The Big Ol' Man in the Sky

By Christopher Galik

Clawing herself out of the caustic and sewage-laden river, Anna can only think of one thing—getting home. Though she lives just a few short blocks from the acrid waterway, she soon finds that the journey she’s about to take is much longer and infinitely more transformative. For Anna lives in a steel town, a modern-day American steel town where the environmental movement slipped away years ago. She’s spent her entire young existence in the shadows of the furnaces that give her town life. She has never questioned what they are or what they mean for the world around her.

The Big Ol’ Man in the Sky is the story of one fateful weekend when all that begins to change. It’s a story about lives forgotten and memories rekindled. It’s a story of the unending quest for truth and purpose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Jun 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662919251

Book preview

1

Thirty-Seven Years Ago

It was morning again in their town.

The two men sat on the porch, eyes fixed on the lawn. They were middle-aged and slouching slightly, resting on matching webbed folding chairs. Their children, both boys, squealed with laughter and wheeled across the dew-wet grass in some game only they understood.

Above them, a powder blue sky faded to white where a vibrant orange sun had just cleared the horizon. The only clouds were thin, wispy ones rising steadily from something just down the hill to the right. Even those yielded to the otherwise-cloudless sky before too long, vanishing as they rose into the darker blues of the upper heavens.

Richard, one man started, looking up from the yard. I’ve been thinking about what you said.

And? prompted Richard.

I feel good about this.

Richard said nothing but turned to look at the other.

I know, I know what you’re going to say, the first interjected. We shoulda given it more time…

That’s exactly what I’d say.

"And you did say it. Believe me, I heard you," the first man continued.

But you’re still okay with this, Richard confirmed.

Well? If they’re the ones saying it’s fine to cut back a little, I mean, I think we should. It’s not like I’m the one suggesting it.

Richard glared at him, unconvinced.

Don’t look at me like that, the first pleaded as Richard shifted his gaze from the gray-painted boards of the porch and out to the children playing below. Seriously, don’t make me out to be the bad guy here. I mean, what choice do we have? If we miss this month, that’s some real pressure on us to show we can compete with the newer shops.

This isn’t really something you can just come back from. You know that, right? Once you make the call, we all know that’s a one-way street, right?

It’s always been a one-way street. And it has a dead end at one end of it.

What the hell’s that even supposed to mean? Richard interrogated.

It means…Christ, I don’t know what it means, the first demurred. I just…

Do you remember what it was like when we were kids? Richard interrupted. Streetlights on at noon, smoke so thick you couldn’t see down the block. You want to go back to that? You want to be wrapped up in the decision to go back there?

Now Richie, that’s not fair. That’s just not fair. You know I don’t.

A momentary silence between the men was cut by the chirping laughter of the boys out front. The first began again.

But I tell you what, I don’t want to go back to what we had a few years ago, no work and even less hope. We scraped by that time. Just barely. I don’t want to be the one to let this town down. And I really think we can turn the corner if this works out.

You think so? You really think so? offered Richard doubtfully.

Yeah, I do. I really do. Besides…, he sighed. Besides, there’s just no room for error. Not anymore. This place is going to go to hell if we don’t do something.

Frank, Richard started, this place is going to go to hell if you do.

A siren wailed from somewhere downhill, along the river below. It echoed across the hills of the town and faded in a fractured and dissonant way. The boys stopped their game where they stood, looking first to the direction of noise and then to their fathers sitting on the porch above.

For a moment, nothing happened. Slowly, a dark rolling mass emerged above the rooflines of the neighborhood. It boiled upward until the wind caught it and fanned it out into an ever-widening pillar of smoke. A short time later, a few other columns emerged, followed by several more a few moments after.

Without saying a word, Richard rose from his chair, folded it, and leaned it against the house. He glanced at Frank a final time, opened a well-maintained screen door, and slipped quietly into the darkened house beyond.

Frank huffed through his nose as the screen door clapped home. He looked to the growing turbulence in the skies.

Long time no see, old friend. I guess it’s just you and me.

