Light Falling Like Water

By Ron McCraw

He used his scope to eliminate the three hundred yards between himself and the picturesque two story cottage; every detail seemingly within arm's reach.

He mused.

Pretty little hideaway...

 

Most people come to the redwoods to reconnect with the beauty and power of nature. Victor came for violence, if necessary. He felt no particular animosity toward the woman in question. She held a Ph.D. in statistics from Stanford and lived with her fifteen-year-old son, Troy, and his domesticated Siberian fox, Reggie. It never crossed Victor's mind how the boy might fare without a mother.

It was simple.

Ghosts don't leave marks or prints...

 

Ghost was not his real name, but neither was Victor. The sky exploded, soaking him to the bone. He shoved the scope in his pocket and moved deeper into the woods.

Suddenly, a shot rang out.

He recoiled.

What the hell?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665559935

Ron McCraw

A survivor of cerebral palsy, Ron McCraw is an award-winning retired educator and counselor. He holds a Bachelor’s Degree in English, Philosophy and Education and a Master’s Degree in Clinical Psychology and Theology. He is a Nationally Certified Trainer for Self Esteem Seminars and The International Network for Families and Children. Father of Andy, Julie and Kelsey, he currently lives in California with his wife, Marti, and his dark red golden retriever service dog, Cody.

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© 2022 Ron McCraw. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the

product of the writer’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance

to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Published by AuthorHouse  05/23/2023

ISBN: 978-1-6655-5994-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-5995-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-5993-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022909186

Print information available on the last page.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

About Falling Like Water

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1   The Mysterious Visitor

Chapter 2   The Fox, the Boy and the Loft

Chapter 3   Persons of Interest

Chapter 4   A Night at Uncle Patrick’s

Chapter 5   Midnight Surprise

Chapter 6   The Super Boys

Chapter 7   Needle in the Forest

Chapter 8   The Late Great World of Edwin Thomas

Chapter 9   The Stuff of Dreams

Chapter 10   Will the Real Paul Welker Please Stand Up?

Chapter 11   A Dangerous Conversation

Chapter 12   Stories and Secrets

Chapter 13   Ghosts in the Box

Chapter 14   Around the Mulberry Bush

Chapter 15   Friends and Family

Chapter 16   No Place Like Home

Chapter 17   Not What They Seem

Chapter 18   A Cobra and a Woman Scorned

Chapter 19   The New Normal

Chapter 20   Arrangements with Yourself

Chapter 21   Whose Party Is This?

Chapter 22   Good Money After Bad

Chapter 23   Close Encounters of the Deadly Kind

Chapter 24   Stranger Than Fiction

Chapter 25   The Mice Will Play

Chapter 26   Dancing on a String

Chapter 27   The Enemy of my Enemy

Chapter 28   A Long Day’s Journey

Chapter 29   All’s Well That Ends

Chapter 30   On Earth as it is in Heaven

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Author Biography

About Falling Like Water

SOFT RAIN… SUNSET haze slipping through the wet trees…

He used his scope to eliminate the three hundred yards between himself and the picturesque two-story cottage, every detail seemingly within arm’s reach.

He mused.

Pretty little hideaway…

Most people come to the redwoods to reconnect with the beauty and power of nature. Victor came for violence, if necessary. He felt no particular animosity toward the woman in question. She held a Ph.D. in statistics from Stanford and lived with her fifteen-year-old son, Troy, and his domesticated Siberian fox, Reggie. It never crossed Victor’s mind how the boy might fare without a mother.

It was simple.

Ghosts don’t leave marks or prints…

Ghost was not his real name, but neither was Victor.

The sky exploded, soaking him to the bone. He shoved the scope in his pocket and moved deeper into the woods.

Suddenly, a shot rang out.

He recoiled.

What the hell?

Acknowledgements

THANKS TO MY wife Marti, my daughter Julie and my son, Andy for encouragement.

Thanks also to a great crew of readers: Vicki Rathbone, Joyce Aston and Dr. Tim Dooley. Thanks for your intrepid feedback on the most ill-bred of all literary beasts: A first draft.

