ZooTown #8

*

Speaking very carefully and gently, Father Ward asked, "How did your mother die? If you don't mind me asking, that is."

"Don't mind at all, Father. She died about ten years ago, when you were probably still serving as a chaplain in the Army. Anyway, from what little Dad told me when I got older, Mom was killed by a hit and run driver when she was crossing Main Street, doing some shopping. Guess she checked both ways, careful as could be, and soon as she stepped off the curb, some guy in an old pickup truck came screaming around the corner. Didn't hit her head on, I guess; but clipped her hard enough to smash her face into one of the street lamps. Wasn't enough to kill her outright, but by the time she got to the hospital, wasn't much the doctors could do. Bled too much on her brain, Dad told me. She died a few hours after."

Father Ward breathed in, compassion and sorrow clenching his throat slightly. Any death, even that of a stranger, was unpalatable. "My condolences, son. I imagine it's been very hard for you and your Father. My Dad also lost his mother at a young age. He was never overly emotional about it, but every now and then when he talked about it - especially when I was older - I could hear the longing in his voice. The wish that he could've gotten to know her."

The boy sighed. "Yeah. I get that. I mean, I don't remember much about her at all. I've never even really cried about her. But I've always wondered what she was like. What type of person she was. And, I'm sorry I'll never get to know her.

“Also, growing up in school, when other kids’ Moms sent in cupcakes and things for their birthdays, or showed up at school with those things to surprise them? I never had that. I'm not much of a singer and of course in elementary school you sang in all those concerts whether you wanted to or not, but everyone else's parents or mothers, especially, showed up to watch. I had no one. It didn't make me feel sad, really. Just different. Kinda left out, y'know?"

Father Ward sat forward, and though he felt a deep grieving inside, he forced himself to ask in a neutral tone, "Your father never attended these events?"

"Nah. He wasn't much for concerts and plays and such. Not even the sports I played. He's always too busy preparing for his sermons, or organizing Prayer or Bible Study, or something like that."

"And...do you resent that?"

A pause.

The boy shifted on the cushioned bench. Another sigh, and then, "I dunno. Not really, I guess. He's running a church all by himself. I get that. Plus...I sometimes wonder if maybe he works all the time so he won't think about Mom. It's hard to tell, and I’m totally guessing here because I've obviously never talked to him about this, but I don't think...I don't think Dad's the same guy Mom married."

"Grief has a way of changing a person," Father Ward said, choosing his words carefully. "It can reveal new reserves in one's self, lead to a strengthening of spirit, even wisdom. It can also make one forever wary and afraid of the world, forcing them into seclusion, for fear of getting hurt again. Or, even worse, it can harden one's heart, inure them against feelings and emotions, also for the same reason: A misguided attempt to protect one's self from ever being hurt again."

"Yeah," the shadowed profile on the other side of the grate nodded. "I think that's what happened. I sometimes sneak into Dad's photo albums - he keeps them in his study - when he's not home. Mom looks so alive, so happy, so...what's the word; I heard it in English class the other day and it fit perfect...

“VIBRANT, that's it. I hope this doesn't sound weird, Father...but she looks like the kinda girl I might sorta like. Someone who just wants to grab life and live." A pause, and then in a slightly worried voice, "That doesn't make me a sick weirdo or anything, does it? I'm not saying I think my Mom was hot, or..."

Father Ward chuckled. "Don't worry, son. It's not strange or weird at all, and you're not a 'sicko' either. Actually, that's a very mature realization at your age. Most of us spend our wilding years chasing after people who are the complete opposite of our parents, only to, in the end when we settle down, find ourselves drawn to qualities in potential spouses we recognize as exemplified in our parents. So that's not weird at all."

The young man sighed, laughing. "Well, that's a relief. Still nothing I'd ever tell the guys, though. Would never live that down, let me tell you. The jokes would be endless. And nasty, too."

"If the 'guys' are anything like they were when I was your age, I'm sure." Father Ward paused, a thought occurring to him. "In those early pictures of your parents...what did your Father look like? Again, if you don't mind my asking."

"Not at all, Father." A pause, as if the boy was gathering his thoughts, and then he said, "You know, I don't think my Dad was ever a barrel of laughs. Even in those pictures, his smile was reserved and small. But...there was something in his eyes that matched Mom's. Something alive. Some spark I've never seen as long as I've known him."

"Your mother's death killed something inside of him," Father Ward murmured thoughtfully. "It killed that spark, he never quite recovered, and now he's buried himself in his duties - and, perhaps his war on Halloween and all things pagan - in an effort to insulate himself from his pain."

Silence.

And it came to Father Ward what he'd just blurted out, and he felt a hot flash of shame and worry. "Please forgive me, son. I spoke completely out of turn. I never should've said that, and of course I have no idea what your father has gone through or how he's dealt with such a horrible loss..."

