or siren, the ambulance crawled down the
rough farm road like a wounded animal - wary, halting, inching its slow
way forward over deep, sun-baked ruts, bruising a tree as it rounded the
narrow turn; the little house came into sight below. The driver kept his
foot firmly on the brake, forcing the machine to creep along at a minimum
pace. Acceleration was out of the question. The road had been built for
trucks and big-wheeled farm machinery. Every steep incline and rain-worn
ditch presented danger to a low-to-the-ground automobile. One moment's
hurry could mean a lost muffler, a broken oil pan.
Beside the tiny wooden farmhouse, Peter Beaumont watched
the vehicle's timid approach. He looked on in silence, one large hand raised
against the glare of the afternoon sun. He sighed heavily, turned, and
started reluctantly along the path to the porch.
"Mama?" He pushed open the screened door and stepped
into the small kitchen. The old woman was in motion, carefully maneuvering
her wheelchair over the small hump between the kitchen and bedroom. She
topped the trim threshold and rolled out of sight.
Peter pulled the door closed behind him and followed.
He entered the bedroom and stood quietly, facing the back of the old woman's
chair. She had a drawer in her lap. Her hands worked through its contents
with unhurried precision, lifting out one item after another, turning each
tenderly between her ancient fingers, raising it close to her eyes. As
she rejected each item in turn, she would refold it, then place it back
in the drawer with the same meticulous care.
"Mama," Peter said again, a little louder. "Mama, they're
here."
"I know," the old woman said without stopping. "I saw
them through the window. Come here, Peter."
Peter crossed to her. He crouched beside her, resting
one hand on the arm of her chair. It shifted under his weight.
"Mama, you've got to remember to lock the wheels on this
thing. You could fall again..."
"Peter," she said, cutting him short. "Take this." She
handed him a bundle of cloth from the drawer. It was a dress, small and
neatly folded. "This is the dress I want to be buried in."
"Mama," Peter said, "It's only for a few tests. You won't
be there more than a day."
"Just in case something goes wrong." With one hand, she
folded his big fingers around the dress. With the other, she touched his
face. "Please," she said. "Just in case. So I don't have to worry."
Peter took her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Okay,
Mama," he said. "But you don't have to worry. We'll be back by this time
tomorrow."
A knock at the kitchen door echoed through the house.
Peter laid the dress on the bed, then headed off to answer it. He heard
his mother closing the drawer, turning the wheelchair to follow.
Two paramedics stood waiting on the porch. They shifted
nervously, knocked again.
"It's open!" Peter said, throwing the door wide. "Come
on in. We're almost ready."
The old woman was again navigating the threshold between
the rooms. Topping the small rise gave her chair a push, and she rolled
to a jerky stop at the feet of the ambulance driver - an exceptionally
tall man, young, thin and effete.
"Oh!" she gasped, her breath shallow. "I'm sorry." She
quickly backed away and fastened the chair's brake. Her right hand shot
reflexively to the worn rosary that hung around her neck.
Peter frowned at the fear he saw in his mother's eyes.
Probably the man's uniform, he thought. Pristine white, pure, like the
body of an angel. And so tall... He knelt again beside her.
"Don't worry, Mama. It's only for tests. We've got to
find out where the pain is coming from if we're going to fix it. And that's
what we want, right? To get you all fixed up?"
She clutched his hand tightly, then let it go. "I know,
Peter. I'll be fine."
"And I'll be right behind you. I'm following in the truck."
"Good," she said. "That's fine, Peter. Don't worry."
She calmed herself, breathing deeply. "Don't worry."
The paramedics moved silently onto the porch. They seemed
to hover there, waiting. Peter stood and moved behind the wheelchair. He
released the brake, and guided his mother out of the farmhouse, down the
great, wooden ramp, to the ambulance parked in the grass outside.
The old woman's fingers continued to work furiously at
her beads.
