A Bright House

Ray acted blindly. It didn’t add up and he knew it, but could not help but to follow the surging need to pursue a man who bore (from a distance, albeit) a striking resemblance to Delsin the Cree. Even as Ray hurried to get the Buick started, backed out and turned around, his thoughts entered into argument with all that compelled him to chase that truck. He would have to be well into his eighties, or older... what are the chances that I’m going to run into one man out of so many millions, at some nowhere-ville truck stop? Ray skirted the fuel pump area and joined a small line of vehicles that were exiting, his heart jack-hammered, eyes fixed on the Ford F-150 that had already reached the main intersection and lone set of traffic lights.

The man in his truck appeared to be heading in the direction of Ray’s Goderich destination, and as he turned west Ray began to calm down somewhat. The traffic would thin eventually, giving him a chance to catch up. Ray’s timing at the intersection brought him to a green light and he proceeded to turn west on 109. The Ford had gained speed and was a couple of hundred yards distant, with three vehicles between Ray and the man in full native wardrobe. This section of 109 didn’t allow for passing, with a reduced speed limit that had Ray gritting his teeth because it seemed the man in his truck was exceeding it generously. He was stuck behind the cars ahead of him, and when the Ford dipped out of sight on the other side of a hill, Townes fought his rising frustration. There were too many vehicles approaching, though scattered, from the west for him to risk illegally passing. Get a grip, brother. Does everything have to be a sign? Do you have to follow each and every intuition?

Ray reached a crossroads on the far side of a rise that had swallowed up the Ford, and two of the vehicles ahead of him turned left down a narrow dirt road. He sighed, gripping the steering wheel, aware of a light sweat that had broken across his brow. It was hilly countryside and he hadn’t yet regained sight of the truck. Another quarter mile passed before the station wagon ahead of him signaled for a right turn into a long winding driveway, and where Ray considered pulling around the leisurely driver before catching sight of a motorcyclist roaring towards them from the west. Damn it. I’m chasing phantoms. At last, after a time span that couldn’t compete with his elongated perception of it, Ray found himself with a clear highway lane ahead of him; he accelerated above the posted speed limit. He had already begun to feel ridiculous, far out of control. As he searched the horizon ahead, it hit home with a visceral force just how deeply affected he was by the need to solve the mystery of his biological parents, therefore his own life’s puzzle.

The way the magic works... the way of the trickster-revealer, this Universe, is often through angles and deflections. What seems crystal clear becomes the rippling of hints and always some form of choosing. Ray approached a reduced limit zone for a small town called Harriston and in that same instant of easing up on the pedal, caught sight of the distant truck as it continued along highway 109. He sighed with some relief but also considered giving up the pursuit. No way could it be Delsin Shacapot, his blood-father. That was far too glaring, too ham-fisted for such an elegant universe.

Harriston was small and very sleepy on this Monday, and Townes was able to get through it without a single stop. He accelerated anew, past the town limits and with that Ford F-150 within range if he could resume with an empty highway between them. He continued to feel perceptively flat, with no mental pictures arriving during his pursuit of the mystery man; this didn’t bode well for the families of the missing. He could already see the rolling eyes and exasperation of those O.P.P. investigators.

This was a highly unusual tension for Ray Townes, who had learned to relax into and accept the dynamics of his “gift”... he could not read properly for outright skeptics any more than he could provide results when not truly himself. It didn’t take long, perhaps two miles deep into the manure pungent fields that flanked route 109, for Ray to finally gain on the truck. He could see then that the driver had removed his ornate headdress. The next town along would be Clifford. A large billboard proclaimed it as a place for the world’s finest Rhode Island Red eggs, which slightly amused Ray as he passed it by and thought of the many people from that state who would suggest otherwise.

