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  Copyright © 2022, Patricia Ricketts

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2022

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-64742-326-1

  E-ISBN: 978-1-64742-328-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021918916

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  Interior design by Tabitha lahr

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  PREFACE

  “Hope is being able to see that there is

  light despite all of the darkness.”

  —DESMUND TUTU

  GRIEF is love looking for its source, stumbling in the dark,

  alone and afraid, without a lantern to light the way.

  DEDICATION

  Considering both the vastness of this planet’s beneficence and the finiteness of its precious resources, I dedicate this novel to Lake Michigan, our Mishigami, without whom we could not survive.

  A NIGHT IN THE WOODS

  MARCH 21, 2000

  Kermit gone? Good God Almighty. Mosely Albright keeps thinking, leaning against a tree, feeling his toes going from blue to purple, wondering why in the name of all creation he didn’t wear his boots. Grabbed his tennis shoes so fast to get outta there. Slashed them last summer to give his toes some breathing room. Felt good then. Lord. Not now. More like walking barefoot through the snow.

  But Reverend Pattrick’s call had come in so quick.

  ‘Mosely, you missing that little man from your mission . . . Calvin, is it? One who came with you to the Ecumenical Food Drive last month? Think I saw him running into the Tomlin Forest Preserves off Dundee Rd . . .’

  ‘You mean Kermit? Yeah, he’s gone. You seen him?’

  ‘Well . . . kinda looked like him.’ Reverend Pattrick had gotten to know Kermit in Northbrook at his St. Helen’s parish, while they helped collect food to give away at the mission. They got along just fine.

  And sure enough, Kermit had gone running out after that little nuisance of a dog of his. Troubling business. He knows Kermit knew how to take the train. So it could be him. His mama had versed him on survival skills before she passed: cooking simple foods, using the Metra, washing his clothes, shining his shoes, counting change. Went out with a clear conscience that he’d be all right without her after the cancer would take her to glory. Told Mosely that herself. Good woman.

  So even though Kermit could have made it up to North-brook on his own, why would Kermit think Trixie could have made it up there? A puzzlement, that’s what it was. But some things made sense to Kermit that wouldn’t hold water with anyone else.

  Probably a part of what made him so lovable. Innocent as a six-week-old puppy even though he was over forty years old. And given to conspiracy theories. Liked to imagine bandits lurking behind every parked car, that robbers would snatch your purse as likely as steal your little dog. Probably thinks someone stole Trixie and brought her up to these woods where men on the lam live alongside coyote and deer. Furtive and natural. But how in all of God’s creation would he learn Trixie was up here? That too was a puzzlement. Maybe he just got lost on the train’s route in his worry to find her somewhere close.

  My, how he loves that dog! Like father and daughter, they are. Been his since she was a tiny furball eight years ago. Taught her tricks like a circus performer. You never know what he’ll have her doing next. Sit up, beg, roll over or dance on her hind legs were primary school tricks for that one. Climbing ladders then fetching the right color socks of his—blue, white, or brown—now, there’s a post graduate diploma for you! Trixie actually smiles when she finishes a trick. Even before her treat. Knows she’s good. Little prima donna of a dog.

  Left so fast, Mosely neglected to take his phone, barely threw on a coat as he raced to catch the last train. Lord. What was I thinking? Black man up here in these woods? Even in Y2K, he’s likely to get noticed, maybe even questioned for being in the wrong place, wrong time. Especially at night in this lily-white town.

  Thinking all this as he gets up and stumbles along a path, feeling his way from tree trunk to shrub. Can’t see much of anything in the weak glow of backdoor lights that line the woods. Having to go by instinct and wits. The dark so encompassing in places he loses his courage, experiences momentary terror. His mind goes to catastrophizing: he sees himself tripping on a hole and breaking an ankle, or a cutthroat coming at him with a switchblade, hearing himself moan with its sharp thrust, solar plexus high. ‘Keep me on the path, Lord,’ he whispers. And just like that, his mind gets roped back into a gentler hold on reality.

