Into This River I Drown

I breathe a sigh of relief.

Lightning flash.

There’s a truck in the water. Upside down. Back end sticking up, at an angle.

Another flash and it’s gone.

Another flash and the cry of an engine roaring down the embankment.

Lightning above and there’s nothing behind me.

I close my eyes.

I open them and there are thousands of crosses on the river’s edge, all white and glaring and blazing. Big Eddie! they shout. Big motherfucking Eddie!

I close my eyes. I open my eyes. The crosses are gone, but the world around me is filled with feathers, billions of them falling from the sky.

A hand on my shoulder. A breath against my neck. A flash of blue.

I fall to my knees and cover my ears, the feather in my hand stabbing my skin. I can’t do this anymore, I think, my own voice almost lost in the storm. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t face this on my own. I am drowning in this river and I am haunted in this house my father built and my mind is breaking. It is shattering. I am broken and alone and afraid. Please. Please. Help me. Help me. Oh. Oh, someone please help me. I can’t do this on my own. Not anymore.

Please.

There is a final crash of thunder and then silence.

I open my eyes.

The river flows in front of me, the surface covered in feathers.

The ground around me is covered in feathers.

A sharp pain pierces my head and I cry out, my eyes burning. I lower my head to the ground as my skull threatens to explode. Feathers press against my face. They smell of earth.

And just as suddenly as it appeared, the pain is gone.

I open my eyes.

The feathers are gone.

There are no crosses. There is no truck.

The river moves forward.

And from above comes a blinding flash of light.

Big Eddie and I sat on the porch of Little House, a few days after it had been

completed. He handed me a beer with strict instructions never to tell Mom as she’d kick his ass. I promised I wouldn’t. He knocked his can against mine and we both took long drinks and sighed. We sat side by side in a couple of lawn chairs. Every now and then, I’d feel his arm against mine.

We were quiet, each lost in our own thoughts. It got like that every now and then, when no words were necessary, more a hindrance than a help. Mom said she’d never known any other people who could just be content to sit next to each other and not say a word. It would drive her nuts, she said, all that quiet.

But there were times when important questions needed to be asked. And when they needed to be asked, we asked them.

He asked, “Benji? Do you believe in the impossible?”

I thought for a moment. “I believe impossible things can happen, though we may not always get to see them.”

He turned my words over in his mind. Then my father said, “I thought this house would be impossible to finish. On the day we started, I thought it would never get done.” He paused. “I thought the life I have now would not have been possible. Your mom. You. None of this seemed like it could be real. Like it could be mine. It seemed impossible.”