Lying in the ambulance with the silent angel, Claire
Beaumont watched her farm crawl slowly past her. Her son's pickup hung
close behind, bobbing and weaving on the rough ground. Trees swayed in
the hot summer breeze. Their branches reached out to her, touching and
scraping against the sides of the ambulance, easing her fears. She felt
the pale half moon, still visible in the daylight sky, gently pulling her
toward it.
"Thank you, old friend," she whispered, a soft release
of breath. "But I'm not ready yet... So much left to do... My family..."
She closed her eyes and enjoyed the simple act of breathing without labored
effort. "How much longer?" she called to the driver.
"About another hour," the angel beside her answered.
"You all live pretty far out. Away from the city, I mean."
"Thank you," she said. She drifted into a light sleep.
* * *
Barbie doll in hand, Kitty Beaumont ran swiftly through
the cornfield, expertly avoiding the tiny seedlings that had just begun
to push up through the golden soil. She reached the field's edge and switched
to careless skip, rocketing her small body down the grassy hill, toward
the creek below. When she reached the ancient willow tree, she plopped
herself down in a heap, fought to catch her breath.
"Now don't move," she ordered the doll, sternly. "He
won't cross over if you don't sit still."
With the slow care of ritual, she positioned the Barbie
on the largest exposed root of the tree, then turned to face the water.
She pulled her knees up under her chin and became as motionless as her
doll, utterly silent.
A faint shimmering appeared on the far shore. Kitty held
her breath. A soft plop followed as something landed n the water. A ripple
moved across the creek's surface, until a tiny figure crawled up onto the
shore at the girl's feet. The creature shook itself furiously, throwing
water in all directions.
"Hey!" Kitty cried, wiping the cold drops from her face.
"Sorry," the fairy said. He wrung the water from his
hair, then moved to the girl's side. He took a seat beside Barbie on the
big, exposed root.
"That's okay," Kitty said, snatching up the doll. "Let's
play."
"Not today, Kitty," the fairy said. He stroked thoughtfully
at his bearded chin. "Something is happening. Something important." His
little body shot upright, and he began to pace back and forth across the
willow root, mumbling and harrumphing to himself.
"What is it?' Kitty asked breathlessly. "Is something
wrong?"
The fairy stopped pacing and frowned. "There's someone
I want you to meet," he said.
"Someone important? The Fairy Queen?"
"No," the fairy said. "Just a friend. Someone you should
get to know."
"I'd rather meet the Fairy Queen." She turned her attention
to the Barbie and began to play. "Today, Barbie is the Fairy Queen." She
held the doll by the arms and began to dance it around, tumbling and twirling
in a wild ballet.
"Please, Kitty, this is important."
"This is important," Kitty teased, mocking his serious
tone. "What's so important about it?"
"She'll tell you that."
"She?" The dance stopped. "Your friend is a girl?"
"Yes, a girl," the fairy answered. "A very special friend
of mine. I want you to meet her."
Jealousy burned Kitty's cheeks, but turned to curiosity
when she saw her companion grow rigid and stare off beyond her, toward
the green hill behind them. A brilliant shimmer was moving toward them
down the slope, a large patch of silvery nothingness that seemed to hover
just over the ground. The grass swayed in its path as if blown by a soft
wind.
"She's here," the fairy whispered. "Don't move."
Kitty froze. She held her breath as the shimmering figure
approached the old willow. Was it a fairy? Too big. An elf? A goblin? She
had never met any of these creatures of the woods, only the fairies. The
approaching light disappeared behind the big tree. A sudden crackle made
her spin around, as a solid figure stepped out into view.
Kitty frowned. "Why, it's only a little girl. Your friend
is just a little girl!
"Remember what I told you, Kitty," the fairy said, his
hands folded imploringly. "This is important. Please don't be rude, as
a favor to me."
He leaped off the root and sprinted toward the creek.
"I have to go now! Sorry!" He dove headlong into the cold water, leaving
the two girls alone.