2

Last Thursday Night

The things from Anna’s mother lived in the spare bedroom down at the end of the hall. It had been a long time since Anna rummaged through them, maybe never. The boxes had been put up for so long under some unspoken rule. She had never even thought to touch them. That’s just not what you did. But her father was working late, again, and his room sat dark and empty as she shuffled past.

Anna reached the threshold of the spare room and flicked a paint-gummed light switch. A small space came brightly into view. Despite being called a bedroom, there was no bed actually in it. Instead, there was a large desk that sat on the far wall, flanked by a few cardboard boxes and a large trunk.

Anna opened the trunk first. It swung open with a groan and thudded solidly against the backside of the piece. Inside was a cold musty odor and an assortment of clothes—tattered baseball caps with logos that didn’t have anything to do with baseball, a tan and scratchy woollen sweater, a blue scarf or shawl-looking thing that was surprisingly soft to the touch, a red dress, a pair of well-worn jeans. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the collection. Anna guessed her mom had more than these few things. Perhaps someone thought these were special for some reason and set them aside. Or maybe they were accidentally left when everything else was taken.

Under the clothes were some pictures and a small photo album. There was an ornately framed photo from her parents’ wedding and another framed collage of several pictures of her mom as a little girl. A loose one sat by itself, stuck to the cover of the album not by tape but by virtue of time and heat. It was a slightly out-of-focus one of her mom and her dad when they were much younger, in high school or maybe college. Anna held it close to her face and studied it with a furrowed brow. She placed it gently on top of the framed wedding photo and opened the album with a soft stick and creak of the pages.

Anna was greeted by a picture of her infant self. Next were pictures of her wrapped up in things, laying down on things, sitting next to things, standing next to things, or dressed up in things. She was by herself in most of them, joined by her dad or her mom in a few of them, and together with both her parents in none of them. One of them must have been holding the camera or phone or whatever, she guessed.

Anna grew older as she turned the pages. Now she was standing next to the Easter Bunny. Sitting on Santa’s lap. In a swimsuit with swimmies at a pool. Feeding a black dog her ice cream.

Scout, Anna muttered with a soft breath inward.

She scanned every inch of the beloved dog’s face. The way her head was cocked slightly to the side as she reached for the ice cream with her tongue. The way her ears were pinned backward, the way her deep brown eyes focused on the frozen treat. The fact that Scout was in this photo meant she had to be somewhere between four and six. Here, she was probably on the younger end of that—four, maybe five. Her hair was lighter. It was still brown, but was highlighted with streaks of blonde laced throughout.

Turning the page with a sigh, the pictures just stopped. Only blank, slightly yellowed pages followed. Anna turned each one to see if they hid anything else. They didn’t.

She placed the album on the floor and returned her attention to the other things in the box. There were a few cross country trophies, a larger one of which was engraved District Champion. Also scattered about were a few loose medals. There was a silver one that grabbed Anna’s attention. It was strung on a thin maroon and gray ribbon and featured a relief of a girl in running shirt, shoes, and shorts, effortlessly bounding over the ground.

Cool.

Anna took it, clasping it in her right hand as she continued to explore the trunk. At the absolute bottom was an assortment of school papers, drawings, newspaper clippings, postcards, and greeting cards. The stack of newspaper articles was particularly thick. Most were about Anna’s mother winning this or achieving that, but there were others, too. Articles about the town. Articles about the mills. Articles about people getting mad about things. Articles about protests. Articles with names Anna thought she might have heard but couldn’t be sure.

By the time she finished rifling through, Anna had long since placed the medal around her neck. She looked next to the cardboard boxes that sat nearby. The top box was labeled books. Anna didn’t bother pulling it down, but opened it where it was. She untied the strings that kept the lid closed—first one side, then the other—her hands making increasingly large circles as the tie unwound.

Inside, books and their scent filled the small space from top to bottom. Small books wedged in between larger ones. Hardbacks, softcovers, thin ones, big textbook-like ones. She reached for a few. There was a book with a wolf on the cover. There was one about chimpanzees. One that had something to do with the desert. Most of the books seemed to have something to do with science, animals, nature. Her mother had studied biology, Anna thought she remembered from somewhere. These must have been her books from college.

