Never Again (295 hits)
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Submitted by charminglybeef (View user info) at 2006-11-20 18:58:24 EST
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Never, Alaska -- it used to be that we were a part of Woordrow, but that never really sat well with any of us. We were miles away, and not even connected by a single road. Frankly, we didn't want to be. And so one day, one of the locals named Lonnie Thompson built a sign and stuck it up by the lake. It said: 'Never, Alaska. Population 17'. Not that you'd ever see it on a map back then or anything, but that's what we called it: Never, Alaska -- where even the bears are bored.
Me, I'd only winter up here. There would be ten feet of snow and the population would be down to thirteen, on account of Jim Buthe and his family heading south for the colder months. Jim had a wife and a son and a dog -- a great big wolf cross named Dane -- and old Lonnie Thompson, comedian that he was, included that dog in his population tally.
That's the kind of place Never was. And that was how we liked it.
I'll never forget the winter that I came home, all full up and fed up with the heat and the socializing of planting trees in the Okanagan. That's what I'd do every summer -- plant trees in the Okanagan. I'd always remember my homecomings perfect. I was so damned happy to be back where I belonged, you know? And that particular winter, when I saw that sign, I looked upon it with grateful eyes and I said to myself, "The day that signs reads 'twenty' -- that's the day I'm gonna have to find me a new Never".
Some days I almost think that if I hadn't thought that, none of this would have happened. Heck, I even went and asked old Lonnie Thompson if those people'd been here all summer building, just to make certain they hadn't appeared right after I uttered those words. Turns out they had been here all summer alright, and I was mighty sore with Bruce McLellan for selling them the lot right next to mine. In the whole of the big open country they had to set their bags down right next to me. And to make matters worse, they just had to be brown while doing it.
Not that I really had anything against people with darker skin -- I had been to school and I knew all about racism and the like -- it was just that it was bad enough to have people moving in right next door, let alone people who probably didn't own a single checked flannel shirt or understand the code of solitude in the bush. I just knew they'd be knocking at my door.
And sure enough, they were. Not two hours after I got my fire going and the place all warmed up I heard that sourdough rap. "Hello, I hope we're not disturbing you," he said. "We're your new neighbours, the Mohammedis. This is my wife, Nasariya, my daughter Jennifer, and I'm Majid." I'll never forget the way he said it -- like we were on television or something. Let me tell you, that really rusted my axe, that tone of his. But I had to invite them in you see, for as rude as it was for them to come calling like that, it was far ruder for me to leave them standing outside in the cold.
I made up a pot of coffee and we set to talking. It was them mostly, asking me questions about myself -- which was kinda un-Neverly, you know what I mean? It was okay to talk I suppose, and alright to talk about yourself, but personal questions were a bit too far south. And that Majid, well, he was in California if you know what I mean.
"So, do you have any family up here?"
I'd say 'nope' to every question, just like this: 'Nope'.
"Were you born here?"
Nope.
And I kept on answering like that until I started to feel this odd fighting inside of me. It didn't at all agree with me, but after a while I wanted to answer him. I even started to feel like I was being rude if you can imagine that, even though it was clearly them who had intruded -- stomping all over our bush ethics.
Finally it got to the point where Nasariya, she said something like, "well, we're real sorry to have bothered you. It was very nice to meet you though, and we do hope that you'll stop by sometime." There was something real polite and sincere in the way she said it, and well, I practically leaped out of my chair to keep them from leaving:
"No! I'm sorry. I really haven't been too kind. Won't you please stay? It's so nice to have some company out here." Stuff like that.
I couldn't believe I had said those awful things, and I was real embarrassed, but it was all true -- it did suddenly seem real nice to talk to people. I never could admit that normally, and I told them that too.
Well Nasariya thought that was the most honest and sweetest thing she had ever heard, and she didn't hesitate to tell me. That really got my cheeks burning, and after that the conversation got along just fine. We sat there so long that supper passed us right on by and none of us even noticed. Heck we talked about everything, and pretty soon I found out that they had just moved here from Iran, and they learned that I was born in Houston, Texas, and eventually we got to the topic of what brought them here in the first place.
"Our little Jennifer is ill," said Nasariya, "and we were thinking that the fresh mountain air might do her some good."
That set me really looking at the now-famous Jennifer Mohammedi, and she didn't seem at all sickly to me, aside from maybe not talking. She had dark skin and and long black hair and eyes like the most beautiful buck's. They were big and soft and framed up with these enormous lashes and she looked about kindly and smart-like -- I fancied the world to be real beautiful seen through eyes like that.
"Well I most certainly hope it does," I said as sincerely as I could.
I remember kinda waiting for her to say something. Like I knew that she would. But not a word came out. She just let a smile loose, and I swear up and down that roaring fire looked more than a little dim when she did. The girl wouldn't talk, but you could tell there was something mighty kind about her.
It seemed kinda fitting then when Majid told me that Jennifer had cardiomyopathy -- which he explained to be an enlarged heart.