As Clifford came into view in the form of a small main street that flanked 109 by another name for a few blocks, Ray slowed. He was a hundred yards behind the truck, and had a sense that a stop in Clifford was imminent. Sure enough, on the far side of one set of traffic lights, the man indicated his intention to parallel park. Ray noted a row of empty spots in front of the town hall and pulled over and directly into one of them, keeping an eye on the Ford as it was negotiated into a much tighter space adjacent to a general store. He fished around in his jeans for some meter fare, watching the man ahead when he finished parking. He wanted to get another look, even from this distance, and to see where the man was headed. Not a soul on the sidewalks. No other vehicles passing through. It was a perfect afternoon lull.

It was then that Ray began to feel very wrong about following the man. That initial rush to pursue and have a much closer look had diminished during the minutes elapsed. From his truck, the lanky buckskin clad figure emerged, took a brief look down the street to where Townes sat in his rental car, and then headed into the general store. A few parked vehicles obscured Ray’s view, but in profile the man was definitely similar to Delsin Schacapot, though for Ray it seemed more like an internal nudge... an energy push.

With the sigh of one who is acknowledging the futility of a moment, Townes reached for the carry-on bag beside him atop the passenger seat. He unzipped its outer compartment to retrieve the medicine pouch, from which he removed the sweetgrass bound photos of his mother and... Delsin. Ray gave the little pictures a good long look. He attempted to ask “what now?” The clairvoyant part of his mind remained a flatline. With a gentle shove he replaced both portraits, then zipped the bag and left the car before he could change his mind.

Ray’s uneasy feeling increased as he walked along the sidewalk to the general store. It was very unusual for him to experience this type of go-against uncertainty, for his initial reaction had been to see more, yet with each footfall on Clifford’s old main street stroll he wanted to turn back and drive away. The man’s Ford wore Ontario plates, the items in its bed were clearly landscaper tools. Other than a generous crust of dirt road coating, the side panels bore no name or logo. Ray pulled open the general store’s door and stepped into a much darker ambiance that rendered him momentarily impaired. It was a long space of some six aisles, annexed through an open doorway into another retail area that held grocery items; the space where Ray entered was devoted mostly to hardware and assorted household needs. He found his nostrils immediately assailed by the harsh notes of lacquer thinner, heritage building dust, mothballs...

“Hi there” came from a short rotund man of bald head and glorious belt-overhanging belly, who sat behind a very old front counter and cash register, doing a crossword puzzle in what looked to be the local paper. Ray met his flinty gaze but noted the man’s effort to smile seemed genuine, and said “howdy” in return. His eyes readjusted from brilliant outdoor sun into the store’s clutter and shadow. He scanned the immediate view for mister Ford truck, and couldn’t see him anywhere. “Anything in particular I can help you find?” Ray looked back to the prodigiously bellied man and nodded at the grocery side of the store. “Nope. I see what I need, thanks.”

He walked slowly across narrow oak flooring strips that squeaked and groaned, feeling a pair of eyes on his back. Just into the other side of the store, Ray noticed the other man as he reached into a glass-doored shelving unit that contained assorted spring waters and cans of soda. They were a dozen feet apart. The native in ornate fringed buckskin, with beautifully crafted soft moccasins, that thick grey braid to his waist, faced away from Townes for those first seconds. When the man turned back into the room with a bottle of spring water in his hand, Ray estimated that he was well into his sixties, perhaps. He looked directly at Townes with deep chestnut brown eyes and a face that bore a striking similarity to that of Delsin the Cree but not an uncanny one. The two men exchanged that first glance and Ray wondered if his own expressive eyes were revealing anything untoward.

He stepped further into the grocery retail space, three aisles over where potato chips and other snacks lined the shelves; the man he had followed retraced his steps back to the hardware half of the store and its corpulent cash register operator. Damn, do I ever feel foolish. Ray picked out a snack sized bag of pretzels, then proceeded to the back wall’s refrigerated beverages where he selected a bottle of apple juice. He could overhear the other two men exchanging pleasantries about the great weather, and as the customer left he heard “Take it easy, Nelson.”

