1960
The Journey
Jonah thought of the end of his journey. The thought made him happy. He was as certain of its ending as he was of the sun which burned his eyes and lined the day’s blue light with gold.
Dragonflies whirred overhead. The quiet flow of the river was broken by intermittent flashes of green and blue which disappeared almost as immediately as they came. The life of the riverbank was a comfort to Jonah. The only creatures who appeared as discomforting strangers were the frogs, giant croaking beings who appeared fearless of his slow movement, stared at him with cold, unblinking eyes. If the frogs had resisted him, had registered concern at his appearance, it would have been something he knew and could understand, might have been a kind of safety. But they were strangers and they did not care.
Jonah felt the security of his paper sack. He tried to ignore the unblinking eyes that disturbed him. There was bread and cheese and fruit in the lunch which Hannah had prepared and he had a bottle of fresh water. The food made him think of Joseph and Hannah and their kindness. They had taken him in a few years ago, had become his family, loved him as one of their own, even though the county paid for his keep, and that was the reason they had taken him.
No one in the town had ever been unkind to Jonah, but except for Joe and Hannah, he could detect the edge of an indifference which spoke of the fact that he did not really belong, that he was a stranger. Life in a small Southern town in the 1930s was mainly a matter of survival for sharecroppers like Joe and Hannah. People’s emotions arose like slabs of concrete, exhausted them, were generally meant to settle issues of importance, like money or sex. Jonah had seen more than one fight over a woman. For ordinary feeling, there was little expression. Even Joe could not say things easily, although that did not matter, because he knew that Joe and Hannah really cared about him. When Jonah had talked about lying about his age and going into the army, Joe only said, “I unrest’ boy”, and put his old but still strong arms around him and held him close, furtively wiping his eyes with his big red handkerchief.
While he lived with Joe and Hannah, Jonah had listened and gathered whatever facts he could from the talk of people in town. It was not that they talked often of him, or that he was a matter of any importance, but through careful listening, he managed to discover the name of the man people believed was his father. He had heard that his father was working now in a logging camp at the mouth of the river, that he had a job cutting down trees and stacking them on the barges which floated downriver to the sawmill. It was an impressive job, one which men would fight to get, so that Jonah felt pride welling inside him, pride for the father he did not even know, that he should have a job other men envied. So Jonah had to make a journey, this journey that would take him to where he belonged, to his place. Hannah had warned him against expecting too much. “You musn’ be so sure he wants to see you, boy”, she warned, the wrinkles at the corners of her cloudy eyes turning downward with concern. But she knew he could not listen. Despite Hannah’s warning, he was certain of all he would find at the end of the river. As he walked along its bank now, a voice inside him began to sing.
He was not tired but the shade of an overhanging tree, like everything else today, beckoned invitingly to him. Its branches were large, the ground beneath it still cool and moist, resilient with morning dew. He reclined beneath it, closing his eyes against the only threat he would not allow to enter—the motionless stare of the unblinking frogs at the water’s edge.
His eyes floated lazily across the clear sky as his mind floated across the days he had lived until now. Here, on this journey, he could afford to think of them, for it was almost as if they had a purpose. His journey, his life that had been, would have an end, one that would be as perfect, as comforting as this summer day.
Memories drifted in hazy succession, like the clouds in the sky, moved into one another, blended, became indistinguishable, only certain bold ones drawing attention, like the silver and rainbow scaled fish that broke the silence of the river and flashed light for a moment before falling back again through the motionless, colorless air.
His earliest recollection was of a home, a place with many children and he was only one. A woman stood out clearly in his mind, a woman who bathed, clothed and fed him. But he could not remember seeing any emotion toward himself on her face. She screamed at the other children, even struck and beat them on occasion, but never him. Not that he had ever deserved to be struck—for he recalled with justice that he was too quiet to be of any trouble to anyone. He learned to understand that he did not belong with them. Once when an overpowering emotion had compelled him to throw his arms around this woman as she prepared him for bed, she thrust him from herself, as if repulsed, then hastily covered him against the night’s cold. He had huddled under the covers obediently and listened to the sound of her voice berating her own children while they secretly laughed. A cold, black stillness crept inside him. The thought of finding his own family, of belonging to someone the way these people belonged to each other was the dream awake which always put him to sleep. There was a clock on the wall with a light that was friendly toward him and he often fell asleep staring at the hands which glowed in the dark, as if speaking to him of permanence, telling him their glow would be there to greet him each night.