"No. No, it's okay, Father." To Father Ward's great relief, the boy's voice sounded lighter, as if he'd been relieved of a great burden. "I agree with you. In fact...honestly? You took the words right out of my mouth. Said what I've always wanted to say, but have never had the guts to say to anyone. I think you're totally right. Mom's death killed whatever spark there was in Dad, and he's not the same guy. Maybe never will be, ever again." A pause. "Honestly, it's the one thing that's always stopped me from lashing out at him, even when I'm the most pissed. The realization that I have no idea what he's lost."

Several seconds of silence stretched into a minute or two, and Father Ward sat patiently, content to wait. Another minute, and then the boy said, "Thing is, I don't think - even though I don't remember her - Mom would've ever wanted to this for him and me. She would've hated to see him like this. Don't ask me how I know that, I just do. But I can't tell him that, you know. I just can't."

"And your Father's hate of Halloween? May I be so bold as to ask WHEN your Mother died?"

"A week before Halloween, Father."

"One week before Halloween. The same date you heard the strange singing at the stage at Raedker Park."

The boy released a breath. "Yeah, Father.

"Yeah."

*

Yeah, that is weird, isn't it, Father? Me first hearing that strangely familiar singing on the same date my Mom was killed by a hit and run driver. Of course, I didn't realize that right away, or understand what it meant, either, so we'll get to that in a bit.

Anyway, Brian didn't have too much more to say about the amphitheater stage being haunted. Just that over the last ten years, rumor had it that if you hung out there late at night around Halloween, you might hear some girl singing, but nobody would be there. Nobody ever felt too scared or nothing - I certainly didn't feel scared when I'd heard it - it just sounded eerie, especially when you went onto the stage looking for whomever was singing and found nobody.

We talked about other stuff after, on our way to the gas station and back to church, but all the time, Brian's ghost story kept nagging my brain. So maybe I'd heard the Raedeker Park ghost? But what about my dream of those buildings in the woods? Did it mean anything, have some connection to the singing...or was it just my sleeping brain having fun? Again, I chewed the fat with Brian all the way back to church about a whole bunch of stuff, but all the while, down deep, I chewed over that, too.

*

When we got home from church that Sunday night, things were going about as usual. Dad admonished me - in his quiet, even-tempered sort of way - that it was a school night, and though he didn't mind if I read before bed, to make sure I was asleep by nine. He also lectured me lightly, again, about leaving any schoolwork until the last minute. I, of course, was only half-listening, because this was the Sunday night routine. Evening church was over, he was saying "goodnight" and there wasn't anything left to say after that.

I nodded and he nodded back, was turning toward his study, where he spent most his nights (I'm not sure how much my dad sleeps, Father. Sometimes I wake up at midnight and hear his rolling chair squeaking around in his office), when it blurted out of my mouth, without me thinking. "So Brian and I were talking before church. He says people think the amphitheater stage at Raedeker Park is haunted. People hear singing there this time of year, right before Halloween."

Dad stopped.

Didn't move or speak for several seconds, until he finally said softly, his voice raspy, "Foolish superstitions. Ghosts don't exist, son. There are demons which prey on the weak-minded and those lacking faith, and angels, whom - according to Scripture - are bound to work out of sight. That is all. You know better. You should, anyway."

Normally, that would've been it. Like I've been telling you, Father, my dad has this calm, deadening way about him that steals all the fight out of you, even if you're pissed as hell. But I wasn't pissed that night, which was maybe why I didn't give up, for once. "People say they've heard it."

Dad's grave eyes bore into mine. "If there's anything supernatural occurring there," he said, "it would be of Satan. Anyone who has heard singing is either of a hyperactive imagination...or much worse, is the victim of besetting, unclean spirits."

For some reason, I wouldn't let it go. "I heard singing there, Dad. I did. Is that why you don't want me going back?"

Dad stared at me silently, and I think...I think, Father, for the very first time I'd pushed him close to cracking. He looked mad, for just a moment. Hell, Father. He looked...furious.

I continued to push, regardless. "What's happening Halloween night, Dad? Why don't you want me going to the stage at Raedeker Park until after Halloween? What's happening on Halloween?"

A fiery glint flickered in his eyes. There one moment, gone the next. They went cold, and his face went stone, and he stepped closer to me and said in a hard, brittle voice I've never heard before, "There are things you are not meant to experience. You are my son, and you WILL do as you're told. Do you understand?"

The way he said it - in a voice so completely unlike his usual dull, bland voice - knocked the wind right out of my sails. All the fight and snark bled right out of me. I opened my mouth to say something, but really, at that very minute, I couldn't dredge up a single word.

Dad's face softened somewhat, his eyes looking a little gentler. "Guard your heart, son. As God's Word says: 'the heart is deceitful above all things.' Don't be led astray by your whims and imagination. Don't be deceived by your heart, as I was, once. Long ago."

He turned for the hall leading to his study. Something desperate trembled in my gut, and somehow, I managed to blurt out, "Dad. How did Mom die? Really, I mean."

Dad shuffled to a halt. He glanced over his shoulder, but wouldn't meet my gaze. Looking down, he whispered, "She died because I didn't guard my heart. I was led astray by my feelings, and we were both punished because of it.

"Go to bed, son."

And with that, he walked away.