The Ravine Read online

  In order to motivate herself, she had clipped the drawing out of the newspaper and displayed it on her dresser drawer. She would pick it up and look at it whenever she was tempted to leap on her bike and ride down the block to Mr. Schultz’s store. Schultz’s was a wonderland that contained every comic book or candy bar known to mankind and naturally Joanna was a regular customer. Mrs. Schultz got a kick out of her, so when she was sent on a mission to buy a loaf of bread or a bottle of milk, she would usually emerge with a free licorice stick along with her purchase.

  The fact that she didn’t have a gift for her dad other than the card caused her great anxiety. She knew her father was planning to find a job, and without a pair of work boots, this would probably be impossible. However, he had chuckled the day before when she’d delivered the bad news.

  “Oh, Joanna,” he’d said, “you’re so sweet, but I’ll get the money to buy a pair of shoes soon.” Her father had been touched by his daughter’s sincerity. “And don’t worry about me finding a job. I just heard yesterday that something was going to open up at the Sunoco station in a few weeks.” But Joanna did worry, because her mother worried, and always would say her father had a hard time keeping a job because of his heart condition.

  So that is how she came to be in the backyard, shoveling snow, when the event that would alter her life forever occurred.

  Her dad’s green and white 1956 Chevy Bel Air was safely tucked away in the garage, but it had snowed heavily the night before and there was close to a foot on the ground. Joanna planned to cut two paths from the garage to the driveway, so that when her dad pulled out he would be able to glide down the driveway the Larsons shared with their next-door neighbor and head straight out onto the street. This proved to be harder than it looked. She was exhausted after shoveling only one path not even six feet long, and realized that her wool mittens made it next to impossible to grip the shovel’s handle. So she took a break for a minute to try to figure things out, toying with her breath in the frosty air.

  Mike and Joan Larson rented the apartment on the first floor of a two-family attached building, and the bedrooms were at the rear of the house facing the garage where Joanna now stood. The bedroom her mother and father shared was right above the basement door. Her mother was up already, preparing breakfast, but her father was asleep, and wasn’t expected to rise for another hour or so, which gave Joanna enough time to surprise him with a pristine driveway. She hoped he wouldn’t be awakened by the sound of the shovel scraping the ground and then peek out from behind the curtain and ruin her surprise.

  She was looking at his window and thinking about how pleased he would be, and what a big deal he would make of her handiwork, when suddenly she felt a tingling come over her body. It was almost as if she could feel her father’s presence, but she knew he was still in the house, asleep. Then she noticed a blue haze that appeared to emanate from the top of the window. It quickly grew into the shape of a large, slender bubble that began to dance back and forth as if blown by the wind, while it continued to grow brighter and larger. Finally it broke free of the window and shuttled into the air until it reached the roof line, and then rapidly flew upward through the sky until it became a speck and disappeared into the clouds.

  She dropped the shovel and ran toward her front door and into the house. She was overcome by the certainty that her father had just died. Once she was inside, she shot past her mother who was standing at the kitchen sink and threw open the door to her parents’ bedroom. The room was dark, and she saw her father lying there, his back to her, on his side, his hands folded under his head, facing the window.

  “Daddy! Daddy!” she yelled and began to leap onto the bed.

  Just before her feet left the floor, her mother grabbed her around the waist and harshly whispered “Shush, Jo, let your father sleep. It’s his birthday.” Then she dragged her out and closed the door.

  “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see he’s sleeping?” her mother asked, annoyed.

  “Mom, I know something’s wrong. I saw this big blue balloon come out of the window and go into the sky!”

  “What are you talking about, sweetie? What do you mean about a big balloon?”

  “A big blue balloon! It flew away and took Dad with it!”

  Joanna’s mom squatted down on her haunches and looked into her little girl’s eyes. Joanna had a vivid imagination and often saw strange things and said even stranger things. “Don’t worry. Dad is okay. Just let him sleep a while longer, and we’ll get him up when the waffles are ready.”