Jonah later learned that his mother had died, that his father had left him with this woman who was his father’s sister. He had been very small and he did not stay long with his aunt and his cousins, but even now, Jonah could not recall that his aunt had ever spoken a word to him except the necessary commands and directions for each day.
From that point his memories became clearer. He was sent to a place where there were only boys, boys of all ages. There was a school there and he had learned many things—to read and write and, in a class called geography, some things about the world. Learning to read was a key to himself. Whenever he found time to read, he did, because the world and the things in it fascinated him. Most of what he learned, he learned himself, because the teachers at the school were not interested in any unusual effort, wanted only for their day to end so they could leave.
The most important thing he learned was that he could not be himself. He learned to read in secret and to speak little to the others of his interests. He learned to avoid violence when he could, but when he could not, he learned to be violent.
He met a boy named Todd who became his friend, taught him about the pleasures his own body could give, that it could comfort him, be his friend even when Todd was not there. His hands thrust over the warmth hidden inside his pants, stroking the firmness which was himself dispelled loneliness, assured him that he need never be completely alone. Most of the time, Todd and he were inseparable but the other boys did not tolerate this easily. They were jealous of the tie he and Todd had. Later Todd became very possessive and it was not easy for Jonah to dispel his advances, so he often submitted, not unwillingly, but passively, to ward off unwelcome violence from his friend. Others also sought him, were more threatening, so he learned of the power of other kinds of passion, that it could be harsh, could cause more pain than pleasure, could make it impossible for him to refuse, to be himself. To belong to them meant at least peace and there was always the quiet moment when he could be alone and use the knowledge he had learned of his body in his own way. With coaxing and a quiet rhythm, he could bring his body to its final outburst. He learned every nuance, every movement of himself there was to know, so that even now, under the safety of this giant tree, at least he had himself.
From the boys’ home, he had gone to live with Joe and Hannah. There he met Laura, a girl who also came from the county and who had lived with Joe and Hannah for many years. When the county stopped paying for her, Laura just stayed on, helping Hannah with some of the things she could no longer do. Laura was shy, probably because her face had been left scarred from a childhood bout with some sickness but she was kind and Jonah never thought of her scars when he looked at her. With Joe and Hannah, she was Jonah’s only family, even though Jonah knew it was only a temporary one.
Now Joe and Hannah and Laura were gone. He had left them, had only himself to rely on again. But soon that would be over. The end of the journey would first bring him to his father who would help him, then would lead to other things, things which would show him that everything Laura told him was true. Without words or formal talk, she had taught him that he was inadequate for himself. “It’s not good to be by yourself”, she would say aloud, as much to herself as to him. “Everyone needs someone for lovin’”. He knew she was telling him that his body could sing louder, could vibrate more deeply with someone who loved him, and that he also could give the gift of this pleasure to someone else. He would love someone, sometime, Laura’s unspoken prediction told him. Perhaps he had loved Laura but he knew she would have said he didn’t, that she would have talked to him like a mother, even though only six or seven years—no one was sure—separated them, that she would tell him she was too old and he must discover many more things about himself before he could love that way. He believed Laura, knew that he would discover, would learn.
Because Laura was very smart, was studying to be a schoolteacher. She had given him books to read. Some were poetry books and he even found that he liked best the same ones she liked. They talked for long hours, sometimes of sad and serious things, sometimes of joyful things. Sometimes she was playful, would hit him lightly over the head and he knew there would never be anyone who would be his love in the same way again. Now, embraced and sheltered by the arms of this powerful tree, he thought of a line from something by someone named Edna St. Vincent Millay in one of the poetry books. It reminded him of the things Laura had meant but did not know how to say, that a woman sought “A man’s bared breast to curl inside”—or something like that. That was the way it was meant to be between men and women. A man and a woman.