Crap, what time is it?!

A wave of panic struck. Anna had left her phone in her room and didn’t wear a watch. She didn’t think her dad would be home soon, but time had a funny way of going places when you got lost in something. It also had a habit of slipping away unnoticed when you might get caught doing something you shouldn’t. Anna suspected that her current activity might qualify. Her dad didn’t like to talk about her mom, and she never pressed the issue. It would be hard for her dad to ignore it, though, if she was found going through her mother’s things uninvited.

She reached for the medal, still around her neck. She began to lift it over her head, but paused halfway up. She took a deep breath and pulled it back down.

Anna stood up, grabbed the book box by its sturdy handles, and heaved it up with a jerk of her upper body. She turned and shuffled the heavy cardboard thing back down the hallway to her room.

So what if he finds out? she said with a grunt, slowly lowering the box next to her bed.

What does he expect me to do the whole time? she wheezed, straightening her back slowly and deliberately.

At least I’m not on my phone, right?

‘You’re such a good reader,’ he says. ‘Put that phone down and find another book,’ he says. Well, I did find another book. Several, actually. Are you happy?

She paused.

Besides, you didn’t say which books to read or where to find them.

She was comfortable with her reasoning. It also occurred to her that she didn’t particularly care if she was caught.

You didn’t say which ones not to, either.

3

Earlier This Morning

John slipped down the stairs as quietly as he could. All around him was a neighborhood still sleeping. Most cars were still in driveways, most window shades were still drawn. The sun itself was peeking through the haze at a strong angle. It cast long shadows in the direction John now headed. Here and there, a scattering of dew and remnants of yesterday’s rain caught the sunlight and reflected it, adding a glistening sparkle to otherwise tired-looking lawns.

He looked up as if expecting to see someone.

His attention flagged and his steel toe struck a raised corner of a shifted sidewalk. He half-stumbled forward a step. Regaining his stride, he threw the offending slab a look of contempt. He continued on downhill.

What’s the point? he mumbled as he thrust his hands into his pockets.

Heavy footfalls struck the concrete in rhythmic succession. He eyed a piece of glass and adjusted his stride. He struck the errant shard, pulverizing it with his sole into a gritty green dust.

"Like there’s anything they haven’t already tried.

Like we’re just going to go into that room, and magically pull something out of the air to call everyone back to work. John waved his hand at the sky and thrust it right back into his pocket.

He was still alone. It was a strange, eerie peace. He couldn’t remember the works ever being this quiet before. But there they were, looming in front of him, rising up as he descended the hill.

A neighborhood smoke shop was coming up on his left as he continued on. He gritted his teeth and chewed his lip and refused to look at it.

"What’s done is done, right?

Time to move on.

What were they going to do? He couldn’t get that out of his head. Taking care of Anna—keeping things going for her—was the reason behind everything he did all these years. Not weeks, not months. Years.

He reached the end of their street. The road he now faced was usually busy. Today it was not. He crossed at an angle. It made for a shorter trip to the bridge on the opposite side, one street down.

On the far side of the road, he skirted a fence for half a block before coming to the bridge. The river below looked the same. The works that now flanked his left looked the same. But nothing was the same. They never would be again. Sounds were sharper. The smell was lighter, more distant. The air felt cooler, thinner.

John started his way up the bridge, his hand coming out of his pocket again to grip the polished black railing. He was still alone.

"No goodbyes, huh? All this time, and you just leave. Just like that? Boom, gone.

After all I gave you.

There was no response.

She’s right, you know. You never were any good at answering.

An earthy crunch startled John and brought his attention to the underside of his boot. He pulled his other hand from his pocket, bent down, and picked up a small stick with a few yellowed leaves still attached.

He turned the branch over in his hands. He smiled ironically. Holding it just right, it looked like a little raft, complete with tiny rustic sails.

John held the branch out over the railing and let it fall to the river below. It hit the water with a dull slap. He turned and skipped to the other side of the bridge. He gazed over the railing and waited for the craft to come sailing out of the shadows on its way downriver.