  And then the calm grows. Soon he’s enjoying the feel of the slow-curving path under his rubbery soles and his breathing comes easier. Doesn’t notice the cold as much. Becomes aware of sounds around him. Barn owls hooting a duet back and forth. A raccoon snapping twigs as it goes. Least, he hopes it’s a raccoon, and not a skunk or gray wolf. Wolves in these parts? Possible. And they’re like him. Travelers. Roamers looking for something they need. Mostly food or a safe place to sleep. Sharing the earth with each other while looking.

  Maybe it’s a good thing he’s here without compass, map, or eyesight to reclaim hope. Must be the reason he’s here. Reclaiming hope, that is. Must be.

  But, oh Lord, fear raises its head again. He swallows hard, keeps old fear at bay by thinking about Kermit. Skittish laugh and cockeyed features. Tiny and innocent as a ten-year-old boy. Mosely chuckles. Loves that little man. Something’s not right in his head, that’s for sure, but everything’s right in his heart. Big as these woods. Gotta find him, gotta help him find Trixie. Although that rascal dog is probably down at Torino’s doing tricks for bits of burger and pretzels, getting fat on praise and laughter from the regulars. And Kermit up here thinking he’s on her trail.

  Good Lord.

  Treading softly. Feeling something he hasn’t experienced in a long time. Is it belief in the soil beneath his feet? Feels good. Smell of dirt coming up through the spring-thaw. Feel of scratchy tree bark coming through his fingertips as he touches trees for balance. Sound of creatures going about their natural business. Natural business. My, how far he has journeyed from that! Remembers something he read a while ago in a Baptist tract: ‘The earth has music for those who listen . . .’ He bends his head, catching the sounds of the woods. Hears a melody like jazz, syncopated by snap and wind, hoot and click—easy and comfortable.

  Suddenly, he raises his head like a dog catching a whiff a fresh meat. Something sharp like wood smoke is up ahead. A dancing glimmer too. He picks his way carefully over rut and root, not wanting to startle whoever it is. Kermit? His heart does a little jump start. Gets close. Sees the outline of a profile in the light of the fire. Hood hanging at the back of his head, arms tucked inside each other, looking off to the side.

  He tsks softly. Not Kermit. But he looks safe enough to question. “Hey, ma
n, you all right? Pretty cold out here . . .” Mosely ventures in a soft voice.

  He turns around quickly. “Who ‘ere?”

  Mosely sees by his rounded features that he’s young, no more than twenty. “No one who’ll do you any harm, son . . .”

  Looks like he might be a black boy, but only part. Reddish hair curls out the top of the hood, skin freckled and fair. He scoots back from the fire, trying to hide his face inside his hoodie. Mosely’s seen this behavior before. Been like that himself.

  “You in trouble, son?” Mosely steps closer to the fire so the young man can see his face, see that he’s not going to harm him.

  He shrugs in response.

  “May I help?” Mosely bends down on one knee, takes a stick and stirs the coals. “I run a mission in Chicago.”

  The boy shrugs again.

  “Don’t feel like talking?” It’s then that Mosely notices the intense way the young man studies his mouth as he speaks.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  He grunts first, then says without pronouncing the J or the S, “James.” Comes out like ‘aim.’

  Mosely points to his ear, then holds out his hands in a question. James nods, pulls back the hood, points to one ear, which has a thick hearing aid plugged into it.

  “You understand me?”

  He nods again.

  “What’re you doing here out in this cold?”

  “Trubba . . .”

  “Where?”

  “I-O.”

  “Trouble?”

  “In Hi-O . . .”

  “Something serious?”

  James rears back, grunts. His eyes look wild, angry. His nostrils flare.

  “Didn’t do something bad, but you got accused . . . right?”

  He nods.