Before he left, he learned something which did not surprise him. Laura belonged to someone, a man she knew from school and who was certainly much smarter than Jonah was. She became engaged to be married to this man and when Jonah saw them together, he was able to watch them without jealousy, could see everything Laura had talked about. Their love was like another person he could almost see standing beside them, a person alive and real, whom they shared. Each word, each touch, each look, was a message from this powerful person standing there, a message taking form in, settling into, becoming the secret intimacies he was allowed to observe. No, he could never return to Laura, but she had explained to him how unnecessary that was. It did not matter. His father was waiting; they would have a life together that would bring more life, all the other parts of life to Jonah, more happiness to them both.
Jonah began to walk again. The memory of Laura and the peace of nature which surrounded him here continued to assure him. The transparent river, the steady rays of the powerful sun, the birds that halted suddenly in midair before diving into the water like bullets—all would lead him to the end of the journey and the one who would help him, to his own, his father.
Laura had a record player and several records she had received as gifts from her fiancée. Once she played a melody for him which she explained was an aria from an opera by a man named Puccini. Jonah did not understand the language of the words, but the music ran through his mind now, its sorrowful beauty fitting into this perfect day like the last piece of a puzzle. The aria was entitled “O my beloved daddy”. Jonah hummed it to the sounds of the woods, sounds which enclosed him like soft walls. He hummed it as slowly, as deliberately as the green leaves of the trees parted, then re-settled, as he passed them by. “O my beloved daddy”—that was the secret. He must first belong to his own. Then love between himself and another would drift in as naturally as one season followed another. He did not know his father, had never seen him, but it did not matter what he was, what he did. They were flesh of flesh and they belonged together.
He was not very hungry, but he came to a bend in the river, where he found a shelter created by a slight depression in the earth and a canopy of trees. Light filtered through the dense roof of foliage, scattered itself like jagged pieces of glass across the deepening shade. He decided to eat before he continued his journey. It would not be very long now, only several more miles, and he might not find another place of such solitude. He opened his bag and ate slowly as he watched a family of beavers construct their dam from pieces of wood and stone and grass at the water’s edge. They did not seem to mind his presence, as if sensing that he did not mind theirs. But he had never known that frogs could be as huge as these, or that their unblinking eyes could annoy him so. They were colorless creatures unless one peered carefully at them, which he had no desire to do, although he could see one which was almost close enough for him to touch as it flicked its long tongue like a snake into the air at its prey. He picked up a stone and threw it at the ugliness which disturbed, resonated within him like a bad dream he could not forget. The creature fled, but only further away to the safety of another rock from which it sat staring at Jonah—unmoving, ignorant and unafraid. Jonah turned his eyes away and finished his meal. Hannah had even wrapped him some fruit in a paper, so succulent that the paper became wet, his fingers and his mouth streaked with juice. He thought of Laura’s voice and her long fingers, of her face which he thought beautiful without remembering its scars, felt again his lack of rancor at the man who would have her forever.
He packed the remainder of his lunch in the paper sack and left his shelter, continuing his walk along the water’s edge, for the warmth of the day made the wetness feel cool and nourishing. A family of ducks waddled by unhurriedly and he threw scraps of his bread at them. They poked their silken heads lackadaisically at his offerings, as if life were not a frantic effort, but his gift was not rejected. With dignity, they pecked and swallowed, the large brown pools of their eyes bulging enormously, as if speaking gratitude for this unexpected generosity. They devoured each morsel. That pleased him. To give and to receive was to be alive. He also expected and received. The peace and life of the river was his; he was already a recipient. Shortly, he would receive the generosity of this journey’s end.
