Someday Over Yonder--Chapters 5 & 6

5

Noah’s mother didn’t have a phone, at least not under the names Noah or Elizabeth Wilder. I checked on that early on, I had told Julie Clemens during our phone conversation. Although polite, her tone suggested I committed a terrible blunder. She couldn’t understand why I hadn’t followed Noah home one evening. The thought occurred to me the night we made our lists. I mistakenly presumed that Noah would return with his answer and everything would work itself out. I did have a plan. I did.

My benevolent afterthought would change nothing, like the presentation of a flag to the grieving loved one of a fallen soldier. I was extremely apprehensive about Julie’s pending visit, like dreading bad news from the mailman. A story I had read at the Laundromat came to mind. It was in a Zen collection that the cleaning lady kept at her station.

It seems a recent convert was working in the garden of a monastery. The Headmaster appeared in the courtyard and surveyed the grounds. The exuberant monk-to-be ran to the Headmaster and pleaded, “Master, Master, how can I become like Buddha?”

“What were you doing?” the Headmaster inquired.

“Digging in the garden.”

“Finish the ditch,” the Headmaster replied, and calmly returned to his studies.

First things first! I told myself. This certainly wasn’t the time to lose my newfound gumption. This determination had no effect on my shaggy companion. Hobo’s depression deepened; a whimper was all he would muster. I recalled those sad saucers on our first encounter. I placed snap shots of Noah around the room, hoping to change Hobo’s mood. He greedily swooped one up, spun in a circle, and carried it to Noah’s seat.

I studied the remaining photos: Noah working on the van, Hobo snapping at Noah’s heels, Noah lifting Hobo into the bed of the Stepside. Noah. Hobo. The Stepside. The Stepside! I examined the images carefully; the license plate was obscured in every one. My chest fell. It was late. Tomorrow was another workday. Missing Thursday nearly resulted in my termination. And if the past were any indication, the foreman would harass me several more days at the very least. I rubbed Hobo’s head and picked up a crumpled photo. Eureka! The plate number stood out like an unexpected answer. It must have been how Archimedes felt when he discovered the purity of gold could be determined by measuring the volume of water it displaced.

Monday, I would go to the license bureau. Tuesday, I would visit Noah. Wednesday, Julie Clemens was coming. I had done everything I knew to do. Before I turned out the lights, I admired my imaginary ditch and leaned my imaginary shovel against the chest of drawers. Sounds of emergency vehicles and police sirens rang out in the city; a queer emptiness gnawed inside me. The clash of sensations left my heart lonely.

That Saturday the foreman treated me terribly, and I wondered how he’d been promoted to manage people. He obviously didn’t possess people skills. However, it was common knowledge that when he worked on the assembly line, he posted the all-time record for building containers and maintained a perfect attendance. It struck me (in between his abusive babble), this was the premise of a book I had once read: The Peter Principle. Employees who perform well are eventually promoted to their level of competence, yet any further promotion raises them to a level of incompetence. Not because the position is more difficult, per say, but because the employee doesn’t possess the necessary skills to perform the tasks required. The employee’s skills, which had shone so brightly before, are no longer key to his new position. Once my foreman discovered that he wasn’t up for the new task, he must have felt helpless and out of control. Noah had diagnosed the man’s problem without ever having met him.

Like a Zen master, Noah’s smashed finger pointed directly at me. My incompetence had created Noah’s dilemma. If only I hadn’t taken ill-suited jobs that I didn’t enjoy. If only I hadn’t wallowed in self-pity. If only I had found my true calling, maybe Noah wouldn’t be in this mess. Maybe helping Noah was beyond my capability.