* * *
"Kitty, get the phone..." John Hastings said, mechanic-ally,
groggily. The woman beside him shifted position, but remained asleep. The
phone continued to ring.
The man pushed back the covers and reached a long, bare
arm across his wife's body. He pulled the receiver to his ear.
"Hello?" He listened quietly for a moment, then said,
"Wait, Peter. Hold on. I'll get her." He placed the receiver on the
nightstand and switched on the lamp. He gently shook his wife's arm. "Wake
up, Sweetheart. It's your Uncle Peter. He's calling from Missouri."
Kitty Hastings stirred gradually to life, rubbed her
eyes. "I was dreaming," she said, her voice small and confused. "A little
girl..."
"Honey, the phone."
She kicked free of the covers and took the phone.
"Uncle Peter?" Her features pulled slowly tight with worry; she bit her
lower lip. "I see," she said finally. "I'll be there by morning." She returned
the receiver to its cradle, rolled out of the bed, and began to dress.
"Honey? What is it?" John Hastings sat up in the bed,
rubbing his face.
"It's Gramma," Kitty answered. "I have to go to Missouri."
She opened the closet door and pulled a suitcase from an upper shelf.
"It's really bad?"
"Peter says she hasn't got much time..."
Kitty opened the suitcase, then sat beside her husband.
She covered her face with her hands, began to shake.
"He put her in the hospital," she said angrily. "He took
her off the farm... Bastard!" She gulped for air and began to weep in great,
painful shudders.
"They're sixty miles from a doctor there," John said
softly, pulling her close. "She'd die at home."
"She's dying now!" She pushed him away and walked stiffly
to the dresser. She began filling the suitcase.
"I'll go with you," John said. He crossed to her, rested
his hands on her shoulders.
Kitty turned and embraced him. She held him tightly to
her. "No," she said, her voice low. "You stay here. Mind the business."
"The business will wait..."
"Please, John." She touched his lips to silence him.
"I have to go alone."
"Why?"
"I don't know," she answered softly. "Something's hap-pening.
Something important."
She pressed her ear tightly to his chest, holding him,
letting herself be held.
"I'm frightened," she said.
In the stark, antiseptic hospital room, Claire Beaumont
slept on and on.
"She's fallen into a coma," the doctor said.
Peter Beaumont pressed his lips together. He was tired.
His whole body hung loosely, his strength exhausted by the night's vigil.
"How long?' he asked.
"A few days. A week. At her age it's hard to tell."
Peter lowered himself into the hard bedside chair, touched
his mother's arm. His breath whistled faintly through pursed, dry lips.
"I understand. Thanks, Doc." He stood and moved toward the door.
"Will you be available, Mr. Beaumont?"
"I'll be here as long as necessary," Peter said. He stepped
out into the hallway, and the doctor followed. "But I've got to get a hotel
room. I've got to sleep. I'll call you with a number once I'm settled in."
"Fine." The doctor was already in motion, disappearing
down the gray-carpeted hallway. "Get some rest, Mr. Beaumont. We'll notify
you if her conditions changes."
"Thanks," Peter said. He stepped into the lounge.
Kitty Hastings stared sightlessly at a magazine draped
across her lap, her body rigid with tension. She stubbed out her
cigarette and mechanically lit another. She drew on it heavily, pulling
the smoke deep into her lungs.
Seeing Peter enter the lounge, she tossed the magazine
aside and marched angrily toward him, blowing smoke as she went.
"Hi, Kitty," Peter said.
"You son of a bitch!" Kitty spat the words like cold
venom. She turned away, arms folded across her chest, back hunched.
The reproach rang in Peter's ears. Indignation
rose like water in his chest, but a dam of weariness pushed it right back
down; it wasn't worth it.
"Get off it, Kitty," he said, brushing past her. He moved
to the row of pay phones behind her and opened the directory.
"She wants to die at home," Kitty said, softening.