  Joanna held vigil in the kitchen, watching her mother make the batter and pour it into the waffle maker, and repeatedly asked after the status, until at last her mother said breakfast was ready. As soon as her mother opened the door to the bedroom, Joanna jumped off the kitchen chair, hit her knees, and prayed with all of her might. She pointed the tips of her fingers straight to heaven as the nuns had taught her, and repeated under her breath, “please God, please God,” over and over.

  The next thing she heard was her mother screaming the words she feared the most. “Oh, my God! Mike, Mike, wake up! Oh, no! He’s all blue!”

  The tradition in that part of Brooklyn at the time was for Roman Catholic families to hold a wake for several days. Joanna thought it was silly that they called it a “wake,” when they knew the person in the casket was not going to wake up. It seemed to her that everyone just sat around and whispered, and left as soon as they could, but the family members stayed throughout the hours the funeral home was open. This became the new normal for Joanna, and she found that she would regularly inspect the floral arrangements and meander over to kneel beside her father as often as possible. She wanted to make certain she did not miss one second that she could look at her dad, even though he really didn’t look like himself. She was filled with dread at the idea that in just a few days they would put him in the ground, and she would never see him again.

  Her dad had treated her like a princess. He had loved to lift her up onto his lap, and tickle her belly or make a silly sound blowing on her neck. Whenever she would come home from school or he would enter the house at the end of the day, he would make his first glimpse of her seem like a celebration. He had always made her feel special, and so she wanted to do something for him—but she couldn’t, and, on top of that, now she never would be able to buy him those work boots, so she felt she had broken her promise. She did the little things she could, such as straightening his tie, pressing down the handkerchief in his suit pocket so it would lie flat, and adjusting the rosary beads in his hands, though they didn’t move at all. This last thing she didn’t like to do because his hands felt so cold and hard. In real life, her dad had hardly ever worn a suit, but here he was, all dressed up in the dark suit he saved for special occasions, such as weddings and christenings.

  Mr. Crook held the front door for Joanna and her mom at the end of the evening, and they heard the click of the locks after he assured Joanna he would take good care of “Mr. Larson” that Saturday night. Joanna thought it was odd that someone would have a name like that, but right there on the sign it said “Crook’s Funeral Home.” So Joanna and her mom held hands and walked home together in silence. The snow had started to melt, but a wind was blowing, and Joanna worried her dad might not be warm enough.

  Her mother was not yet ready to sleep in the bed she had shared with her husband for the last sixteen years, and so she climbed in with Joanna in her little bed, and the two women held each other until they fell asleep.

  That night Joanna dreamed she saw her father walking through a forest, wearing the same dark suit he had on now. He was walking down a path, and kept turning his head and calling to her. But he had to go somewhere, so he kept on walking fast, taking extra big strides. She chased him; sometimes he would disappear behind the trees and sometimes he would briefly reemerge, but he kept walking. She kept chasing him, because she could tell he was saying something important. Then he started pointing to the ground, but she couldn�
��t understand what he was saying because he was too far away. Suddenly she was right next to him. He had to be somewhere soon, so he wasn’t able to stop, but he turned to face her and said, “My feet are so cold; I don’t have any shoes on.” And sure enough, she could see his bare feet kicking up the snow as he walked down the path and around a bend and disappeared. Then she woke up. Since it was almost morning, she went into the kitchen and filled the kettle with water to make some oatmeal for herself and a cup of tea for her mother.

  In a few minutes, her mother called to her from the bedroom. “Joanna, sweetheart, come here. I can’t start this day without a hug from you.”

  Joanna was thinking about telling her mom about her dream when the whistle on the kettle blew. “I’ll get it, Mom.”

  When they sat down to breakfast, Joanna broached the subject.

  “Mom, is Dad wearing shoes? I mean, now, at Mr. Crook’s?”

  “Yes, he is. Don’t worry; I took care of that with Uncle Jim yesterday.”