Jesus... Nelson?... Delsin... tell me the universe isn’t shouting in my ear... laughing in my face

Ray brought his items to the front counter and it was rang up wordlessly at first, before he was asked if he had found everything he was looking for. That brought forth a brief chuckle and Ray’s answer - “Sure did, and even a little more than that.” He politely nodded back at the parting “have a good day, now” and then stepped back out into a bright main street. The man named Nelson was standing against his truck’s passenger door, arms folded, watching Ray as he left the store. Their eyes met for a second time and Nelson spoke up, matter of fact : “You followed me from the truck stop.” Townes began to formulate an answer, probably an admission, when Nelson further said “I saw you in my mirror, running for your car, backing out in a hurry.”

“Yes. True. I saw you and at first I thought you were someone else.”

“A long lost friend?”

“Not exactly, though maybe if things had played out differently...”

“Is the person I resemble a native Indian?”

Ray looked into the man’s deeply weathered, blood-proud features, and silently wondered about the formal First Nation attire. “He is of Cree heritage” Ray told him. The man named Nelson nodded thoughtfully, looking from Ray’s eyes to the battered store sign above. He sighed a little, rubbed his chin for a moment.

“I am of Mohawk descent. Maybe we all look the same to you?"

This carried a sting to Ray’s chest.

“No, no, not at all. I am half Cree -”

“I can see your native blood” Nelson interrupted, softening his tone, glancing at the rune tattoos.

“Where are you from?” Nelson asked quietly. Ray began to feel a deep gulf of sadness within.

“Until recently, I thought I was from Saskatchewan, near Regina...”

“How do you mean?” Nelson straightened up, unfolded his arms to take a deep pull from the spring water, his eyes fixed upon Ray’s. A long heartbeat of silence passed between them before Ray asked “Can I show you something? Down there where I parked?”

“Sure. Then I must be off. Busy hours ahead before the sun goes down.” He indicated the tools in his truck bed and Ray turned to begin walking to the Buick, joined by the taller older man whose energy had softened from suspicion into something almost fatherly. It brought a fresh pang from deep inside, a flurry of raw questions restricted to mind, banned from voice... what would it have meant to know his biological father? To have grown under his guidance and wisdom? What manner of man doesn’t want to know his own child?

The two strangers, one a full-blooded Mohawk and the other a half-Cree, both descendants of peoples whose ties to the land went back tens of thousands of years before they were vanquished and displaced... these two strolled along Clifford’s sleepy Monday sidewalk to the rental car. Nelson stood patiently as Ray unlocked the passenger door to reopen his carry-on bag. He produced the bound together portraits silently, simply extending them to the older man. Ray didn’t know that he could speak at that moment, such were the powerful emotions welling within.

Nelson accepted the bundle carefully, Melinda’s pretty features facing him first. He looked at the photograph and then slowly turned to the other side. Ray watched his face for reaction and saw nothing other than a deepening of softness, perhaps sadness, in the elder’s eyes. “Your parents” he said, once again matter of fact in tone.

“You see the resemblance? Around the mouth, the distinct cheekbones?”

Nelson nodded almost imperceptibly... “Yes. Is he still with you?”

“I never knew him” Ray’s voice seemed to come forth from another dimension. “That picture you are holding was discovered a few days ago hidden beneath a floorboard in my mother’s bedroom.” I want to tell him everything. I need to spill all of it even if it falls on deaf ears, wastes his time, doesn’t make me feel better to speak it. Nelson the Mohawk looked up from the two bundled portraits with squinting eyes. He seemed very able to read the younger man’s emotions but was not in any way uncomfortable with the sudden potent intimacy. He handed the bundle back to Ray without words. He was waiting.

Townes controlled the imbroglio of his tumult. He kept it short and thankful.

“Look, it isn’t your problem and I am sorry for taking up your time. This man is my biological father and I didn’t know it until the other day. He left my mother just before I was born because she was married to the man who raised me... whose name I carry... Townes.” Because the universe likes its echoes, its mirrors, Nelson gave voice to a thought in Ray’s head only moments before.