"The whole family knows that."
"I didn't bring her here to die." He found the heading
for hotels and ran his finger slowly down the list of numbers. "She came
for tests. That's all. It just worked out this way."
"What about what she wants?" Kitty demanded. "She planned
this out years ago."
"What?" He turned to face her, eyes narrowed. "What does
that mean, she planned this out?"
For a moment, Kitty felt as if she were falling into
a hole. She didn't know what she meant. A vague, dream-like memory touched
her, then quickly vanished; she hesitated.
"I mean she told the whole family she wanted to die at
home, that's all."
Peter cleared his throat noisily and turned back to the
phone book.
"Where was the family when she was in pain?" he said,
his voice shaking. "I'll tell you where. They were at home in their beds,
secure in the knowledge that old Uncle Peter was there at Mama's side,
taking care of everything. And now you want to complain. Jesus."
He lifted the receiver and began rooting through his
pockets for change. Kitty moved to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder.
She laid a quarter on the open phone book.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Peter," she said softly. "I'm just
confused."
She returned to her chair, lit another cigarette, and
sat smoking quietly. She fixed her eyes on a point in the empty air and
struggled to retrieve the strange feeling that had almost engulfed her
- the image of a little girl, a shimmer, so much like a dream, yet somehow
so real...
Peter Beaumont appeared suddenly before her. He had finished
his call and was speaking to her:
"I have a room. Just a few minutes away. We could share
it, save money..."
Kitty grabbed his words like a rope and pulled herself
back into focus. "No thanks, Peter," she said. "Maybe. I want to
stay here a while. I want to see her."
"Call me," he said, already turning to leave. "I'll call
the nurse's station from the hotel, once I know the room number. You can
get it from them." He paused in the doorway, considering her. "You
okay, Kitty?"
"It was a long drive," she said. "I'll be fine."
A peaceful mist was settling over her, pulling her toward
sleep. As Peter Beaumont passed through the swinging lounge doors and disappeared
down the hallway, she stubbed out her cigarette and sank deep into her
chair, accepting the calming silver rain around her, surrendering to it.
In moments, she was asleep.
* * *
"My name is Claire," the little girl said.
Kitty laughed.
"Is that funny?"
Kitty began to dance the doll again; this time it was
a frenzied, angry jig. "Yes," she said, giggling. "My Gramma's name is
Claire. I think that's funny. It's not a little girl's name at all."
"And I suppose your Gramma was never a little girl?"
"Of course she was," Kitty said sharply. "Don't be stupid.
But that was a thousand years ago, back when names didn't count for anything."
"I see," Claire said. She sat on the ground across
from the other girl. "Do you have a name?" she asked.
"My name's Kitty," Kitty answered without looking up
from the doll.
Claire laughed. She rolled on the ground and kicked her
feet in the air.
Fire painted Kitty's cheeks. She stood and turned away,
arms folded across her chest. "You're only laughing at me because I laughed
at you."
"No!" Claire said, suddenly also standing. "I used to
have a cat named Kitty. That's not a little girl's name either."
Kitty giggled in spite of herself. She sat down again,
arms wrapped tight around her knees. She smiled. "My real name is
Katherine," she said.
They laughed together.
"Excuse me, Ma'am."
A white-clad orderly was gently shaking Kitty Hastings'
arm. She opened her eyes.
"Visiting hours are over, Ma'am. You'll have to leave
now."
"What? But it's only..." She looked at her watch; it
was eight o'clock in the evening. "Oh, Jesus," she said. "I've been sleeping
for hours."
The orderly nodded. He smiled and backed away.
"Come back tomorrow," he said. "Visiting hours start
again at eight in the morning." He disappeared from the lounge.
Damn it, Kitty thought. What's happening to me? Her whole
body was stiff. Her neck throbbed dully as she turned it slowly left, and
then right, loosening it.