  “But how do you know for sure?” Joanna wasn’t easily dissuaded, and she was always one to insist, particularly when she knew she was right.

  “Your uncle brought a pair of dress shoes he had at home, and we gave them to Mr. Crook, with a pair of socks. So you see, it’s all been taken care of.”

  “But how do we know he put them on Dad?”

  Her mother reached over and took Joanna’s little hand in hers; she knew what was going on. “I know you’re upset because you were going to buy your dad a new pair of shoes, but he is with God now, and also, we made a point of getting Dad a nice pair of shoes. It really is okay.”

  But Joanna wasn’t convinced, so when they got to the funeral home that morning before the official opening time, she asked Mr. Crook about it.

  Despite his surname, Crook was a kindly old gentleman, who understood how difficult it was for a child to lose a parent. He usually counseled parents not to bring children as young as Joanna to the viewing, but Joan Larson had insisted her daughter attend, and so he wasn’t surprised by the question. It was the type of thing children always asked.

  “Mrs. Larson,” he said, “I wouldn’t normally do this, but I can see that Joanna is very concerned, so perhaps we should just open up the lower part of the casket for a second to reassure her.” Mr. Crook knew things like this could stay with a child for a lifetime, and since it was so simple to show her, they walked over to the casket, and he lifted the lid that covered the bottom portion.

  Much to the amazement of Mr. Crook and Joan Larson, Mike’s bare feet were sticking out of the bottom of his pant legs, white as marble. Mr. Crook, clearly very embarrassed, blushed and then turned angry.

  “I’m very sorry. There must be some mistake. I didn’t er—dress the body . . .” He closed the lid and stormed off, blathering to himself and promising to return with the shoes and socks.

  Joanna began to cry at the sight of her father’s bare feet, and her mother brought her over to the chairs reserved for the family and sat her down. “Joanna, how do you know these things?

  “I don’t know, Mom. I just do.”

  “I guess I’m just going to have to start believing you when you tell me things like this. I’m so sorry I didn’t trust what you said, but it just sounded so . . . so crazy. Then again, it also sounded crazy when you told me Dad was gone, and I just kept on making breakfast.”

  “It’s okay, Mom, you didn’t know. I’m just glad Dad’s feet will be warm.”

  After a few minutes, Mr. Crook returned. He was visibly upset, and was stammering.

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, but apparently, by some mistake, the shoes were thrown out.”

  Joan, who was normally mild-mannered, was incredulous, and stood up to speak to Mr. Crook in a hushed but firm tone. “Mr. Crook, I can’t believe you would not put shoes on my husband in the first place, and then just throw out the shoes we gave you, and not tell me. What are you going to do about it?”

  Mr. Crook took Joan by the arm and led her away from Joanna, who trailed right behind. “Please understand, Mrs. Larson,” he said, looking at his watch, “we are going to open the doors in five minutes. We’ll have to purchase another pair, but with today being Sunday, and the department stores closed all day, and mass scheduled for ten o’clock tomorrow morning, there may not be time. But I will do my best to find another pair, somehow.”

  “Mr. Crook, that’s not good enough. My husband is not leaving here unless he has socks and shoes on!”

  Before he could answer, Joanna spoke up. “I know! I’ll go home and get the shoes Daddy always wore. They might be scuffy, but no one will know, except for us, and they’ll probably be more comfortable anyway.” Somehow there was a logic to this that even the grown-ups could understand. Unbeknownst to Mr. Crook and her mom, Joanna now realized that this was exactly how things were supposed to turn out.

  Unlike today, back then an eleven-year-old child could walk three blocks down a street on a Brooklyn morning, and let herself into her apartment without a parent having to fear a thing, so Joanna was allowed to go on this mission alone.

  “Hurry back, Joanna,” her mom said as she buttoned her coat and gave her a kiss.