“Maddox!” screamed the foreman, “maybe you should get a job in a bookstore, and leave the real work to real men. Son, you’re falling behind.” I picked up the pace and the day dragged on. I pondered both the life of the foreman and myself. As far as I could tell, the majority of the workers didn’t like him or me. Some of the younger workers even formed an alliance to slow down production. I had no interest in politics and definitely didn’t fit in with them, or for that matter, with the older workers who took pride in their performance. It was only a paycheck to me. Two weeks later, my foreman assaulted the plant manager and security had to escort the disillusioned man out of the building. The pressures of his post had become too heavy for the foreman to bear.

That evening I gave Hobo some much-needed attention. He was in a dismal mood. I put a whole chicken in the oven, one of his favorite dishes. I also searched the mended bookshelf for something involving friendship, principles, and courage. The novel I chose had 945 pages—an epic western I purchased at a yard sale. The story began in a small, desolate Texas town that seemed as barren as my guilty heart, and as sad as it’s own name, Lonesome Dove. I considered what I wanted to say on visitation day.

Noah looked like a mental patient in the blue outfit and slippers. As always, his smile transcended his appearance.

“Hank! I missed ya, Hank. Where’s Hobo?”

“Animals aren’t allowed to visit prisoners.”

“Did ya bring my hat?

“They wouldn’t let me bring it in. Are you OK?

“Well, they don’t have any chocolate milk or movies. And they told me I got in a fight with some policemen.” He lowered his head. “I told ’em I didn’t mean to do it. They asked me all kinds of crazy questions.”

“Did you tell them what your mother told you, about you being sick as a child?”

“I couldn’t tell anybody about her—you know that.” He smiled. “You didn’t tell either, Hank. Look at my slippers! You think I can keep these slippers?”

“I’m not sure. What did they say about you getting out?”

“Looks like they’re gonna let me out if I can live with you. They want to talk to you about it. That’ll be all right, won’t it Hank? I can still go see Momma.”

I smiled, and Noah admired his blue slippers. I knew this was one of those significant moments. The license plate proved to be a dead end: issued to Elizabeth Wilder with a P.O. address. I thought of negotiating with Noah—to find out where his mother lived—but that type of thinking got us in this mess. Maybe I was ill prepared to help Noah. Maybe if I stayed out of it, he would be placed somewhere that could really help him. He’d be better off without me, a part of me kept thinking. I weighed every consideration and examined every angle. I was at a total loss. How could I know what was best? I closed my eyes. A cold, frozen scene appeared before me. Everyone passed me by, everyone except Noah.

“Hank, you want me to see if I can get you a pair of these fine slippers?”

“Don’t worry about that. You tell them you can live with me. We’re family.”

“That’s what I told the lady. She still wants to talk to you.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“I don’t like the clothes, Hank, just the slippers.”

I put my hand on the glass divider, the way I’d seen people do in the movies. Noah’s hand was twice as large as mine. I told him to be good, so he could come home to Hobo and me. Home. It sounded like someone else had spoken, and thought, the word. Considering the dreary Efficiency our home was the first of many changes that lie in store for us.

A young couple in the adjacent cubical gazed at each other through the glass divide. The wiry, sunken-eyed inmate appeared at a loss for words. The woman’s body language expressed an odious air that had stewed a long time, and apt to boil over. She was pregnant. Her face was fixed and her jaw set to one side. I wondered what would come of the unsuspecting life inside her. I wanted to say something, but didn’t know what it would be. I continued down the narrow corridor to find Noah’s caseworker.

Once in the office, I was directed to give an account of my interactions with Noah. Miss Wallace made it clear that nothing less than a full disclosure would do, if Noah were to be released into my custody. I clumsily proceeded to summarize all that had transpired.

The tall, sturdy built caseworker wore a green wool pantsuit, clip-on bone earrings, and little makeup. Wavy brown hair rested on her shoulders—not bobbed short like most women her age. She shuffled through her papers, occasionally issuing a daunting glance in my direction.

“Let me make sure I understand you, Mr. Maddox. You have befriended a homeless man who shows up at your apartment on Wednesdays to eat pizza, and Sundays to go picnicking in the park. And you don’t know anything more about him. Nothing?”