And what are these dreams, she wondered? What do they
mean? Like forgotten childhood memories, dredged up by Gramma's illness...
an event, a meeting. With each recurrence, the images became clearer, stayed
with her longer.
The setting was the Beaumont farm. She'd played by the
creek a thousand times as a child. But the fantastic elements of the fairy
and the strange little girl... She was certain these had never happened.
Yet they seemed so familiar, so real.
She walked to the nurse's station and asked for Peter's
number at the hotel. She accepted the slip of paper, thanked the nurse,
and started for the exit.
Peter Beaumont heard one sharp knock on his hotel room
door and rose to answer it. "Hi, Kitty," he said. He swung the door wide,
stepped back. "I figured you'd take me up on the room, so I got a double."
He waved his hands, pointing to the two big beds.
"Thanks, Uncle Peter."
She stepped into the room and threw her suitcase on the
uncluttered bed. Peter's bed was a shambles; apparently he had slept the
day away as well.
"How's Mamma?" Peter asked.
"No change." She chose not to mention her own coma-like
sleep. "The hospital will call if anything happens."
She examined the large room around her. It was well-kept,
but somehow plain. The air was damp. She noted a faint water stain on one
of the curtains. She frowned.
"How's the food in this place?"
"Expensive," Peter answered. "I ate at McDonald's."
Kitty shook her head and reached for the phone.
When she had finished eating, Peter was already in bed.
He sat reading a magazine and seemed impatient to turn out the lights.
Apparently, his full day of sleep was not a topic for conversation, either.
* * *
The girls played together for hours. They played Pilgrims-and-Indians,
Pocahontas, Davy Crocket - whatever Kitty wanted to play, Claire joined
in with gusto. They ran laughing through the fields and soon found themselves
back at the giant willow beside the creek.
Kitty dropped to the ground, exhausted. She leaned against
the great tree, head resting back into clasped hands, elbows splayed. Minnows
darted through the water before her, fighting against the current, sparkling
in the late afternoon sun.
Claire appeared at her side. "My goodness, this has been
fun!"
Kitty watched the fish as her companion sat down on the
grass beside her, cross-legged, laughing.
"The fairy said something was happening," Kitty said.
"Something important. You're supposed to tell me about it." She picked
up a pebble and launched it into the creek. The minnows scattered, then
turned and shot down-stream, blue and silver lightning, the fast current
rushing them off toward the distant river.
Claire's laughter stopped. She stood.
That's right," she said. "I'd almost forgotten." She
looked anxiously to the hills around her, to the cornfield above, to the
already setting sun. "Can't we play just a little longer?
"No," Kitty said firmly. "It's almost nighttime. I'll
have to go home soon. My Gramma's waiting."
Kitty's words washed over the strange little girl, transforming
her. An aura of great age, of weariness, settled over her like a cloud,
radiated like mist from behind her child-eyes.
"Kitty? Do you know who I am?"
Kitty remained silent. She dug in the dirt with a stick.
She sensed that to answer truthfully would spoil the magic; the spell would
be broken and the game would end. Yet even now it was getting dark. Any
minute, she'd be called back to the house. She'd have to leave then anyway,
immediately, game or no game.
"Yes," she answered, finally. "I know who you are."
The telephone rang, and Kitty woke with a start. Sunlight
filtered through the shabby curtains. She closed her eyes.
Peter appeared from the bathroom, razor in hand, his
face half covered in lather. He crossed the room in four great strides
and snatched up the phone.
"Hello? This is Peter Beaumont... Wonderful!"
"What is it, Peter," Kitty asked from the bed.
He raised a finger to his lips. "What's that? She's
here with me. We're on our way."
He hung up the phone.
"Peter?"
"Mama's awake," he said. "She's asking for you."
"Kitty!" Claire Beaumont cried as her granddaughter appeared
in the doorway.
"Hi, Gramma." Kitty crossed to the far side of the bed
and took a seat on the radiator. She held the old woman's hand. "It's good
to have you back," she said. "Are they treating you right?"