Now I'll admit, the conversation did end shortly after that, but I don't think it had anything to do with the topic. I mean, by the time the Mohammedis left my home the sky was bright with stars and the moon had come and gone. I invited them back any time they wanted and they offered me the same. I'll tell you, when I stood in that doorway, watching them meander through the snow back to their cabin, I really meant to take them up on it.
But after a little while, that feeling just sorta left me. In looking back on it, I almost felt like I was under the influence of a drug or something, and I was kinda disappointed with myself. Like I had forgotten the way that experience had taught me people really were. And so of course when I had the urge to go over there I fought it with everything I had. I even got half way to their door one day when I turned back. I made up a story to explain the tracks in the snow: a good gust of wind blew off my toque and I wandered over to get it.
That made me feel real funny -- making up that story. It made me kinda cynical about my life, you know? It made me wonder what the heck I was doing way out here, trying to get away from people. And that wasn't something I had ever considered. Well, not for a long time, anyway. So you can well imagine the shock I had the day that I went ice-fishing at the lake and ran into most every one of Never's winter residents -- all of them talking the same way.
Bruce McLellan, the guy who used to own most of the land up here, he was blowing about building a little community center where everybody could meet, and maybe adding a general store and maybe even a little bed and breakfast type thing, so other people could come and enjoy the beauty of our little kingdom.
And the weird part was, people were agreeing. I was agreeing. I heard myself say something like, "it sure would be nice to share this place with the world, wouldn't it?" Then I suggested we bring the day's fish over to my house so we could all sit down, families and all, and have a good meal with which to talk it over.
To my knowledge there hadn't ever been a community dinner in Never. Not once. And tell you what -- as the sun got lower over the mountains and it stained our lake a frozen orange, I was starting to remember why. Seemed like everyone else did too, and as we all headed down that path from the lake to our homes, we started backing out. Real slow and awkward-like, like beavers from the dam, tails-first.
Bruce started it all off: "you know, stove exhaust's been leaking a little puff these last few days. Woke up with black snot this morning. Think I might have to take care of that tonight as opposed to the dinner. Dangerous and all, ya know?"
Then Bill: "you know, I ain't feeling so hot. I think I might just take it easy tonight too boys. Sorry."
And Lonnie: "Yeah, I got a bit of the green-apple sprints myself. Might have to take a rainer on this one."
Within a couple short minutes everyone had well-excused themselves from supper, and I'd be lying if I didn't say I was feeling pretty glad about it. But when we started getting closer to home I felt that urge again, and I'm pretty sure the rest of the boys did too. We all knocked off though, not saying so much as a word.
When I got home I hung up my gear and cleaned out those fish and I did a bit of an odd thing: I began cleaning up -- fancying I would have myself some guests. And sure enough, within the hour, there came a knocking on my door. It was Bill Laszweski, and he had on a mighty green face. His wife stood awkwardly behind him.
"I brought my fish over. Figured we might still have dinner, you know? Ain't too often we get the chance, right?" They had even brought over their own place sets.
"That's right, Bill. People should take these chances sometimes," I said, trying to sound bushly about it. We sat down, kinda unsure as to just what to do when that lonesome door of mine knocked again. And again. Pretty soon the fire was popping and the air was filled with the smell of fried fish and the sounds of strange cutlery.
It was the first time I noticed I only had three coat hooks.
After a while, someone spoke up with a question that in hindsight I'm sure was on a lot of people's minds: "Hey what about that new family? They coming?" And of course I had fully expected them to come, but I guess I just figured they'd hear the noise and come on over. In a way, they were the guests of honour, and I assumed they'd naturally find their way. As it turned out though, I had to wander on over and ask them.
Well it was mighty quiet when they first walked in, as I guess we all expected it to be. But soon the greetings were all taken care of and Nasariya and Jennifer were talking and listening to Bruce McLellan's wife and Majid was laughing it up well with Lonnie Thompson. I think I even saw him take a nip of Lonnie's homemade shine.
Well that was a great night for Never, it must be said. It seemed to mark a change in our little town, and I even proposed a toast before dinner to which everyone cheered with gusto: "To new friends, and to a new Never!" We all kinda knew what that really meant, and I was worried I had embarrassed our guests, but they were all smiles and cheers themselves.
Slowly and late into the night our little party dispersed. A person here or there, but no one sneaking out the way I would have expected. It was around the table for handshakes and even hugs, if you can believe that. Sure, there were some queer faces, but everyone did it, and on their own accord.
I woke up around noon that next day, feeling a lot like I do after a good duel with the bottle and some Juneau bar girls, if you know what I mean. But it was more than just liquor or bad deeds that was tugging at me, and I wouldn't find out what it was until I went over to the lake that afternoon.
I walked up, kinda expecting to see everyone chatting you know, but they were all scattered about like they used to be, hunched over their holes and not saying a word. I didn't feel much like greetings myself, but I really wanted to talk to somebody, and so I wandered over to Lonnie and sat myself down. "I'm feeling real low today," I told him. He just nodded slowly, and told me that Jennifer Mohammedi had been taken to hospital in the night.
Lonnie was the last to leave my place after the dinner. Him and I sat around until pretty late, not really saying much, just kinda absorbing the evening and warming our bellies with slow belts of screech before finally passing out. I guess it was on account of that that I didn't hear the chopper come to take Jennifer away.