He found a bittern along the water’s edge that had become entrapped inside a mound of twigs and fallen branches. Its wing was damaged, hung limply at its side like a folded flag. He lifted the bird carefully from its trap and placed it in a nest of moss and mud in the crook of a tree branch, high enough so that it would be safe until it could fly again. He even managed to catch several small fish. The river was cold but clear so that when he plunged his hands in swiftly, quickly, he caught the fish easily. Deftly and assuredly, because it was necessary, he killed the fish with a rock, then placed them close to the bird so that it would not starve. The bird had trembled in his hands when he first lifted it, but now it seemed to relax in the nest, even though it continued to watch Jonah’s movements carefully. When the bird began to eat voraciously, he resumed his journey. He hoped that the bird’s wing would heal, but he did not look back. There was at least another mile to go.
His eyes could already see the bend of the river ahead which meant that the journey would soon be at its end and there would be other people to contend with. He thought of this somewhat sorrowfully, heard a small voice which he would not allow to speak remind him that he could not know, could not be as sure of the journey’s end as he was of the travel, of his life here along the river, this peace with himself. He could only be sure of one thing and that was his father. The loss of this solitude, this aloneness, was a small price to pay for the joy which lay ahead. In the old manner, he almost thrust his hands into the opening of his pants to allay his growing fear but then he remembered Laura and the music and the promise. He would settle for nothing less.
He began to hurry now, anxious to store the memory of the river and its beauty with the rest of his good things. He had a file in his mind for those good things. They were few in number. He could now add the memory of this journey to his memory of Laura and his time with her.
At the bend of the river, the sky still covered the earth with its blue. The trees still rustled their acknowledgement of his presence; the scurry of life around him did not cease, accepted his existence. It would be the same ahead as it was here, and as it had been. Joy overflowed. He was a vessel which could hold no more.
He turned at the river’s winding and stopped abruptly, his thoughts paralyzed with a rush of longing that washed over him like the water of the river now rushing to the source which was also its end. There he saw a group of men working on the logging project. The river had become a giant gluttonous creature, was being fed with sacrificial offerings, with flatboats piled high with wounded black trees. The barges floated down the ravenous water, reached the river’s mouth and the trucks waiting to carry them to a giant building where they would be shaken in gigantic baskets until they became naked. Amidst the endless screech of saws, the round white flesh would be fed into a powerful maw, digested, transformed. The air at the river’s mouth carried the unmistakable odor of newly-felled trees, but the air in the factory held the deeper sweetness of newly-cut planks. Sawdust floated upwards, then settled, incense blown to the sacrifice of the mute forest behind.
Jonah saw a team of seven men wrestling with the huge chainsaws and the giant trees which were their enemy, trees which demanded, because of their presence, to be cut down. The metallic clacking of the saws, the rocking of the trees as they fought to stay alive, then fell with a mighty thud, overcame the former peace of the river and its life.
He had no trouble knowing who his father was. A tall, burly man with not much expression in his face worked fiercely. A certain joy which seemed to preoccupy the others was missing in his face but the joy would be there shortly, Jonah was sure. He stood there for many minutes, observing, knowing he was a speck on the horizon, until the men saw him. The activity ceased, soundlessly, wordlessly. Some premonition of dread had invaded the air.
Jonah did not know how long he stood there, before daring to approach the one he knew was his own. The other men stepped aside as he came, seeming to know toward whom he was headed, then resumed their work, but this time more slowly, laboriously, as if in fear of the nameless omen which now surrounded them all, made them prisoners. No one spoke to Jonah.
He stood before his father. The men continued to work at sawing and felling trees, as if the screaming saws, the shudder of the earth each time a tree fell, would somehow dispel the unwelcome vision before them.
“Father,” he said softly, expectantly, but the saws continued. The man did not look up.
“Father”, he screamed. This time his voice was heard, the screaming of the saw overcome by his own. The man stopped and raised his eyes. Jonah gazed into the eyes searchingly. Something was missing. The eyes did not answer his own.
Finally, the man said, almost fiercely, “Whatcha want with me, boy?” “Father,” was all Jonah could reply. “I am here, to be with you.”