Thanks to Jim Sivesind (a student of mine 50 years ago) for providing valuable feedback.

Thanks also to my good friend/college roommate Bruce Gore for slugging his way through the last working draft with helpful questions and insights. (The thing was still a mess.)

Special thanks to Kim Van Metre for her selfless dedication regarding every aspect of the initial manuscript.

Thanks to my then-seven-year-old granddaughter, Gweny, for inspiring a short story, Troy, the Magic Boy. That story gave me this one.

Thanks to the National Geographic for its issue on the domestication of Siberian foxes. Its cover catapulted me into another world. There he was! Reggie in living color: Fiery vermilion coat, bushy tail, white muzzle and under belly, black legs and feet—and those stunning sapphire-blue eyes.

Thanks to my wonderful, beautiful, sweet twelve-year-old red golden retriever, service dog, Cody, who went to heaven in 2021 and was in my heart every time I wrote about Reggie.

Thanks to digital artist David [e-mail] for his beautiful cover design.

To Reverend Lewis F. Archer, M. Div., Ph.D. (1935-2013)

Professor Emeritus of English, Whitworth University

Mentor and Friend

To Linda McCarthy, Spiritual Director (1939-2016)

For your inspiration

To Dr. Roger Mitchell, Ph.D. (1944-1991)

Mentor and Colleague

Since it is so likely that

children will meet cruel enemies,

let them at least

have heard of brave knights

C.S. Lewis

Joe Jackson: Is this Heaven?

Ray Kinsella: No, it’s Iowa.

Field of Dreams

Chapter 1

The Mysterious Visitor

Victoria Town, California      Forest Lane #1

The Present

GLITTERING THROUGH WET trees, the late afternoon sun fought its way to the dappled forest floor. The big man sat deep in lush vegetation, camouflage melting him into his surroundings. Like the big cats, he was alert, patient and lethal.

The rain held its breath.

Most people come to the redwoods to reconnect with the beauty and power of nature. Victor came for violence, if necessary. He felt no particular animosity toward the woman in question. She held a Ph.D. in statistics from Stanford and lived with her fifteen-year-old son, Troy, and his domesticated Siberian fox, Reggie. It never crossed Victor’s mind how the boy might fare without a mother.

He mused.

Ghosts don’t leave marks or prints…

Ghost was not his real name, but then again, neither was Victor. He used his scope to eliminate the three hundred yards between himself and the picturesque two-story cottage, every detail seemingly within arm’s reach. No sign of the kid or his mother.

Suddenly, the sky exploded, soaking him to the bone. He shoved the scope in his pocket and moved deeper into the woods.

I hate California.

A shot rang out and he froze.

What the hell?

He pulled his scope. Her ’83 Volvo backfired two more times and ground to a halt just west of the woodshed near her front door.

He exhaled.

I’ll be back…

Forty-year-old Erin O’Hara gritted her teeth, wrestled her Calvin Klein blazer into submission and adjusted her matching slacks. Rituals aside, the backfires jolted her. The sky was dark and getting darker, wind swirling and gusting. Her palms were clammy and the old Volvo’s torn headliner sagged with moisture. This was all too familiar.

She closed her eyes and cursed her new flats and that faculty memo.

Dress code? Are you kidding me? We don’t dress for meetings—or much else. This is Humboldt. Everybody looks like a displaced lumberjack… Or some over-eager clerk at REI…

Again, lightning flashed, the sky grumbled and dumped, and the old headliner grudgingly exchanged drops for an anemic stream. Forehead hot, breathing shallow, the professor re-gripped the slick steering wheel. Heart pounding, her jaw locked.

Sweating profusely, she tried to calm herself.

Focus on something specific…

Images swirled… and she could not hold …

Thirty-Two Years Earlier

Another day, another lightning strike…

Ghost-like, her adult-self hovers above the trees and watches. Searchers hunt the forest floor calling her name. She focuses on her small, limp eight-year-old self below: Arms and legs askew, face still, every drop of color drained—her singed sundress no more protection than a paper envelope.