“What kind of man doesn’t want to know his own child?”

Ray spilled it, perhaps finding safety in the presence of a total stranger. “What kind of mother kills herself, completing the abandonment of that same child?” Nelson’s whole face changed; it then became a much older looking haggard mask. His eyes grew darker. “I’m sorry, son” a word that escaped involuntarily from a place of compassion, twisting its blade in Ray’s guts... “is this why you are in Ontario?”

Townes felt a burning need to empty his tear ducts into the sidewalk cracks of Clifford’s main street. He felt the cold unfamiliar yearning to turn and put his fist through the Buick’s window. He wanted to reclaim in one fell swoop, one bloodcurdling pain yell, all of the years that Delsin had prevented him from knowing. All of the years his mother had been haunted by. He felt cheated, on a spiritual level that cannot be described but only torturously felt.

“Again, I’m sorry to have taken up your time with something this unpleasant. I came here on a job but have been sidetracked by this sudden discovery...” Ray looked down at the sweetgrass duo, the tragic lovers, his parents, then turned back to the passenger seat where he tucked the bundle into its temporary pouch. “Don’t worry about it” Nelson spoke, and on impulse in the free-falling abyss of the moment, Ray produced the large feather. He turned to hold it up erect, thumb and forefingers at the quill. Nelson’s eyes widened. He didn’t reach for the oversized feather. “Ever see anything like this?” Ray asked, twirling it slowly back and forth so that afternoon sunshine could highlight its rich reds and butterscotch accents. “Can’t say I have...” the man’s tone was of utter perplexity... “what the hell is it? An Andean Condor? A giant eagle?”

Ray almost whispered. “I think it is from a Thunderbird.” Nelson stared and remained mute.

“This may be the biggest reason why I am in Ontario again. Here, I want to give you something.” Ray turned back to the car, tucked the feather into his medicine pouch, and faced the man one more time. He pulled from his jacket pocket one of the business cards and offered it to Nelson, who accepted with a quick glance at its text. “Clairvoyant” he stated in trademark matter-of-factness.

“I thank you, sincerely” Ray said. “You may be the one person I can relate to over the next few days, and I want you to keep that card. Not because I want your business, your money... I have a strong feeling that I can’t explain, but you may be the last person, the only person, I ever speak to about what I just shared... okay?”

It didn’t make much sense, Ray’s words. They spilled forth into the space occupied by a small town known for its Rhode Island Red eggs. They rippled outward into eternal waves and particles, sounds perhaps audible or perceptible to life forms always beyond the awareness of a human being. They were quietly spoken, urgent words. What mattered most, however, and something Ray Townes felt as utmost truth when truth was in dire need, was that Nelson the elder Mohawk was a good heart. He heard Ray’s words. Truly heard them, not for what they formed or meant, but their crying.

Nelson slipped the business card into a back pocket and then offered his right hand to Ray. They exchanged a firm handshake and Nelson told him “Nice to meet you, Ray Townes. I hope that you find the answers you seek.” Ray nodded in silence, ever so grateful for the brief but vital oasis of their meeting. He released the man’s hand and turned to walk around the front end of the Buick, whereupon his grasp of the door handle was punctuated by a sudden question from Nelson, who had turned back to face him from a dozen feet away.

“Just one more thing... just wondering... what was your father’s name? Your Cree father.”

Ray squinted through slanting amber rays of sunlight. Nelson seemed to wear a rather fitting halo around his noble head. “Oh, you just might really appreciate this” Ray said... “his name was, is, Delsin.”

"Delsin... My name is Nelson.” His tone was incredulous.

“Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?” Ray smiled into the halo figure’s features.

“Wow” (that word again, hardly ever spoken nor heard, owning the day) ... “I am almost afraid to ask what Delsin’s surname is.”

“And I am almost afraid to tell you. Schacapot. Delsin Schacapot.”

