The Sunday morning sunshine reflected across a crystal bowl of oranges resting upon our dining room table. The sunshine casted a crowd of dancing sparkles onto the lace table cloth beneath. I sat in the quiet of this morning, peering over the top of my raised coffee cup. The steam formed a wall in front of me but was chased away as I exhaled through my nose. The rich smell of coffee awakened my mind while calming my body in preparation of the morning. I lowered my cup gently onto the oak table catching more of the lost sun rays onto its enamel finish of blue and smiled to myself in my attempt to make as little noise as possible. I have always looked forward to these Sunday moments to cast off the past week and start anew. I whispered quietly as I read the writing of the cup aloud.
“Dad, we are here.”
“World’s Greatest Dad.”
I breathed a heavy sigh of pride as the writing could have said anything on this day, but I chose the cup that I used most often for my Sunday morning start. The window behind me was raised slightly enough to allow an early morning breeze into the room causing a chill as it passed across the back of my neck and into the kitchen. My flannel shirt stilled smelled of smoke from the last time that my father and I burned a large pile of brush behind his house. Mostly imagination and partly desperation, I held tight to the smell this many years from that day. I soaked the aroma into my senses and recalled the countless times that I had stopped Lynn from washing it for fear that the memories would not be as vivid as they are today and might be tomorrow. A single drag from the cigarette I held between my lips produced the crackling sound of dry tobacco leaves in paper burning amidst the orange glow of ash. The smoke traveled downward, heavy on the morning air and across the rim of my coffee cup, mixing with the warm steam while hovering briefly before disappearing into the openness of the kitchen.
My thoughts were not particular at this moment and I tried not to dwell on my lack of sleep and instead forced my focus on the morning duties. Down the hall, Lynn and Doyle prepared slowly for their morning at church as typical as prediction. Lynn would over-sleep just enough to complain that she would not have enough time to curl her hair and dress Doyle without being late, while Doyle would fight eagerly to stay home and spend the morning with his Daddy. His attempts were always overruled as I supported Lynn in her explanation of the importance of going to church regularly; now more than ever. Lynn would ask occasionally for me to join them, but as my father, I felt a relationship with God outside of the church and did not revel in those that longed to place me on a committee. Footsteps thundered down the hallway and into the kitchen as Doyle entered in a rush with his mother two steps behind him.
“Doyle, you get beck here this instant and put your shoes on! We are going to be late for sure if you don’t hurry up!”
“But I want to stay with Daddy today! Please!”
Doyle leaped into my lap causing me to toss my cigarette into the ashtray beside me. With his arms wrapped around my shoulder and his head buried into my chest, he clung tightly. I fought back the urge to argue with Lynn that Doyle could stay with me today and we could lie in the grass of the backyard and count airplanes as they occasionally passed overhead. How I wished that I could do that with him if only for one hour. Instead, I spoke sternly to Doyle, but with a slight grin.
“Doyle, you heard your Mother, now run and get your shoes on for church. If you keep messing around you’re going to be late. Now go!”
Doyle reluctantly acknowledged and hurriedly disappeared down the hall and into the living room to find his shoes. Lynn’s voice was gentle and filled with sugar.
“Do you want to come along to church with us?”
“Not today, Pink, I think I’m going to take a drive out into the country and get away for a little bit. I should be back by the time church is out.”
“Well, you’re welcome to come. It would be nice to go as a family for a change.”
“Maybe next Sunday. I just want to get some quiet time today.”
“Sutter, Pastor Malcolm has been concerned about you. He has been asking about you quite a lot and says he can come out to see you if you need him. He said to remind you that the People’s Church is not a place to hide from the world, but instead a place to find it. Don’t you think that is beautiful? He is such a good preacher, Sutter, would you think about coming sometime?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about church, and Mom, and the way I was raised. I felt so at home in that little church. I felt like I was home and safe when I…”
Lynn’s words were quick and heavy as she ended my sentence for me. Rushing down the hallway, she did not look back.
“Well…o.k. we will be home at noon . If you get hungry there are left-overs from supper in the bottom of the fridge. Gotta go. I love you!”
Lynn’s steps quickened as she questioned Doyle of why he did not have his shoes on his feet. Some shuffling and incoherent dialogue between them and within a moment the house fell silent acknowledged only by the sound of the car starting in the driveway and fading as it drove off into the morning; church-bound. Alone, I sat. Again, I was surrounded by the white noise of silence as my mind shifted to the true purpose of my morning.
I raised my coffee cup for one final taste of the dawn and cleared my throat as I finished the cup’s last swallow. My chair screeched against the floor as I raised and stood before the table searching my pockets for the keys to my truck. Remembering that my keys were placed onto the counter I quickly gathered them into my hand and exited the kitchen door, locking it behind me. The cool morning air felt more brisk without the shelter of the kitchen and the warmth of the coffee cup as I wondered if my flannel shirt alone would be adequate for the cool of dawn. I had not yet fixed the heater of my old truck and regretted putting it off. I approached my truck remembering the seizure one week ago which had resulted in my gift of sight and fear of the people around me. I paused for a moment before placing the key into the door lock and expelled a sigh as I turned it, opening the door in front of me. The worn vinyl seats felt stiff and cold against my legs that were shielded only by my blue jeans as I scooted my body across and placed myself behind the steering wheel. The engine coughed before awakening into a loud roar and churning successfully. I sat inside of the truck watching the morning dew leak down the width of my windshield shaken by the vibration of my unevenly idling engine. Sunlight washed the entire windshield in an orange glow making it impossible to see beyond the dashboard. While waiting for the engine to warm I argued with my conscious to continue on or stay home alone, lie in the backyard grass, and count airplanes as my son would have liked. My journey beckoned me forward and the engine calmed and evened out to a mild hum with an occasional clatter.
I removed a cigarette from a freshly crumpled pack and placed it to my waiting lips and touched a flame to it from the Zippo my Mother had given to me after my father’s death some years ago. Returning the lighter to my shirt pocket and placing the remaining pack onto the seat next to me I inhaled a large amount of smoke and closed my eyes. I opened my eyes, exhaled the smoke into the cab of my truck, and lowered the truck window allowing the smoke to escape. My hands, chilled from the air, grasped the gearshift and engaged the engine to move out of my driveway and onto the gravel road leading away from my house.
I reach into my shirt pocket I removed a tattered rosary; also my fathers before his death, and draped it lovingly around the rear-view mirror as it swayed in rhythm with the movement of the truck. Making my way down the gravel drive, I stopped at the end beside the crooked wooden mailbox leaning away from me as if avoiding my truck. I entered the road and sped forward.
After forty minutes of chain smoking and dialing through the radio, I halted the truck just shy of a passage through some familiar trees that appeared untouched by time. Reaching to the mirror I grasped the crucifix tightly in my fist and tossed my half-finished cigarette out of the open window. I returned my grip to the steering wheel and idled through the passage and into the open field beyond as the interior of the clearing cast my memory back to my child-hood. I had arrived at my destination as I bounced within the cab of my truck while it traveled over the earth that was unchanged by the years that had seemingly ignored it. The shack in the clearing was as I remembered from that day of my youth: that day that forever changed my opinion of good and evil and marked me in my own right to fight for the calling of the Chaser. I wondered fearfully if Balsovoy stilled lived in the run-down shack or if he had packed up and drifted away now that he was free from the duty of containing the evil within his back yard. I stopped the truck within a few feet of the falling down front porch and halted the engine with a turn of the ignition. Breathing a sigh I whispered into the morning air upon exiting the truck cab.
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