She wonders if the little girl is dead. She sees her grandfather. She can feel his panic.

The old man gathers himself and plays a hunch. Three-hundred yards from his front door, in a dense, old-growth grove, there she lays—a discarded little paper doll—ashen skin, cool to the touch. He kneels and checks: Faint pulse, shallow breathing, bruised forehead, small scratch on her cheek, one shoe tossed aside.

She moans and whimpers but does not respond to his questions.

He lifts carefully and carries her to the house.

Once conscious, the eight-year-old tells Doc Logan, I was in the Fairy Grove… That’s all I remember.

Doc pokes and pushes, asks a pile of questions, counts fingers and toes, listens to her heart, checks her eyes, ears, nose and throat and declares, Good-sized bump on the head, otherwise fine!

The official narrative of that day was as simple as it was inscrutable. A nearby tree took a direct strike and little eight-year-old Erin apparently sustained a glancing blow. The local meteorologist spoke for regional experts: We really don’t know why she survived with no apparent serious injuries. There’s a lot we just don’t know about lightning. Miracle or luck, take your pick.

Grandpa Ethan O’Hara took his pick, alright. Grace of God he called it, and wrote a column in The Star detailing his granddaughter’s rescue. Later, he built an elegant shadow box displaying his editorial alongside a pair of reunited blue and white saddle oxfords. Logger, dairyman and engineer, his editorial read like the work of a scholar.

The Grace of God

My eight-year-old granddaughter recently survived a lightning strike. Was it a miracle, a random event or something else? Scientists don’t traffic in miracles. They deal in facts: Nature is violent, deadly and capricious. The universe is infinite and impersonal—period.

My granddaughter’s survival, they say, is an anomaly. Now, I am no weatherman. I am an engineer, a logger and a dairyman. But, in Nature, I see more than random violence or chaos. I’m no philosopher either, but without order, there is no chaos. Without peace and harmony, there is no violence. So, here’s the point: Order and Harmony are not accidental. 10,000 monkeys typing randomly for 100 years will never produce Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Complex, beautiful things do not just happen. Random selection is NOT random. In fact, when I see Nature, I also see design, and when I see design, I recognize a Designer.

I’m no theologian, but I can read. As I understand Adam and Eve, they represent humanity. In other words, had you and I been in Paradise with the First Couple, we would have done exactly as they did. So, what exactly, did they do? They ate from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil—their only prohibition. They were now the ones to determine good and evil, right and wrong—not God. This was their sin.

Slowly, the crushing awareness of betrayal and guilt descended upon them. They were banished from Paradise and tossed into a brutal, violent world—a world literally created by their disobedience. The Earth was cursed—from weeds, thorns and gopher holes to earthquakes, floods, hurricanes, blizzards, droughts and diseases. Further, they were cursed (as are we) with work, pain, suffering—and the terrifying awareness of self and death.

But God was compassionate and merciful. Of all creation, only Adam & Eve were made in God’s image. They alone are His children. Angels and animals—wonderful as they are—are not His children. So, God extends His Grace to Adam and Eve, a grace they don’t deserve.

Was tossing them out of Paradise punishment? Sure. Was it deserved? Sure. But it was so much more. Think about this. Had God simply left Adam & Eve in Paradise, they might have also eaten from the Tree of Life, thereby cursed to age forever. Instead, He rescued them. Yes, Adam and Eve would struggle and suffer—but they were equipped to survive: They could think, plan and innovate—and they could learn.

What is the image of God which is given only to Adam and Eve (and us)? It’s not life or beauty or strength or choice or cleverness or culture or problem-solving or tool-making—or even family. Those qualities are not unique to humanity. What is unique to us is our awareness that we are caught in time and destined to die—along with an awareness that only God’s Grace sustains us.

So, was my granddaughter’s survival a miracle? Sure, as is every gracious act of God on our behalf. What should our response be today—east of Eden?