Nelson heaved a mock sigh, still feeling the younger man’s volatile emotions but hoping for a little glimmer of light within them. “Well, you can relax a little bit, then. My last name is Brant. In fact, I am a descendant of the great chief, Joseph Brant.”

Ray nodded and smiled a smile that almost skirted the edges of a smile’s emotions. “Well, thank you again for your time and kindness today,” he said. “MY pleasure to meet you, sir.”

They raised hands, palms up, exchanged a final bonded eye contact, and parted ways. When Ray started the car, then pulled out into the still sleepy main street to continue west, the Mohawk named Nelson Brant was standing beside his Ford. He watched Townes drive by and didn’t move a muscle until the Skylark faded from sight.

Ray held himself together, by scraps and sinews, tiny tendrils of control. The Monday already felt days long; a wild variable of events and emotions. Jenny’s sweet kiss seemed a million miles away. He could almost convince himself it had never occurred. Out past the edges of Clifford Ray drove, picking up speed to 55 miles per hour, glancing down at his watch. The planned visit to Goderich no longer held appeal for him. All of the golden energy in him had been siphoned away by the impact of going headlong into this mystery of his childhood. Wise enough to know better, but at the moment not knowing himself very well, Ray couldn’t dissipate these new and ferocious feelings that he had been cheated. Twice cheated. He had love for the man who raised him as a son. He carried the weight of bereavement for that man. How was he to begin anew? How does an entire life undergo a living emotional autopsy?

Somehow, assuredly irrational but insistently powerful, this sudden personal upheaval seemed to threaten the quantitative meaning of Ray’s life. It undermined the monumental efforts he had made in order to cope with his mother’s suicide. It seemed to mock with a piercing irony, the thousands of hours of clairvoyantly based council he had dispensed to those in need. For all of his “sight”, Ray had been utterly blind to his own ingredients. It didn’t sit well, not at all. He drove into the slanting afternoon sunshine and decided to dispense with Goderich. Ray’s universe was a confounding master tutor. He had lived almost his entire life following that tutor’s guidance; each nudge, poke, whisper... it had been a purely instinctive path and life had been very good to Ray Townes, despite his losses and ongoing pain.

Ray had been a grateful student. A diligent one. He hadn’t allowed the mystery and shocking departure of his mother to shape him into its darkness. How then, to cope with this alien anger? He would be arriving in the epicenter of families who have lost their loved ones, under the most bizarre of circumstances. Carrying all of this toxic baggage was not how it was supposed to play out. Yet... here I am again... the maddening quantum dynamics. In the middle of essentially nowhere, I meet a native who resembles Delsin. Not only does he look like him, his first name is a perfect rhyme. This is a reason that has made itself apparent. I’m not supposed to go to Goderich. I am meant to have been precisely where I was ... where I will now decide to be... at the timing of my recognition and choosing.

This is how Ray Townes grappled with the aftermath of meeting Nelson the Mohawk. It is how he coped with the dramatic flux of that Monday. From the unforeseen beauty of sharing hearts open intimacy with Jenny of Bright street in Toronto, to the stewing unsettlement of his guts and then a curious flatness of an unusual ability that had always been counted upon; he waited for his side of highway 109 to empty of traffic, as sparse as it was, to pull over for a few moments. Another brief intermission on a gravel shoulder. Ray opened the road map, opened the apple juice, and decided upon route 9. It would become the most time conscious option once he passed through Mildmay and entered the town of Paisley with its intersecting rivers.

Intersecting rivers. I like that.

Ray tilted the bottle of still cold apple juice. He drained it, enjoying a respite from the wastefulness of his own turmoil. It was probably the best tasting apple juice he had ever known. It would be route 9 to Kincardine, then. Tomorrow promised to be daunting and he required ample time to book a room, shower and eat. Sleep was essential, though he had no idea of how he would be able to get any. It was a small thing, the decision to alter course for an express route to Kincardine, but it was the lone bright spot in an otherwise unpleasant emotional detour.

“Universe” he said aloud over renewed road winds, “I am doing my best to listen."