"Just fine," the old woman said softly. "Very fine."
Peter moved to the bed and touched his mother's free
hand. "Hi, Mama," he said. "Can I get you anything?"
Peter!" She gripped his wide fingers. "You see how good
God is? Our family is together!"
Peter and Kitty exchanged smiles. They sat in silence.
"Peter?" the old woman said, her voice suddenly powerful,
commanding.
"Yes, Mama?"
"Fetch the doctor. I want to know when I can go home."
"You're still weak, Mama...," Peter started.
She fixed a kind gaze on his face. The vehemence fell
away from her voice:
"Please," she said softly. She squeezed his fingers,
a gentle reassurance. "I just want to hear it from the doctor. Maybe I'm
not so weak anymore."
"Mama.."
"Please."
When Peter had left the room, the old woman turned urgently
to her granddaughter.
"Kitty," she said, her voice again vibrant and commanding,
"you've got to go to the farm."
"The farm will be just fine," Kitty said, cooing as if
speaking to a child. "I'm staying right here with you. Why..." She
stopped herself, looked away. Her own words burned in her mouth. She had
spoken as if she were facing a helpless, frightened old woman, someone
incapable of knowing her own mind. But the eyes before her were sharp and
clear. The hand she held was strong, filled with power.
"Gramma, I'm sorry," she started. "I just..."
The old woman frowned. "Stop wasting time,"
she said flatly. "Go to the farm. Today. Before nightfall." She gripped
Kitty's hand tightly, then pushed it away.
"But Gramma..."
The mist of unconsciousness was descending again around
Claire Beaumont. Her eyes closed.
"Hurry!" the old woman whispered. "Go!"
"Why?," Kitty begged. "What do you want me to do there?"
"She'll tell you that." The voice was a whisper, barely
audible.
"She?"
Kitty's spine stiffened as an electrical charge ran up
from the radiator to the base of her neck. She felt a cold gust of wind
and spun toward the window. It was closed.
The old woman was almost gone. She was mumbling soundlessly,
repeating a phrase with each shallow breath.
"What, Gramma?" Kitty pressed her ear close to her grandmother's
face, strained to make out the words.
"Unless Ye become like these little ones," Claire Beaumont
was saying, "Ye cannot enter into the Kingdom of Heaven."
* * *
Kitty spent the afternoon roaming slowly through the tiny
farmhouse. She sat in one room and then another. She felt her grandmother's
presence in everything she touched - the heavy, handmade quilt, the ancient,
faded crucifix on the kitchen wall, the big iron stove, once wood-burning,
now converted to gas.
She fried an egg and made a sandwich. She ate alone at
the big table, silent, wishing for the company of family; she felt the
house yearning for motion, voices.
When twilight came, she locked the door behind her, descended
the wooden wheel chair ramp, and started slowly through the field toward
the hill, toward the little creek at its base.
What am I doing here? she asked herself. Why aren't I
in the city with my grandmother? Or at home with my husband? What am I
here to find? To do? It's like the dreams...
The evening air fell silent as she approached the creek.
No chatter of life poured from the nearby woods. The water trickled by
soundlessly, its current almost stopped.
She felt the silence now inside her, too - a delicate
presence, a soft bud of certainty unfolding within, casting slow ripples
of calm. She sat on the ground beneath the great willow tree and waited,
resolute, motionless.
A shimmer appeared on the hill to her left. A silvery
cloud of nothingness was approaching her. Kitty heaved a weary sigh.
"Come on out," she said. "I see you."
The shimmering cloud circled behind the willow tree.
The little girl from her dreams appeared to her right.
"Hi, Kitty," the girl said.
"Hello." She wanted to say more, but the little girl
jumped frantically in front of her. She gestured urgently toward the horizon.
Kitty looked west: the sun was just disappearing behind
the hill.