Gratefulness… Joy… Awe…

Ethan O’Hara, Grandfather

Ethan O’Hara knew a miracle when he saw one, precisely because he knew the ones that didn’t come. He was well-acquainted with death: No miracle had rescued his wife from the ravages of pancreatic cancer, just as none had saved his son Patrick and daughter-in-law Elise from a fiery auto crash. Furthermore, not only were Patrick and Elise dead, but somehow, an evil parallel universe had mockingly spared their drunken killer.

Thirty-Eight Years Earlier      Coroner’s Office

The place was cold and clean, smelling of chemicals and efficiency. Ethan O’Hara was alone.

Suddenly, a loud speaker blared in his head.

They are dead!

He screamed, They are dead! and his voice jangled off the hard, empty walls. He gritted his teeth, rubbed his eyes and clinched his fists.

This can’t be happening!

But it had indeed happened.

In his youth, Ethan O’Hara had been a big man, 6' 4", 220 lbs. Now, suddenly, he was small.

His mind was a kaleidoscope of terror.

I can’t identify bodies… I can’t…

He started to sweat and hyperventilate. Quietly, the room began to spin and his stomach flipped. He grabbed a wastebasket, lurched forward in a dry heave, retched bitter bile and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

He gulped air.

I gotta get the kids and go home.

As he raised his head, something slugged him in the chest.

Instantly, he sat straight and strong—ambushed by a mindless fury which he found both alien and exhilarating. Suddenly, he saw the world clearly: He would save those two little people waiting in the next room. He set his jaw. Not only would his grandchildren—little Erin and Patrick—survive, they would flourish.

He entertained one other thought that afternoon as he left.

I’m going to kill that son of a bitch drunk driver—and soon.

For the next twenty-three years (until his death of a massive heart attack at age eighty-six) Grandpa Ethan O’Hara was the sole caretaker and guardian of two-year-old Erin and one-year-old Patrick. They became his fourth career, after engineer, dairyman and logger—and he took to the task with abandon—losing himself in every subtlety and detail—and finding his best self along the way.

Fifteen Years Earlier      Red Dog Inn

Grandpa Ethan’s wake was held on the outskirts of town, five miles south of his front door. The Inn was a giant redwood monstrosity trimmed in white: Anchored by a coarse wooden floor and vintage antique windows, it was an awkward combination of clumsy and cozy. Walls once home to bunk beds became booths with soft, gooseneck lighting. Crude wooden tables filled the center. Outside, a ponderous sign profiling a sleek and beautiful retriever hung from the roof on two huge iron hooks.

Only two people spoke at Grandpa Ethan’s wake. The first, twenty-four-year-old blond-haired, blue-eyed Patrick, approached the podium like a hummingbird looking to land. Fumbling in his pockets, he realized he did not have his glasses and squinted at his note cards.

The room held its breath.

Momentarily, he collected himself and surveyed his surroundings. It was a chilly October evening. Suddenly, the foggy windows, gentle twilight and glistening faces reminded him of Christmas.

Hello, he chuckled sheepishly. I’m Patrick… Ethan’s grandson… I guess you all know that… So, thank you for coming. He stared hopelessly at his note cards, set them aside, cleared his throat and picked up speed. I started to say, ‘If my grandfather were here,’ but that’s not quite right. He took a deep breath. My grandpa’s here, right now. He pointed to the casket. Not there. That’s just his body. He paused. Truth is, he’s watching us at this very moment. He’s part of what the Bible calls ‘a great cloud of witnesses.’ His chest tightened. So, if you’ll bear with me, I’d like to start again. I need to tell my grandpa something. He looked skyward. Hey, Grandpa! His arm swept the room. Look! Everybody looks like Christmas!"

Applause exploded.

Startled, young O’Hara blushed, absentmindedly fingering his note cards. We’re here to celebrate my grandpa’s amazing life… And you all know how he loved Christmas.

He settled into the moment, and again set his cards aside.

When I was thirteen, Grandpa and I went to the edge of a distant pasture to rescue a cow. She was stuck half way through a barbed-wire fence and her front legs were in a ditch. He wiped his face. "We fussed and fumed around there for an hour or so with only scrapes and sweat to show for it. Finally, Grandpa grunted, ‘Let’s go!’ and we started for the truck.