The man stared at him dumbly, as if this were some sort of joke. “Can’t be with me boy. No place for you here.”
“I can work. I can learn.” Jonah began to stammer. “I can do whatever you want and we can be together. I can help.”
“Nope”. The eyes met his again. It was not that his look was cruel, or angry; it was simply that some link which tied one person to another, even in ordinary conversation, was missing in those eyes. They were vacant, empty of concern, could concentrate only on what needed to be done. This interruption which had come upon him was a threat.
“But I am Jonah, your son”, he heard himself pleading.
“Know that. Don’ know why you came here though. I ain’t got nothin’ for you.”
“But we could be together, and I could help you—and you, you could help me.”
His father did not seem to hear. “Wouldn’ even be you, if it wasn’ for that damn woman. Her doin’, not mine.”
Jonah felt his insides begin to quake like the trees. “O my beloved daddy”, ran through his mind, crazily, mocking him as the river had mocked him. The sky seemed to be darkening and the faces of the men took on grotesque features, like ugly animals, black and motionless, chiseled from stone.
“Please”. As this last word broke from him, the man looked up at him again. “Go away, boy, don’ bother me no more, never no more. You ain’t none of mine. Ain’t nothin’ that is mine.” He began to laugh and walked over to a rock from behind which he drew a large brown bottle. He put the bottle to his mouth and began to drink, endlessly it seemed, the strong-smelling brown liquid running in rivulets down his bearded chin. He drank as if his thirst could never be quenched. “Hey guys”, he yelled angrily. “Kid here says he’s mine. Won’ go away.” He threw the bottle to one of the men who began to drink also. The bottle was passed around and they all began to drink. There was no work now, only a circle of men gathering around him, the smell of the whisky on their breath mingling with the wood smell in the air. His head reeled. He became nauseated. Their silent, staring faces became one with the black sky which stood by and witnessed everything, did nothing.
One man grabbed his arm. “Go away, kid, fast. He ain’t right. Ain’t none of them right now”. The men began to laugh. Underneath their wild laughter, Jonah could still hear the intermittent, disinterested croaking of the giant frogs.
His father stared at him again. In that moment, Jonah could see the hatred growing. His father was no longer an uninterested person, but even anger was better than the total non-engagement which had first sat in those eyes. Jonah stood rooted to the ground, as if chained. “Dumb, ain’t you, boy,” his father jeered. “Too dumb to know there ain’t no place for nobody.” He picked up a stone the size of a man’s fist and hurled it at Jonah. The blow struck him on the temple. Jonah could feel the blood trickle in a stream down his face and into his eyes but his feet had no ability to move. He knew some horrible dream had reached its climax, that some truth was working to break its way into his consciousness and he must see it to its end. Scenes of his first home, then the orphanage, then Joe and Hannah and Laura passed before his eyes rapidly, like a movie running at a ridiculous speed. The man picked up another stone. This time it struck Jonah in the shoulder and the pain was sharp, sharp enough to jar him to his senses. He found his ability to run, turned and ran up the course of the river, his head and his should throbbing with the feeling that was beginning to return. He felt two more blows strike his back, thrust his hands to his ears to muffle the sound of the mens’ laughter, ran until he could hear the laughter no longer, then fell exhausted on the black and murky moss at the river’s edge. The water of the river was unfriendly now, slapped against the banks, stared up at him, as if jeering, its surface waves covering the deeper darkness below,
Jonah lay for a long while, his body numb, his mind unable to form thought. Suddenly he became conscious of something staring at him. About a foot away stood the huge frog with its unfeeling eyes. It croaked loudly, stupidly, but did not move. Jonah crawled toward it slowly, deliberately.
Tears broke from his body in a torrent of release. With one thrust of his arm, he grabbed the frog. With one more quick movement, he twisted the creature’s head from its body and let it fall. The brackish brown blood that flowed from its deformed mass mingled with the red blood of Jonah’s own wounds in the darkened water. They moved together to form a stream, as if seeking each other out. The black water of the river carried away their stain–together, inseparable, eternal.