  After Joanna reached home, and let herself into the apartment, she hesitated before opening the door to her parents’ bedroom. She took a deep breath and finally forced herself to go in, going immediately to her dad’s closet without looking at the bed. She gasped when she saw his shirts and pants. The first thing she noticed was the brown and white flannel shirt he had been wearing last Thursday night. She held it to her face and basked in his scent; closing her eyes, she felt the rubble of his beard when they kissed for the last time.

  She knew the shoes were on the floor of the closet somewhere, but it was dark, so she groped around among his personal belongings: a stack of magazines and books, a transistor radio, a toolbox, and a box containing the sort of personal miscellaneous memorabilia one collects over a lifetime. She dug through the disarray and eventually her hand landed on the shoes.

  They were as old and worn as she remembered, and so she dragged a kitchen chair over to the closet and reached up on the shelf to retrieve the box that held the shoe polish and rags that were stained black and brown. She sat in the chair and put her hand inside the shoes, and she rubbed and buffed until they looked as good as new. She knew her dad was there with her, and felt his hands on her shoulders the instant she put her hand in his shoe. She didn’t want this time to end, but knew her mother needed her to return, and so when both shoes were finished, she put everything back in order and prepared to leave.

  I guess God really does have a plan, and I don’t have to understand it or agree with it, she thought. She knew her dad was in that room and not really in the box sitting at Crook’s Funeral Home. Before she closed the door, she looked back and broke the silence, saying, “Good-bye, Dad. Don’t worry about me, and don’t worry about Mom, because I’ll always take care of her.”

  That night, after all the visitors were gone, Mr. Crook opened the casket again, and Joanna and her mom watched while he slipped on the socks and shoes.

  “I guess you got to give Dad a pair of shoes after all, honey,” her mom said as they reached their front door. But Joanna already knew that.

  By the time Joanna was ready to go to college, she had grown into a beautiful young woman, with the dark coloring of her father, complemented by the soft features and blonde hair of her mother. She had dated a few high school guys but was a very serious student, as were the majority of the boys who also attended Stuyvesant High School. Almost all of the guys were science geeks, but Joanna was focused on literature, history, and the study of religions. Joanna was one of the first young women to be admitted to Stuyvesant, probably the most prestigious high school in New York City. The courses were very demanding, which suited Joanna’s temperament.

  Her gift to see things and know things was, at times, unsettling. By now, however, it had become a part of her routine. Sometimes it was
very beneficial. When she insisted her mother go to the doctor for a checkup, Joan followed her direction, because by now she had accepted the fact that Joanna had a sixth sense that was very powerful. The doctor said it was fortunate that she had come in for the checkup, because he caught her cancer early, and her doctors were able to successfully treat her.

  When some of her relatives heard the stories about Joanna, they asked her to do things like pick the winning horses at the racetrack or the team that would win the World Series, but she always pretended not to know such things. She knew her gift was special, but it also brought great responsibility.

  One day she was walking from the subway to her apartment in Greenpoint, when she was drawn to a young man walking ahead of her on the street. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was very angry. Angry about what? she thought. Then she heard his mind: I know she’s cheating on me. I’m going to beat the hell out of her as soon as I get home.

  She immediately threw herself on the ground. “Help, mister. Help me!” she cried. He stopped and turned around, and was tempted to keep going, but instead he came over to her.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not. Could you please help me up? Could you walk me to that bench over there?” She pretended to limp and moaned in great pain.

  When they got to the bench, she raised her head and looked him straight in the eye. “Your wife is a good woman. She loves you very much, and she is faithful to you. You shouldn’t hurt her.”

  The man blinked at her. “How did you know . . . ? I don’t get it.” But she had succeeded in slowing him down, and he sat next to her on the bench and thought about what she had said.

  Joanna was used to this sort of reaction by now, and she knew it was better not to try to explain, but simply to help. “Trust me, sir, I know. You’re lucky to have such a good wife. I know you think she is interested in the man who lives in the apartment below you, but she isn’t. You should tell him to leave her alone, and he will. He’ll be afraid of you.”