Where we goin’? I asked. We can’t just leave her.

‘Son,’ Grandpa spat, ‘Get in the truck. I want to tell you a story…’

Patrick leaned into the lectern. "Folks, as a tribute to my grandfather, I’d like to tell you that same story—and one other. I’ll tell it exactly as my grandpa told it to me… In fact, I’ll do my best to be him. As a kid, this story captivated me. Today, as an FBI Agent, it still fascinates me.

The twenty-four-year-old looked down, took on his grandfather’s persona, looked up and re-engaged the audience.

" ‘Son’ he said, ‘when I was sixteen-years-old (not much older than you are right now), it was my job to haul five calves twenty miles to a big sale. Well, I was late and it was dark—with a hard rain. Couldn’t see the nose in front of my face—but that didn’t matter to me. Once I got on the road, I was determined to make time—and the road was straight with nobody else on it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So, I put that pedal down…

‘At about twenty minutes in, I heard what I thought was an explosion—and the steering wheel nearly jumped outta my hands! I fought it like the devil—an’ in the rearview, I see the back-end is fish-tailin’, sparks everywhere. Tailgate’s flyin’ open—calves flyin’ out, right an’ left! So, I slam on the brakes—tires screamin’. "

Young O’Hara paused for a sip of water, speaking as himself. You folks know my grandpa. Can’t you see fire and lightning in his eyes and hear it in his voice?

The crowd reacted. He smiled and continued as his grandfather.

‘So, I got the truck stopped, but I couldn’t pry my hands off the wheel! They were welded to it. Finally, I tore myself loose an’ ran to the back. I remember thinkin’ God, please help me! ‘An’, that’s when I saw it.’

Saw what?! (I almost screamed.)

Grandpa, heaved big a sigh. ‘The real problem.’

Eyes blazing, young O’Hara punched the audience, Folks, I did a double take! Whaddaya mean, ‘real problem?!’ "

Grandpa mumbled, ‘Tailgate wasn’t latched.’

I gasped. ‘What?! You mean, you didn’t latch the tailgate?!’

The energy drained from Grandpa’s face. ‘No, son, I didn’t.’

What about the calves?

‘Broken legs—all of ’em. ’Cept one… So, I got my rifle… Walked ’bout a quarter mile back… Fired fifteen shots… Warm, thick blood washin’ away on the highway, in the black rain…’

O’Hara took another sip of water and spoke again as himself. That line, ‘Warm blood washin’ away in the black rain,’—that shook me… But what followed hit me twice as hard.

"Grandpa said, ‘I remember the smell that night. Hot and raw and wet. Like a slaughter house after they hose it down at the end of the day… It smells like blood an’ sweat an’ death. After the last shot, I turned away and threw up.’

"Grandpa’s voice went weak and low. ‘All of a sudden, there was nothin’ but hard, black rain everywhere… So, I sat in the road an’ leaned against the runnin’ board… An’ I didn’t know what to do… I was hot and cold all over. I was lost. I couldn’t pull the cows to the side. I couldn’t reload the bodies. Each one weighed at least three-hundred pounds—an’ I had no idea how to find the lone survivor…

‘So,’ he sighed, ‘I just sat. An’ I asked God, could He just this once do a miracle for me. Could He please just let me die—an’ let the cows live? After a while, (I don’t know how long) out of nowhere, a man is standin’ right in front of me. Close enough to touch.’

"I jumped. ‘What?!’

"Grandpa’s energy picked up. ‘You got that right! I nearly jumped out of my skin! Suddenly, this fella outta nowhere, is askin’ if he can help! Well, he didn’t have to ask twice… There was no moonlight in the rain, but somehow, I could see him. He was a big man. Solid and strong. Big beard, rough hands, bright eyes, rugged face. We worked a long time, lifting an’ loading… Rain never stopped the whole time, an’ neither did he. We were soaked to the bone. Truth is, he did most of it. I was very little help. I have no idea how he did it. Still, the whole time we were workin’, he never mentioned the tailgate.’