“That’s correct, all except the part about not knowing anything more about him.”

“Explain,” she said, jutting out her chin in restraint.

“I know he loves animals and . . . and he has a tender heart, and a keen insight into human nature. I have greatly benefited from his companionship. Noah has become my best friend, no, we’re family. Yes, family.”

“And you want me to believe that you don’t know where he stays when he leaves your residence?”

“He has places, but he keeps them private. I’ve been trying to persuade him to move in with me.”

“And he’s never mentioned a last name, or a family?”

“Never.”

“If his name is Noah, why does he call himself Herbert Hoover?”

Taken aback, I said the only thing that came to mind. “That’s his nickname.”

She examined her folder one last time, exhaling loudly through her mouth.

“After the completion of his psychological evaluation, the court may place Noah on reporting probation. That would mean monthly visits with a probation officer and a psychiatrist. There would be a thirty-five-dollar fee, per visit, for the duration of his probation.

“How long will that be?”

“That’s up to the judge. Under the provisions of Noah’s probation, I would make periodic, unannounced visits to your home. Would you agree to and be able to fulfill all these conditions?”

“Ye-e-s, yes—Yes I would.”

“A court date will be set and you will be notified. Good day, Mr. Maddox.”

I hated lying. In this case, only time would reveal the soundness of my decision to do so. In everyday situations, lying troubled me. Like saying I was ill to get paid for a sick day. If I wanted to use a sick day as a personal day, knowing full well the possible consequences, so be it. The company knows people do it. Why force people to lie? Why should I have to demean myself? The scenarios are endless in this regard, especially when those in delicate situations are at the mercy of others. Like when prospective foster-parents inquired how often we got sick; we all lied at the orphanage. Kids with health problems were rarely adopted—our medical charts did not lie. Mine was marred with multiple bouts of pneumonia, pleurisy, fungus of the lungs. I was relieved to remove myself from the caseworker’s disparaging presence. I felt like a child under the superintendent’s evil eye; feelings of consternation kept me company all the way home.

Hobo’s changed attitude lifted my dark cloud and his forgiving welcome gave me hope. He seemed to understand that Noah was coming home. I considered the sleeping arrangements. The tiny sofa had been a good deal for twenty dollars (a Goodwill special), but it was uncomfortable to sleep on, especially for a person the size of Noah. A roll-a-way bed was the answer. Yes, a roll-a-way would do nicely.

My positive thoughts deserted me. Every time I visited Noah, my guilt thickened like the constant lump in my throat. They put Noah through every conceivable psychology test; his spirit dimmed. He begged me to do something, confessing he didn’t know how much longer he could take it.

The war in Afghanistan consumed the eleven-o’clock news. I was in no mood to hear reporters catalog the tally of casualties. I clicked the remote, remembering a co-worker saying I shouldn’t complain if I didn’t vote. Having shunned anything to do with politics, I admit that I had never been inside a voting booth. The thought of more orphans shortened my breath.

I slipped on a jacket and stepped outside. The chilly breeze carried a greasy odor and voices from the corner bar. The moon was almost a perfect circle. I wondered how big it looked in Montana and if there was any truth of its mysterious effects when full. There was so much I didn’t understand. So much I had missed: a father and mother, siblings, grandparents, trips to the zoo, music lessons, my own house where friends could visit—scores of things that I could catalog . . .

Aunt Betsy drank vodka, chain-smoked, and breathed with the aid of an oxygen bottle. Her hands were stained with nicotine, her skin ruined from steroids. The center of her eyes—the part that reveals a person’s constitution—had that defeated look, like the children I left behind at the orphanage. I worried she might not recover during one of her choking spells. In a weak, high-pitched voice, which alerted me her strength was wearing thin, my aunt said, “Ginny loved you woith all her heart, Hank. When she lost your daddy, she went down hill fast. Her life was cut so short; it was hardly a year after you were born . . . I was in no position to help. They told me the orphanage would be best. Forgive me. As far as I know, we don't have any relatives. With what little breath was left, she added, “That war in Vietnam destroyed us all.”