4

Last Friday Morning

The broom skipped over the wooden slats with a soft hush Anna could feel in her arms. She paused and looked at her feet. All around her, lines of shiny black dust stood out against the gray-painted boards, marking where her broom had either missed the sky-dirt or simply arranged it into neat little rows. Frustrated, she abandoned the gentle pushes in favor of a big swipe of the whisk-broom to fan the stuff off the front steps. A small cloud arose and the subtle, dry metallic of the dust filled her nose. She coughed twice, then sneezed.

She sniffled and wiped her nose with her upper sleeve, all the while glancing about to see if anyone was watching her. She was old enough to know she wasn’t supposed to do those sorts of things. She was also old enough to not care. Unless, of course, she was caught. But no one was around at the moment.

Except for the big ol’ man in the sky. He was there. Anna could tell he was there without even looking. He was always there.

It was Anna’s job to sweep off the stuff that fell from the sky every day before heading to school. It was an endless battle, Anna and her broom versus the yawning blast furnaces that lived just down the street.

The porch on which she now stood was small and angular, squarish. It was big enough for a few chairs and a few people leaning against a plain but solidly built railing. The paint on the railing was peeling into thick, pointy flakes. The boards on the porch floor were in better condition but still showed signs of age and occasional neglect. A few nails were popping here and there, a few ends rose higher than they should, warped from wayward sun or rain.

I don’t know why I even have to sweep all this. When was the last time we even used this thing?

Anna turned away from the railing.

Why do we even have it, anyway?

At best, the porch was a place you could go if you wanted to be outside while it was raining but not get wet.

Who does that?

There were a few foggy memories of earlier times when the porch was full of people. Anna’s mom, her dad, a few distant relatives who lived nearby, and neighbors from up and down the street would find their way up the three front steps and onto their porch some evenings. That hadn’t been the case for quite a while. Hardly anyone spent time outside anymore unless you had to.

Nobody does that.

Anna glanced over her shoulder and down the street. The houses sat side-by-side in neat, orderly rows, extending downward into the hazy murk a block or two in either direction before the thick clouds consumed them. Not one of the porches had any furniture. She hadn’t noticed that before. The only things these porches seemed to have was sky-dirt and brooms to get rid of it.

Anna shook her head at the absurdity of it, of all the effort to keep things clean, things that no one ever used. She rolled her eyes, rested her own broom against the yellow siding of the house, and started inside.

The screen on the lightweight outer door flapped lazily as she opened it, trailing a good foot or so behind the frame as she swung it aside. The door behind it was stout and sticky, with a handle that felt cold and substantial in her hand.

Come on, I don’t have the energy to deal with you today, Anna grunted as she leaned more forcefully into the door.

With a solid push aided by the meaty part of her shoulder, Anna forced the door open to a darkened interior. She stepped inside and swung the heavy door closed behind her in one fluid movement. A muffled clap came from outside and a metallic scrape came from inside as both doors closed at the same time. Sniffling as she went, she walked briskly through a sparsely furnished living room on her way to the kitchen.

She paused. A heavy silence had filled the room.

The A/C had shut off.

Is it always this quiet?

Glancing at her phone, she counted out the hours of how long her father had already been gone for the day.

At least an hour or two. Or three.

Her father worked at the employee-owned mill down the street. It was one of the biggest in town. Like he had for the last few weeks, he was gone before she woke and would likely be home only after she went to bed. That hadn’t always been the routine—far from it—but it’s what their life looked like for the moment.

It was never like this before, she whispered to herself. What’s so different this time?

The silence grew heavier in response to her question.

And is it always this frickin’ quiet?!

She shook her head, her light brown hair waving gently side to side. For good measure, she rolled her eyes again and huffed quietly at herself as she packed her things. Closing her bag, she took quick stock of the house and prepared to head out. Even from here, she could see the backdoor was closed and locked. That’s all that mattered. The light still blazed in the kitchen and the trash hadn’t been emptied, but both could wait until later.

The pack dangled off her right shoulder as she made her way back toward the front door and pulled the heavy thing open. She toed open the nearly screenless screen door, flipped the lock on the inside of the main, and closed it behind her with a body-lurching tug. She slid away from the screen as it swung closed and was already a step or two on