|
A lake. A prayer. It’s so lovely to be lovely
in Private.
I decide to look up Farmersburg, but I can’t find any sites of interest. The
population is barely one thousand, and the most remarkable thing about it
seems to be that it’s known for its large number of TV and radio transmitter
towers.
We didn’t choose this place together
.
When I realize it, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
This is a place Finch added without telling me.
234
VIOLET
The last wandering
I’m up and out of the house early the next morning. The closer I get to
Prairieton, the heavier I feel. I have to drive past the Blue Hole to reach
Farmersburg, and I almost turn around and go home because it’s too much
and this is the last place I want to be.
Once I get to Farmersburg, I’m not sure where to go. I drive around and
around this not-very-big place looking for whatever it is Finch wanted me to
see.
I look for anything lovely. I look for anything having to do with praying,
which I assume means a church. I know from the internet there are 133
“places of worship” in this tiny town, but it seems odd that Finch would
choose one for the last wander.
Why should it seem odd? You barely knew him
.
Farmersburg is one of these small and quiet Indiana cities filled with small
and quiet houses and a small and quiet downtown. There are the usual farms
and country roads, and numbered streets. I get nowhere, so I do what I always
do—I stop on Main Street (every place has one) and hunt for somebody who
can help me. Because it’s a Sunday, every shop and restaurant is dark and
closed. I walk up and down, but it’s like a ghost town.
I’m back in the car and driving past every church I find, but none of them
are particularly lovely, and I don’t see any lakes. Finally, I pull into a gas
station, and the boy there—who can’t be much older than me—tells me there
are some lakes up north a ways off US 150.
“Are there any churches out there?”
“At least one or two. But we got some here too.” He smiles a watery smile.
“Thanks.”
I follow his directions to US 150, which takes me away from town. I punch
on the radio, but all I get is country music and static, and I don’t know which
is worse. I listen to the static for a while before turning it off. I spot a Dollar
General on the side of the road and pull over because maybe they’ll be able to
tell me where these lakes are.
A woman works behind the counter. I buy a pack of gum and a water, and I
tell her I’m looking for a lake and a church, someplace lovely. She screws up
235
her mouth as she jabs at the cash register. “Emmanuel Baptist Church is just
up the highway there. They got a lake not far past it. Not a very big one, but I
know there’s one because my kids used to go up there swimming.”
“Is it private?”
“The lake or the church?”
“Either. This place I’m looking for is private.”
“The lake’s off of Private Road, if that’s what you mean.”
My skin starts to prickle. In Finch’s text, “Private” is capitalized.
“Yes. That’s what I mean. How do I get there?”
“Keep heading north up US 150. You’ll pass Emmanuel Baptist on your
right, and you’ll see the lake past that, and then you’ll come to Private Road.
You just turn off, and there it is.”
“Left or right?”
“There’s only one way to turn—right. It’s a short road. AIT Training and
Technology is back in there. You’ll see their sign.”
I thank her and run to the car.
I’m close. I’ll be there soon, and then it will
all be over
—
wandering, Finch, us, everything
. I sit for a few seconds, making
myself breathe so I can focus on every moment. I could wait and save it for
later—whatever it is.
But I won’t because I’m here now and the car is moving, and I’m heading
in that direction, and there’s Emmanuel Baptist Church, sooner than I
expected, and then the lake, and here is the road, and I’m turning down it, and
my palms are damp against the steering wheel, and my skin has gone goose-
pimply, and I realize I’m holding my breath.
I pass the sign for AIT Training and Technology and see it up ahead at the
end of the road, which is already here. I’ve dead-ended, and I roll past AIT
with a sinking feeling because there’s nothing lovely about it, and this can’t
be the place. But if this isn’t the place, then where am I supposed to be?
The car crawls back along Private Road the way I came, and that’s when I
see the bend in the road that I didn’t take, a kind of fork. I follow this now,
and there’s the lake, and then I see the sign:
TAYLOR PRAYER CHAPEL
.
A wooden cross, tall as a man, sits in front of the sign by a few feet, and
behind the cross and the sign is a tiny white chapel with a tiny white steeple. I
can see houses beyond, and the lake to one side, the top of it green with algae.
I turn off the engine and sit for a few minutes. I lose track of how long I’m
there. Did he come here the day he died? Did he come here the day before?
When was he here? How did he find this place?
Then I am out of the car and walking to the chapel, and I can hear my heart
and, somewhere in the distance, the sounds of birds in the trees. The air is
already heavy with summer.
I turn the knob, and the door opens, just like that, and inside the chapel
smells fresh and clean, as if it has been aired out recently. There are only a
236
few pews, because the entire place is smaller than my bedroom, and at the
front a wooden altar with a painting of Jesus and two vases of flowers, two
potted plants, and an open Bible.
The long, narrow windows let in the sunlight, and I sit in one of the pews
and look around, thinking:
What now?
I walk to the altar, and someone has typed up and laminated a history of the
church, which is propped against one of the vases of flowers.
Do'stlaringiz bilan baham: |