Boom!

A long, junky Oldsmobile backfired on its way to the corner bar. When the doors swung open, you could hear the musician’s grief in search of that higher purpose. I turned up my collar and looked for the man in the blue moon. The road ahead will be a bumpy one, at best, I told myself, watching the not-so-jolly giant stumble up the street. I felt like Pip in Great Expectations—unable to see the end of the long journey set before him. I accepted the unfair restrictions a random universe doled out, but not willingly. More like a junkyard dog resigned to his allotted territory. A stray cat rummaged through a garbage can in the alley; the clanging noise caused a hound to bark, and then another. The wind’s stiffness increased . . .

I returned inside and gave Hobo a bath, even though he didn’t need it. He loved jumping in the tub. I dried him off with an orange and blue beach towel inscribed with a Florida Gators logo. I was always on the lookout for items from or about exotic places. I often fantasized of having grapefruit and orange trees in my yard, and never scraping ice off my windshield again. I’d never been outside of Ohio, other than across the river to Kentucky to take a chance on the Super Lotto. Well, I was in Indiana that one time, when I located aunt Betsy. I called her a month after our visit; the voice on the other end of the line told me that Betsy died. The emphysema finally stole her last breath. Her ashes were buried in potter's field.

I picked up the clutter and dusted the high spots. If I had faith in God, I imagined for a moment—while my oversized neighbor banged through his apartment cursing like a sailor—I would pray that Noah, Hobo, and I owned a large yacht and could sail to Key West, Jamaica, and Australia. There we would see exotic animals and eat exotic foods and everyone would like us.

6

My anxiety over Julie Clemens’ visit had been unwarranted. Our meeting was cordial. She apologized and admitted if she’d been in my shoes, she would’ve also been reluctant to confide in a stranger. Julie was surprised by Noah’s diagnosis and hoped to spend time with him as soon as possible. I told her that only after Noah and I reconnected, and he was ready, would I call her. She seemed a bit disappointed and let me know that she would be spending a few days with her mother. And if I needed anything, I shouldn’t hesitate to call. “Anything, anything at all,” was the way she put it. I did call once. I was worried about Noah and needed to hear a friendly voice.

I enjoyed the spring: the smell of cut grass and people milling about cleaning, sorting, and fixing things. One observation that intrigued me was how folks admired their property, as if for the first time. This was how I hoped Noah and I would look at each other that afternoon. The justice system had taken over three weeks to finish Noah’s evaluation. They determined that he was moderately autistic, environmentally retarded, and probably had been indigent for many years. He was given “time served”, put on a year’s probation, and released into my custody. The day we picked up Noah turned out differenly than I planned.

After a giant bundle hug, Hobo performed a series of unfamiliar gyrations and howls and attempted to sit on Noah’s head. I’d never seen the pair funnier or happier. I brought Noah’s hat, which added to the excitement. He’d asked me about it umpteen times. It was after he put it on that I received the unexpected request.

“Hank, I want us to go see my momma, right now. You’re family—shoulda done it already. I’m sorry. It’s just she made me promise to never bring anybody.”

“No reason to be sorry. Everything will be all right.”

“I don’t know,” Noah said strangely. “All those people asking questions made me realize something. Something I always figured, but was afraid for it to be true. Some things Momma says don’t make sense.”

“You didn’t tell them about her, did ya?”

“No, but what those doctors say about me is different than what Momma says. They say I was born this way—you know, not normal. Momma says I was normal when I was born. She says I got sick when I was little. Hank, turn and go out Route 50. Momma lives in Delhi Hills.”

“Doctors don’t know everything,” I declared.