I asked, ‘What about the runaway?’

" ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we hunted her. An’ after a bit, the stranger, he walked right up to ’er. An’ like a puppy, she follows ’im… Walkin’ her back, I mentioned the latch on the tailgate an’ how sorry I was.’

" ‘The stranger said, ‘That’s why Jesus came.’

" ‘When we got to the truck, the survivor got in. Why she didn’t break her legs, I’ll never know. But she walked in like it was church. So, I closed the tailgate an’ studied the latch. An’ when I looked up, the stranger was gone… Never saw a car. Never heard one… So, after a minute or so, I set the latch.’

"I yelped, ‘He can’t just disappear! Who was he?! Where’d he go?!’

Grandpa reset his cap. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘I’ve thought an’ thought about this. An’ here’s what I think: Sometimes, when it gets real hard, as hard as death… An angel comes.’

The audience was hushed.

Patrick drew the moment out… My grandpa told me, ‘Angels are messengers from God. They are teachers, guardians and warriors.’ The grandson wiped his face. One thing I know for sure, and my sister and I can tell you firsthand. When it gets real hard, sometimes an angel really does come…

Bless you, Grandpa.

Again, the old bunkhouse erupted.

Someone yelled, What happened to the cow in the ditch?

Patrick beamed. At the barn, my grandfather waved two of our guys over and they jumped in the back. As we headed to the pasture, he grinned at me and said, ‘Sometimes, you gotta rent an angel or two!’ With those guys helping, we got her out in no time.

More applause.

Patrick took a breath. "Folks, I’ve got one more story. This one begins late one spring morning after a light rain. Grandpa and I were loading the truck. (TMR, 100 lb. sacks) and he told me he’d seen heaven the night before—in a dream. He said it was so was so real he wondered if here and now wasn’t a dream—and the dream the real thing.

"I asked, ‘So, what’s it like?’ He opened his arms wide, spun full circle, and said (in a big voice), ‘Exactly like this! Everything alive and fresh… Perfect colors… Everything complete… Pretty horses in the forest… Light falling like water…’

I grinned. ‘Anything surprise you? I mean, about heaven.

He paused for a moment. ‘Yeah’, he said, ‘I met the perfect me.’

Young O’Hara’s eyes flashed. Folks, right now, my grandpa is living that dream. He’s perfect in every way. Like he said, ‘Pretty horses in the forest… Light falling like water…’ In fact, if we could see my grandpa right now, we’d be amazed. Why? Let me paraphrase Christian philosopher, C.S. Lewis: If we were to see the most unattractive Christian we know in his or her glorified state here on earth, he or she would be so stunningly beautiful we would be tempted to worship them.

He surveyed the old bunkhouse. Well folks, that’s my grandpa today…

It was quiet.

Again, the grandson looked skyward. Bless you, Grandpa… And don’t have all the fun before we get there!

Once more, the room erupted.

The last speaker, Ethan O’Hara’s best friend, rickety old Carney, took his time reaching the front. Drink in hand, he grabbed a wooden chair, adjusted his tattered tweed cap and saluted. Light shimmering, the crowd effusive, he took his seat, carefully. Once the noise subsided, he spoke mostly to Erin and Patrick.

He began easily. Your grandfather was a great man, a good man. Better and stronger than me or most in this room. An’ he raised you right. An’ he shouldn’t be gone. But he is. The old man threw back his drink. Trouble is… He wore his hate like invisible clothes. You didn’t see it. But we all did… and still we couldn’t say nothin’.

There was a long, awkward pause.

It’s done, so I’ll say it now. I’m glad he’s finally shut of it, but I don’t think he ever understood it. Truth is, I wasn’t no help. More I think about it, he kept that hate like a pet.

Patrick kept eye-contact, but his sister focused on the casket, brass handles so bright they hurt her eyes. The old man took a short, shaggy breath followed by second and third drinks.

The crowd waited.