"We're almost out of time," the girl said. "Do you know
who I am?"
"Yes," Kitty answered. "You're Gramma."
"Wrong!" the little girl shouted. She rolled on
the ground, laughing. "You are!"
"What? You must be Gramma. You're name is Claire."
The girl stopped laughing and sat up, cross-legged on
the grass. "That was a thousand years ago," she said. "Before names counted
for anything. Now my name's Kitty."
Their eyes met across the grass, held. Then the girl
was again gesturing, shaking her small finger toward the swiftly darkening
horizon.
"Who am I!" she demanded.
Kitty studied the strange little girl before her. But
she was not strange at all; she was familiar. The large eyes that crinkled
at the corners when she laughed. The dark hair that framed her round face.
Those high Beaumont cheekbones - a miniature reflection of Kitty's own.
Of Gramma's. Of Peter's. A distinctive face that might shine out from any
Beaumont family picture, in any generation past. A family resemblance.
But not Gramma.
Unless ye become like these little ones, her grandmother
had said. Scripture. The Kingdom of Heaven... Kitty closed her eyes
and searched the silence within for an answer:
She saw herself as a child, playing at the foot of her
grandmother's chair, listening to the stories Gramma read from the big
family Bible propped open in her lap. She watched her own small hands moving
dolls around the clean, wooden floor, acting the stories out, a child's
interpretation of Divine history.
Her heart jumped into her throat as she heard her mother,
young and alive, moving through the kitchen, humming a tune as she
washed the dinner dishes, the soft clink as each clean plate was stacked
to dry. Through the doorway she could see her father and Uncle Peter huddled
together at the big kitchen table, coffee cups steaming in their hands,
trading farm talk in hushed voices. Laughing. Making plans for the summer
crop.
She was a child again, wrapped in the warm security of
family, blanketed by the sounds and smells and gentle rhythms of family
life. But she was also an adult, viewing the scene, trembling invisibly
at the blanket's warm touch - shaking with new understanding as the sounds
and smells and rhythms around her turned golden with meaning, became gradually
concrete:
Each slow movement of her mother's hand, each soft word
from the table, each loving glance cast a line, a glowing thread in the
blanket, in the weave of history that had brought them all to this place,
in this time, in just this way. Threads of golden light filled the little
house, intersecting, weaving patterns, moving from and to each of them,
passing through them, binding them together into one incorruptible unit.
The walls around her vanished, and she saw the lines
extending out to the horizon, lines everywhere, lines of many colors, many
families, interweaving in the night air, enlarging the pattern. The life
of all families. Lines of love, anger, joy, suffering, care, birth, death
- endless colors and intensities blending into one vast human tapestry
that covered all the Earth, that filled the open sky...
And, somehow, held them together. A single thread in
the blanket that warmed the Earth, that cradled it to the bosom of a larger
family. She was rising now into the night sky, where each glowing star
traced a line of its own, threads in a greater tapestry, vast beyond comprehension...
Yet, somehow, the same. Lines cast by a gentle motion,
a soft word, a loving glance. Moving lines made up of smaller lines. A
tapestry woven from infinite layers of the same repeating pattern - each
layer supported by, and dependent upon, those above it, below it, around
it. Infinite layers of familial love, the smallest line as important as
the largest, all lines together painting one vast family portrait - the
gentle daily rhythms of a family as big...
As big as heaven. As big as God.
And beside her still, her grandmother's soft voice
- the ancient stories that were somehow the blueprint for it all. The pattern
to which the grand tapestry aspired. The measure by which each line would
be judged...
She hovered over the farm now, watching silently as the
weave of lines there thinned, faded in brilliance. The pattern was breaking
up as its center ebbed closer and closer to darkness. Her father's line
stretched far past the horizon, to Korea, where it had been abruptly cut
off. Her mother's line twisted in slow spirals, fading into cancer, finally
breaking off at the tiny cemetery at the edge of town. Only Uncle Peter's
line glowed with any vigor; but it, too, was slowly fading, burdened into
shadow by worry for the darkening center, dangerously taught, stretched
thin in its attempt to maintain the pattern alone.