“It’s not just that. Those doctors thought I was just stupid. I did a lot of thinking. I can hardly remember anything other than what Momma has told me. And some things don’t make sense, like how I got my scars. Something ain’t right, but it wouldn’t matter which way it was, like Momma says or like they say. If I’ve been like this since I was little, how did I learn to work on cars so good? Hank, you answer me that.”

“We’ll get it all worked out. Hobo and I love you, and your mother loves you. You want to stop and get a chocolate milk?”

Noah went in a United Dairy Farmer’s, leaving me uncertain about our present course of action. I remember thinking that maybe it wasn’t the right time to face his mother. Confrontation wasn’t my strong suit, and I had no idea what awaited us. First of all, Elizabeth Wilder never reported her son missing—that was strange, very strange. When Noah came out of the store I asked him if he would rather go later, after we talked it over. His mind was made up. I explained that we shouldn’t tell her about the arrest or probation, not just yet, because we couldn’t chance some mishap that might send him back to jail.

“What will we tell her about where I been, Hank?”

“For right now, we’re going to say that you’ve been sick. OK?”

“OK. You’re not afraid, are ya, Hank?”

“I just want what’s best for you.”

“I sure missed chocolate milk and cornbread! Turn up there by the Catholic Church. You’ll have to stay in the van, Hobo. We don’t want to get Momma in trouble. I’ve never brought anybody home before. But we got to do it. Ain’t it right, Hank?”

“Does she know where we live?”

“I told her you and Hobo lived in Cincinnati. It won’t be much longer now.”

I felt an empty sensation, but continued to follow Noah’s direction. We passed taverns on one corner and churches on the other. Noah led us down a narrow street lined with two-story houses. The brick structures had been built in the early 1900’s and were meant to last a lifetime. They all had front porches and good-sized yards.

“Pull in right here,” Noah said, with a sour expression. “Momma don’t like it when the yard looks rough.”

“You’ve been sick, remember?”

Noah nodded, then led me to the front porch and entered without knocking. The foyer had a staircase separating a hallway to the right, which led to the kitchen, and a living room to the left. The sitting room was formal, clean, and filled with outdated furniture. The adjacent dining room had a rear opening that completed the circle to the kitchen. It was from this access that Noah’s mother came, carrying a cup. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, which magnified a slightly oversized nose, and the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes detailed a proud demeanor. She couldn’t have been five foot tall.

“Heaven forbid! Child, where have you been?” She spilled her tea and set the cup on the table. “I’ve worried a year off the little life I have left.”

“I’m sorry, Momma. I’ve been sick. Hank’s been taking care of me. This is Hank right here; Hobo’s out in the van. Remember me telling you about Hobo?”

“Oh yes, an animal of extraordinary intelligence. Hank, what illness has kept my boy down for a month?”

“He had pneumonia, Mrs. Wilder. He’s recovered, although I’m still worried about the headaches. I’m concerned about his health. Noah and I have grown close.”

“He’s home now. I’ll be able to see to his needs. I didn’t hear your father’s truck.”
Noah was visibly shocked; her question may as well have been a slap in the face.

“It’s at my place,” I quickly said. “It needs an alternator. Noah has been too sick to fix it, and I’m useless when it comes to automobiles. I was unable to contact you, so I brought Noah here as soon as he was able. He didn’t want you to worry.”
Her eyes searched his. “I see. I’m sure you’re wondering why I don’t have a phone. Telephonophobia. I have many fears: accidents, medicine, crowded places, strangers, and sunlight, to mention a few. The most severe is neophobia—fear of anything new. So you see Mr. Hank . . .”

“Maddox.”

“So you see Mr. Hank Maddox, I deeply care for my son, but often find myself at a disadvantage. I appreciate your affinity for Noah; however, I’m getting anxious even in the short time you’ve been here. I hate to be rude. Noah must go back with you to repair the truck; this is plain. Can I depend on you not to bring anyone else here?”