I went hunting during the days and wrote most of nights that Jennifer was gone -- some real dark and empty stuff. I couldn't tell you what the rest of Never did; I don't think I communicated more than a nod to anyone until the day she came back.
That was a good day, and a real fitting day too -- the sun had barged in and everything sparkled its frozen glory. I know I felt that Jennifer would be coming back that morning, and so maybe old Mother Nature felt it too. All of Never seemed to share the premonition anyway, and I don't think there was a person missing when that bush plane touched down.
She wasn't walking, and so we knew she was still in a bad way. We waved and smiled and tried to give plenty of room. Majid stopped, and everyone asked how she was doing and if there was anything they could do to help. Of course there wasn't really.
"It was cardiac arrest," said Majid. "We used the defibrillator in the cabin and that saved her life." That was all that I saw or heard of the Mohammedis for two whole weeks. Everyone else though I was talking to on a regular basis. The topic: Jennifer Mohammedi.
Well, sorta.
See, everyone was back to feeling social and, well -- well. We were all thinking it, and kinda dancing around it, but it took old Bill Laszweski to actually come out and say it: "there's something about that girl."
Indeed there was, and everyone knew it. By the way that the town came alive and people's eyes shone when she was here, and by the way they both died when she left.
When I finally spoke to Majid again, it was because Jennifer's doctor wanted to come to town and Majid didn't have enough space in his house. That doctor was convinced that there was something special about Jennifer too.
After a big dinner at Bill's house and a bit of the drink, Dr. Frank Pastorious told me about Jennifer's time in his care, and why he decided to come visit:
"I'm really not a spiritual man," he told me. "I've made my life about science and facts and the effective application of both. But this Jennifer Mohammedi -- there is something about her that transcends these disciplines.
"When she was in my care I noticed some odd things -- things that I just couldn't reconcile with fact. I can't really even tell you what they were, but I can tell you I wasn't the only person thinking them. You would hear the whispers all throughout the hospital -- in the staff rooms and the bedrooms and the hallways.
"It wasn't troubling, so much as it was overwhelmingly pleasant. Every day that she was there, I could hardly wait to get back to the hospital. And I can assure you -- while this was a very strange phenomenon in itself, it was nothing compared to what some of my colleagues discovered:
"In the three weeks of Jennifer's hospitalization, discharges rose fifty-seven percent, and admissions dropped to nearly seventy percent below the yearly average.
"It took only three days after her departure for those numbers to return to normal," he said, leaning in real close. "And I'll tell you something else -- when we stopped her heart to install that ICD, I felt it all go away, just like when she left the hospital. So did the other surgeons. So did the whole hospital."
"So, what do you think should be done?" I asked him.
"Whatever it takes to keep her alive," he told me quite tenderly, "and that's what I told the Mohammedis. I told them they should think about moving somewhere that Jennifer would have access to the medical facilities she needs. They don't want to move. Jennifer loves it out here. But they understood what I was saying, and we have come to an agreement."
The next time I talked to Franco Pastorious was a few days after he left. I was telling Lonnie and Bill about what the good doctor had told me -- and not in a gossipy sorta way, you understand -- when Lonnie made a connection that seemed right ridiculous, I agree, but I just couldn't get out of my head.
He said: "So Majid told you she's got an enlarged heart, right? And that's just a way of saying that she's got a big heart, right? And the doctor said that when they stopped her heart he noticed a change, right? So when you think about it like that, it all kinda makes sense don't it?"
Funny thing was, when I told the good doctor he didn't even laugh.
"Jennifer Mohammedi," he said, "the girl with the big heart."
And those were the words that were in my head when I stepped into the Mohammedis' home the night of that big storm. Majid had practically kicked my door down. He told me in a real even tone, "a tree fell on the house. It knocked down some of the roof and it landed on Jennifer."
Now I'm not gonna mince words here, friend -- her head was completely crushed. It didn't really feel as if she were gone though, and so I walked up real slow and put my fingers to her wrist.
"Her heart is still beating," I said, shocked.
"I know," said Majid. "It must be the ICD -- her pacemaker thing."
"Well, what should we do?"
"We need to get some oxygen in there or the tissue will die."
I nodded.
He had me fetch some hose and the bellows from my fireplace. We took turns pumping air into her lungs for all of four hours before the storm cleared enough to get her flown in to Anchorage. That Franco Pastorious was already waiting. He put her on life support, and prepared himself and the heart for the transplant into the machine that sustains it now.
Spring came and Jennifer's heart was still in the hospital. It wasn't like the first time though -- we could still feel it. Stronger every day. Heck, I could even feel it from the Okanagan. Not quite so much, but it was there. When it got back to Never, I think that's the day that we all recognize -- the day that everyone in the world felt it. And so of course, happiness existed for me even in the Okanagan that year. Happiness existed for most everyone everywhere.
And it still does.
But let me tell you, friend -- no matter how many times I go and tell this story, or plant trees, or visit relatives, or feel that warmth and realize that I can find it anywhere -- it passes my lips every time: "It sure is nice to be in Never again."
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