The old man wiped his mouth on his sleeve. That hate drained the life from your grandfather, but he never let it touch you. And you two is the only reason he stayed long as he did. You two is the best thing ever happened to ’im an’ he knew it.

Carney refilled his empty glass and again and let the moment stretch.

Then, suddenly, with a wink from his watery blue eyes, he stood and raised his glass, amber liquid gleaming. "To Ethan O’Hara, the best friend a man ever had:

May your glass be ever full.

May the roof over your head be always strong.

And may you be in heaven

a full half hour before the devil knows you’re gone!

#1 Forest Lane      The Day After

Erin was quietly thrilled (on her second day back) to be cross-legged and comfortable on Grandpa’s big blue and green braided oval rug, protector of his beautiful hardwood floor. Fuzzy, late morning sunshine poured through messy window panes and she admired her baby’s curly red hair and green-eyes. She felt safe. She studied the shadow box with its editorial and oxfords.

She raised her paper cup. To Grandpa!

The baby cooed and reached for her.

She lifted him.

Sorry you two never got to know one another…

Erin O’Hara’s History

Erin had always been smart and an easy kid for her grandpa. She entered high school at thirteen and graduated at fifteen. She stayed three years only because she wanted to run cross country. At 5' 10 140 lbs., she was long and fast and self-conscious. She would sometimes stare bullets through her full-length mirror. Her best friend, Calley, was 5'6 150 lbs. and all curves.

She turned sideways.

No wonder they call us ‘Brainiac and Boobiac.’

Of the million students who take the SAT each year, she was one of twenty to post a perfect score of 2400. At sixteen, she left home for Stanford, taking Grandpa’s shadow box with her. She completed her BA in mathematics at twenty, her MS in statistics at twenty-two and her Ph.D. at twenty-five, graduating summa cum laude. Two months later, she gave birth to her son and left his father, a skirt-chasing cheat.

One month later, she got the call from old Carney and made plans to return home immediately. So, courtesy of his only granddaughter, Ethan O’Hara’s shadow box once again held court at # 1 Forest Lane. After nine years, Erin O’Hara was back. Newly-graduated, mothered and divorced, she was also a newly-minted Assistant Professor of Statistics at Humboldt State University. She had hoped for the Stanford job, and even though most folks in the Math Department were supportive, she knew all along her chances were slim and none.

# 1 Forest Lane      Present Day

The late-afternoon thunder cracked a third time. Wind gusted, rain poured, the spell broke and Associate Professor O’Hara released her death-grip on the steering wheel.

Thirty-two years after the Fairy Grove, and it never gets easier…

While her memory of the lightning strike was blank—for which she was eternally grateful—her recollection of its after-effects was as real as right now.

Cloudy thinking, ears ringing… Phantom aches and pains… Weak and wobbly for weeks…

She glanced at her pale image in the windshield.

That’s me alright, the floating ghost…

She turned the ignition and the old Volvo’s tailpipe exploded. Startled, she steeled herself and stared bullets at the hood. Her skin was cool and moist. Her head was hot.

Out of nowhere, another bright flash, another deafening boom…

She shuddered and gritted her teeth.

Someday, one of these damn things is gonna kill me…

As if on cue, the sky ripped open, delivering yet another deluge of fire and rain.

O’Hara closed her eyes and concentrated on deep breathing:

Focus on a specific object… Pat says it’s PTSD… (Pain in the ass is more like it.)

The Volvo was getting pummeled. Suddenly, a blob of water plopped right between her eyes. She squinted at her weary headliner, shoved an elbow into the cranky driver’s door and swiveled away from the steering wheel.

Gotta get outta here right now!

She set her stiff shiny shoes on the muddy gravel, held her briefcase above her head and made a break for the front door. Her lavender jacket billowed violently, her once-crisp blouse immediately soaked and clinging. The wind doubled down and the sky grumbled. She dropped the briefcase to her side and fought her way up the ancient wooden steps. After one hundred and fifty years, Forest Lane was still more cabin than house.

She snagged her jacket on the railing and winced.