“Of course.”

“Momma, if I’ve been this way since I was little, how did I learn to work on cars?’
“Your father taught you. We’ve been over and over this. You just can’t remember. Come straight home after you repair the truck. Do you understand me?”

“Yes Momma.”

“What type of illness did Noah have?”

“Scarlet Fever. He also had a terrible fall when he was a teenager.”

“Was it the fever or the fall that . . .”

“Pl-e-ease, Mr. Maddox. I’m having trouble breathing.”

“Certainly. One more thing—does Noah take any medicine to prevent his episodes?”

She hesitated. Her voice wavered, and then regained its confident air. “Absolutely none,” she said. “They’re brought on by stress; he needs to be here with me. Under no circumstances should you interfere with his medical care, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t discuss our affairs with anyone.

I nodded in the affirmative. She gave Noah a kiss and we made our escape. I wrote down the address and waited to see if she came to the window. It was a sunny day. Not a curtain moved. We pulled out and headed east.

“Your mother isn’t well.”

“Maybe we should’ve told Momma about the jail and all.”

“We can tell her later,” I insisted. “Remember, you’re on probation. Do you have a drivers license?”

“Momma said I was never able to get one. She didn’t let me drive all that much, until she stopped going out of the house all-together.”

“You’re lucky the cops haven’t stopped you.”

“Momma said God would watch out for me.”

“Do you remember your father?”

“I’ve told you before, I don’t remember. He died trying to save a dog when I was in my twenties; pretty sure it was twenties. That’s what momma told me. Hank! I can’t remember where the truck is. What are we gonna do?”

“I’ve thought about that. We’ll drive around the city and look for it; keep your eyes open. Are you sure you don’t remember leaving your mother’s house the day you got arrested?”

“I just remember being worried on account of I had to have an answer for you.”

“Noah, I feel terrible about what happened. I was worried . . .about us. I shouldn’t have tried to force you. Forgive me?”

“Don’t think anymore about it, Hank. We’re family. I’m gonna do my best not to mess up again.”

“That’s smart. We have to get through your probation.”

“We can do it, right Hank?”

“Yeah, we can do it, but we have to be careful. If we don’t do everything right, the court may take you away. It’s important. Do you understand?”

“I won’t mess up again. I promise.”

“All right. Keep a lookout for the truck. You watch to the right and I’ll watch to the left. Keep your eyes peeled.”

“That’s a funny saying, Hank. Keep your eyes peeled.”

“Let me know if you need to stop to take a better look.”

“OK. Me and Hobo got our eyes peeled.”

Noah rubbed Hobo’s ears and everything was right in their world. Hobo sat in Noah’s lap, satisfied, intent on doing his share. Every moment was an adventure; they both stayed focused on the mission. We passed a group of people standing outside the Food Bank, which made me remember the two pones of cornbread I had made in honor of Noah’s homecoming. I decided to head over to Vine Street and give up for the evening. At that very moment, Hobo started barking.

“Hold on, Hank. Hobo sees something.”

I went around the block and slowly made our way back up Liberty Street.

“Right there!” Noah shouted. “In the alley.”

“That’s it,” I said, rubbing Hobo’s head. A red tailgate jutted out from behind the building. We pulled along side it only to be disappointed. It was a Chevy. Noah looked so discouraged. “We’ll find it,” I assured him. “I have cornbread waiting.”

Noah perked up. “Ya hear that Hobo? I’ll eat your share of the onions, don’t you worry about that. You do have your special onions, right Hank?”

“All the way from Georgia.” Noah’s innocence momentarily distracted me from the enormous obstacles that lay ahead. What I had set in motion would run its course; time would not stand still. And to make matters worse, I had this uncanny feeling that someone was following us.

ID: 1373084   (Rated: 13+) Someday Over Yonder--7 , 8 , 9  What is Julie Clemens really about? by Coolhand