  “Didn’t mean to rile you, James.”

  James settles back, leans against the tree. “Go to schoo n Min-Sote.”

  “We’re a long way from that. How you gonna get all the way up there?”

  “Tray . . .”

  “Train?” James nods again. “Tomorr . . .”

  Mosely thinks for a minute. “Tell you what, James.”

  James leans forward.

  “Come to my mission—City Union Mission down on Fulton Market in the city. You can get warm, have some of Jonah’s good food. Bet I can swing some cash for your ride to Minnesota.” Mosely stops. “You got a last name?”

  James shakes his head wildly.

  “OK . . . OK. Just James then. Come by tomorrow for dinner. Starts at eleven, goes ‘til one.” Mosely takes a ten out of his pocket and hands it to James who accepts it with a subtle nod of his head. “Or, better yet. Come with me later this morning. I’ll be going there soon as I’m finished with my business here in these woods.”

  James takes a stick out of the fire with two hotdogs along its length. He holds it out for Mosely. Looks good. “Thank you, James. Much obliged.” Mosely wets his fingertips and eases it off the stick.

  James works the other one off. They eat in silence in the orangey light of the fire. Porterhouse steak never tasted so good. As he chews, Mosely notes the scrub trees marshaling around century oaks. He studies their massive trunks and muscled branches, which reach upwards in praise of all above. He raises his arm high like theirs and feels a power in the way its muscle lies against the bone. Feels good.

  But soon, a weariness overtakes him, food in his stomach and warmed a bit by the fire. He leans against a slim-trunked tree and enters into a twilight of wakefulness, hearing the snapping of twigs and the scrabble of creatures scampering through his dreams, envisioning Kermit’s return in the hush of the early-morning forest. Loses all sense of place and time.

  When he wakes, the sky is full of the encroaching dawn, but the cold of the forest floor has set up camp inside his bones. He stands up. Feels like torture has been inflicted on his legs and backbone as he slept. Looks around. James is gone, but he can see he’d been there for a few days. Overhead an old tarp is tied at three corners, canopy from the settling cold and early spring rains. A pallet lies underneath it made up of old newspapers. Only ash of the fire remains.

  Mosely realizes his tongue and throat are screaming for drink. By the soft light of growing day, he scrambles in the little camp and rummages through a pile of plastic bottles. Nothing left. He holds onto a scrub tree for balance and stifles a groan. Once steady, he unzips and relieves himself against his sleeping tree, watching his morning water steam as it hits the ground. Too cold for the first day of spring, he thinks. Then looks up, calls out, “Keep Kermit safe, Lord.” He zips up, then adds in a whisper, “. . . and please, please . . . bring me some water.”

  He pushes the embers around to make sure they’re out, then heads towards a thinning spot in the woods. Recrossing the path he walked last night, he can see somebody’s groomed the trail. Probably dogwalkers and hikers, or coyote and deer. No fear now that he can see his way. Getting water, finding Kermit, getting back to the mission are all that’s on his mind.

  He comes to the edge of the woods where the path runs out and the trees thin, the scrub dissolves into tended lawns and wintering garden beds. From the edge of the preserve, he watches a woman on her back deck sweeping like the very devil’s at her back. Thinks he might ask her for some water. But she starts yelling something at her neighbor’s window and he thinks better of it. Can’t be sure if she’s mad at something or just ornery. She turns and goes inside. Can’t ever be too sure about white women.

  House next-door looks better, has a quiet comfort that seems to hang from its eaves. ‘Might as well come inside,’ it seems to say. He walks up to the back door, but before he knocks, he braces himself. “Help me, Lord. All I need is water.”

  BACK DOOR

  7:22 A.M.

  ‘Blasphemy, Maery Margaret—it’s against God’s will!’

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to understand, won’t you, Mamie?’

  Of course, there is no response.