I love this place, but sometimes…

Teeth chattering, she set her briefcase on the porch, stuffed her key in the lock and gave the knob a twist. It wiggled, but held. The wind swirled and snatched at her jacket.

She pushed a fistful of wet, curly, red hair away from her green eyes and bellowed, Troy! Are you there? She banged on the door. Troy!

A great gust staggered her. She lost a shoe, righted herself and reached for it. At once, a silver flash lit up the yard and took her breath away. She counted to one, absorbed the thunder and stepped into her shoe. Instantly, a shimmering darkness swallowed her.

She shivered.

Where is that boy?

She peered in the multi-paned window. Perched high atop the couch, Reggie, Troy’s beautiful, domesticated Siberian fox, cocked his head. The rain-splatter on the window created a stunning Monet water color: White muzzle and underbelly, black legs, feet, ears and nose, fiery vermillion coat, bushy grey tail—and those stunning sapphire-blue eyes—piercing, abstract, relentless, mesmerizing.

Locking eyes with Reggie was risky at best. After all, he belonged to the boy, not her.

She tapped on the window and made gentle eye contact. Reggie, get Troy.

The beautiful fox did not move.

She waved both arms and pointed to the stairs. Reggie!

The sapphire eyes lingered half a beat and hit the stairs in a blur.

Chapter 2

The Fox, the Boy and the Loft

THE LITTLE FOX nudged the door and slipped in, adjusting easily to the dark. The vaulted, open-beam ceiling made up for the small floor space—a trade the boy was happy to make. Fifteen-year-old Troy called this place, The Eyrie. Everyone else called it, The Loft: No posters, pictures or banners, only clear-stained redwood. The north wall—all glass—was anchored by a window seat. In that massive glass the boy saw a hundred futures for himself: Each one brighter than the last…

Once inside, the fox quietly acknowledged the computer’s blue sentry light and moved softly, sorting through the visual noise—clothes, shoes, books, magazines, weights, football and baseball paraphernalia, iPod, cell phone.

More on sight than smell, he headed for the boy.

Blue-grey lightning illuminated a twisted pile of covers and a dangling arm. Delicately, the little fox nosed his way into a mouthful of sleeve and pulled. The flickering lightning created a flip-book effect of herky-jerky, cartoon-like images. Still neither the covers nor the sleeve moved. The little fox put his whole body into it. Again, nothing moved. Then, suddenly, while readjusting his grip, the little guy lost control and the arm dropped with a thud. Stumped, he stepped back and waited. The boy merely groaned, turned face-up and cork-screwed himself in tighter.

Suddenly, another silver flash illuminated the dark room. In that moment, the fox leapt effortlessly and landed cat-like on the boy’s chest, causing the kid to sit bolt upright, knocking his pet aside.

Reg!? He gasped, Sorry! You okay?! He rubbed his eyes. What’s wrong, buddy?

The fox sat, focused.

Again, the sky flashed and Mother Nature again belted the North wall with wind and rain. The boy listened for thunder. Instead, he heard pounding on the front door. Immediately up and off, fox at his side, he reached the window seat and squinted. Below, open car door to her left, stood his soggy, wind-blown mother. Instantly, Troy was into his jacket and down the stairs. In one fluid motion, he opened the door and pulled his mom inside.

Before she could speak, he yelled, Car door! and tore into the wind and rain.

The fox followed.

Professor O’Hara closed the door, set her briefcase down and went straight to damage control. She would dry out, her clothing would dry-clean, and her jacket would mend. So, shoes in hand, she left a trail of wet prints. Up the narrow stairs at the end of a narrow hallway, she reached the small shower off her cramped bedroom, turned on the icy water and undressed. In moments, steam filled the small enclosure. As she stepped inside, her need to hurry vanished. She glanced at the shadowed sleek figure in the frosted glass and smiled.

Downstairs, the front door slammed. She stopped the water, toweled off and entered her bedroom. Her son was yelling.

The wrong key… What?

She stuck her wet head into the hallway and for the millionth time in recent memory, delivered the I Can’t Hear You When I Am In Another Room speech, pulled herself