Yet the tapestry, spread forward in time, was intact.
Only this moment flickered weakly, a rend in the fabric already being repaired.
A soft glow was rising up through the fading human lines, a silvery shimmer
ebbing up from the soft ground, holding the tattered fabric together, pulling
a new thread from the distance and stitching it carefully into place. A
new center was being forged; new lines spread out to fill the gaps - new
voices, new laughter, new love...
She had cast her own line far away, to another State;
now she was being called home. She watched her line doubling back, growing
in brilliance, returning to the place of her birth. To the piece of Earth
her family had supported and depended upon for more than a hundred years.
To the piece of Earth that had supported and depended on them. To a covenant
established long before her birth, that would extend beyond her death -
that incorporated her personal birth and death into a larger plan, into
a Life without beginning or end...
Patterns within patterns. Cycles of love. The new pattern
emerging below her was not identical to any that had come before it, nor
to any that would follow. But it was familiar. A pattern that might shine
out from any Beaumont generation, future or past. A family resem-blance.
One sure stitch in the Universal Tapestry, one link in a chain that could
never be broken - one family wedded to a farm. That farm to the Earth.
The Earth to the sky. The sky... to a world without end.
Mysterious ways. Promises kept. A portrait drawn by a
trustworthy hand. A tapestry in which no thread was unimportant, and no
line was ever alone. Where each thread depended upon, and was responsible
for, every other. Where love could be counted on.
God's family. One vast, incorruptible union. A Universal
Body, in which the nearest hand would always reach out to lend aid, where
no member would fall away unnoticed. Where all hands were, in the end,
one hand.
A hand casting infinite lines...
Kitty opened her eyes. The sun was gone. A gentle breeze
caressed her face, moving to dry the tear now resting on her cheek.
"Quickly, Kitty," her companion whispered. "Who am I?"
"You are the land," Kitty answered softly. "The nearest
hand."
Invisible in the now complete darkness, the little girl
smiled.
"Welcome home, Kitty."
* * *
Kitty Hastings sat alone in the darkness. But she was
not alone. The singing wind and the fast-flowing water, the grass and the
great willow tree, they were there with her; they were her friends.
She stood and began to walk slowly back towards the little
wooden farmhouse. A large, pale moon lit her way.
"Thank you, old friend," she said.
As she entered the house, the telephone was ringing.
"Hello?"
"This is Peter." Silence. "Mama's dead. She just faded
away."
"Oh, no... Should I come out?"
"Stay put," Peter answered. "They're bringing her there.
I'll call Father Benson in the morning. We'll arrange for the funeral in
town."
"Okay," Kitty said.
"Kitty?"
"Yes?"
"There's a lot to be done now." His voice cracked as
he spoke, faltered. "I'd really appreciate if you could stay around a while."
"Of course, Peter." She breathed a silent sigh of relief.
She hung up the phone and sat quietly, absorbing the
smells and memories of the old house. She reached deep to feel sadness,
grief at the passing of her beloved grandmother, but no tears would come.
Instead, a pervasive peace welled within her. The silence had become a
living current. It moved through her, poured from her, flowed to her from
every direction. A tree outside the small window rustled softly in the
night wind; her hands trembled, responded.
She made coffee and sat at the big table, sipping carefully
at the steaming cup. She looked again around her, at the evidence of her
grandmother's good life in this world. Her eyes settled on a page from
an old church calendar her grandmother had roughly framed and hung near
the door - the finely drawn lines of Mary and Joseph, kneeling before a
shimmering manger, casting loving glances toward the child within. Wrapped
in a blanket. Surrounded by animals. A star responding overhead...
The Holy Family. Kitty smiled.
Nothing ever passes away, she thought. It only passes
on.