  Mary Em stares at the page of her open journal and it stares right back at her. Nothing comes from nothing, she thinks putting down her pen. She rips out the page and sets it on the table, pats it once and sighs. Killing time until she can head to the train. Killing time. What a laugh!

  She picks up The Trib hoping something will grab her. Her eyes wander to her hand as it holds onto page three. Small, delicate fingers that look like Mamie’s, exposing the history of her life in their topography. She drops The Trib and traces a finger across the vein that writhes up the back of her hand. ‘Like the very snakes that slithered off the Green Isle at the Blessed Padraig’s command,’ Mamie would say as she studied her own hands. Then she’d shake her head and laugh. ‘And me gettin’ closer to the slitherin’ off . . .’ Like it was no big deal.

  She touches the hand again. “Yeah. Me too, Mamie . . .” Then a rush of fear races up her spine as she imagines the lake in front of her until she sees Mamie’s face. ‘Courage, dearie. We can do anything with a bit of sand in the craw.’ Oh, how Mamie had believed in her, always said there was something mighty about her. She’d grab her and hug her hard into her pillowy bosom. ‘Mind, you come from good Irish stock, dearie! Fit as a fiddle and ready to take on the Orangemen!’ That was Mamie—full of faith. And feist.

  Mary Em’s head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton batting. The throbbing in her head increases right behind her eyes. She frowns. A whole bottle of Chardonnay last night while she burned her journals in the fireplace, page by page, so no one would ever see what she had going on inside her head. Except for this one page. She looks at it sitting on the kitchen table. Can’t remember climbing the stairs.

  She shakes her head and picks up the Neighborhood Section. A headline catches her eye: “Recent Rash of Burglaries Plagues Northbrook.” She reads below it: ‘One perpetrator distracts the homeowner at the back door while another comes in the front.’

  What’s the world coming to? she thinks.

  And Mamie answers like she always does. ‘Ah,
the world’s going to hell in the Divil’s own handbasket, that’s what. And all the while the Prince of Darkness’s very minions wallowing behind in his muck.’ The seriousness on Mamie’s face had Mary Em believing too powerfully. So Mamie’d added quick as a start. ‘But some of us dance with the Saints in all their glory, isn’t that the way of it, Maery Margaret Mavourneen? Let’s dance with the naomh . . .’ Mary Em can feel Mamie’s hands as she twirled her around her tiny kitchen singing in her screechy voice. ‘In Dublin’s fair city where the girls are so pretty . . .’ And around and around they went. Ah, Mamie.

  Mary Em takes a sip of coffee, but it’s gone cold. Bitter, like everything else. She looks around the room, her eyes slowing at Petey’s colored pencil portraits. And there they are all in a row as though he’d just drawn them yesterday. “You were pretty good at catching expressions, weren’t you, Petey?” she asks out loud. Hers is first in line, a mild surprise showing in the arch of her eyebrows. ‘Mama, you’re making the just-before look again.’ And she’d quickly lower her brows and try to look solemn, which never worked. Which would make Petey laugh. Which would make her laugh. Unconsciously, a smile crawls across her lips.

  Next is Jack. Ah, Jack. Petey caught his chiseled cheekbones and sparkling eyes. His mouth too, with those lips, all curvy and plump. Which she loved to kiss, to trace with her index finger when they’d lie in bed. Handsome like a movie star he was, looking like some blonde bombshell was going to walk right up and kiss him hard. Did you know about the bombshells, Petey?

  “Well, did you?” She looks up at the ceiling waiting for him to answer for a second. As though he might actually answer. She takes a deep breath and lets her eyes fall on his. ‘I got the curly red hair right, but . . . damn . . . there’s something off in the mouth. Right, Moose?’

  ‘Don’t swear. You’re only twelve.

  ‘OK. I’ll start swearing next year.’ And he had grinned at her.

  ‘It’s an old man’s mouth, Petey. All the wisdom of a Tibetan sage in the curve of your lip.’