“YOU’RE GONNA HAVE TO stop squirming, sir!” Ma chided the stranger. “You’ve been hurt very badly, and you’ve barely started to mend.”
Larry had continued to cycle in and out of consciousness over the next few hours, each time taking more water and even some chicken soup, all the while fidgeting and scratching his backside in the less-than-comfortable bedding.
“Where am I? Who are you people?” he finally had the strength to ask.
As his consciousness returned, he remembered his tumble down the river . . . and then he began to piece together the evidence that he was not just resting somewhere, but that he was in fairly dire physical straits. His pain definitely confirmed that realization. And he was totally at the mercy of these unknown individuals hovering over and around him. From the musty, smoky, outdoorsy smell of his surroundings, he concluded that this was no modern clinical setting.
“If I’m so bad off, then why am I not in a hospital?” Larry demanded.
As Pa came through the door with an armload of firewood just then, he chimed in: “’Cause the nearest hospital is nearly a hundred miles away and you’d barely sit a saddle for ten feet,” he said with an edge of sarcasm in his voice.
His patience was beginning to wear thin with this unnamed burden occupying his house, especially since Annie had gone a couple days ago after declaring the stranger to be on the mend. Ma always served as the “nurse” in the family. Pa was more accustomed to getting things done and for everybody doing their part—sick or injured or not.
Larry, meanwhile, was thankful just to be sitting there, resting and propped up with extra pillows, so he said nothing and closed his eyes to rest again. The only difficult—or at least embarrassing—part was using the bedpan. But Ma (and Pa) had insisted on it, as they recalled accidents the children had experienced in their earlier years, quickly making the cabin less than hospitable.
During his brief waking times that day, Larry kept quiet and simply tried to look around at the odd, rustic surroundings. He’d only seen such places in documentaries he’d watched about mountain men and moonshiners—and TV reruns of Little House on the Prairie. He could only wonder, How do they live like this? He couldn’t imagine. No running water? No electricity, TV, Internet? So primeval. So otherworldly. Larry recognized that he had strong preconceived notions about people like this. He certainly knew they existed, but he never in his wildest dreams wished to share a roof with any of them. Certainly not voluntarily.
But they seemed contented, which was more than he could say for himself at the moment.
That evening, after the wife had fed him some mashed potatoes, gravy, and crumbled sausage while he sat up on his cot, he watched the family gather around their rough-hewn table in front of the fireplace.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me lie down in green pastures . . . ” they murmured together over folded hands.
And then Larry recollected his strange dream. That’s it! It wasn’t ‘My Ford is a leopard’ at all. Crazy dreams!
Then the man of the house laid an old book down on top of a bookshelf near the head of Larry’s bed. As the man flipped the book shut, Larry heard the other familiar sound from his dream: what seemed to be the rustling of leaves but was in reality the turning of onionskin paper. After the man went back to the table, Larry hoisted himself up cautiously from his pillow and saw Holy Bible in faded gold, embossed on the spine. As he eased himself back down, he glanced over at the rest of the books on the shelf and noticed that the entire thing was chock-full of equally aged tomes. Now, Larry was Ivy-league educated himself, but some of those bindings bore titles he had never heard of, some even in Latin and German.
And then he felt a stab of fear in his heart. Were these people in some kind of cult? Were they some flat-earth Luddites living out here awaiting some apocalypse? His mind—though still groggy just moments ago—began to spin out scenarios that set his heart racing. He had to get out of here. But how? His whole situation was getting stranger by the minute. His admittedly cozy sense of safety at being so lovingly tended to in his obvious extremity was slowly being replaced by a feeling of foreboding, of dread. He glanced around with his eyes without moving his head, as if he were suddenly aware of a predator in the room.
After settling back into his blankets, he pretended to sleep while, at the same time, covertly forming escape plans.
* * *
As Larry lay there pretending to sleep, he heard someone coming his way. He peeked out through a barely opened eyelid to see the woman of the house approaching his bed, carrying a tin plate cradled in a checkered, fringed cloth.
“You know what I figured you might be up to about now?” she asked. “Some homemade apple pie. It may not be what some city doctor might prescribe, but it may do you a lot of good nonetheless.” She laid it on a corner of the bed and then placed an antique-looking fork next to it. “Let me know if you’d like some cream with that.”
Larry tried to raise himself up on an elbow to eat, when she said, “You be mighty careful not to twist that leg of yours.” The sudden throbbing ache was enough to remind him of that if she hadn’t already done so. “We have those birch splints tied on there as tight as we can without cutting off your circulation. But they won’t take a lot of abuse.”
Where’s a good dose of morphine when you need it? he thought.
“I’ll be fine. And . . . umph . . . thanks for the pie,” he said hesitantly between grunts of pain. “So . . . who are you people? I mean, what are your names?”
It was so rare that Mary and Jethro had to introduce themselves up here in the hills that they had to re-rehearse the scenario each time. And that inevitably dredged up the thoughts—and sometimes regrets—about why they were up here, even after sixteen years.
“We’re the Bentons,” Jethro began, stepping over from the fireplace. “This is my wife, Mary. My name’s Jethro. The kids can answer for themselves. And may we ask your name?”
“It’s Larry . . . uh . . . Lawrence. Lawrence Carter,” he answered between mouthfuls of pie. It flitted through his mind that he shouldn’t be too open with these folks. He still didn’t know who—or what—they really were.
“Well, it’s nice to get officially introduced finally,” Mary said. “You’ve been through a tough patch here. And it isn’t over yet, of course.”
Jethro nodded. “And you can thank the good Lord that my son and I were trapping that stretch o’ river where you . . . uh . . . got hurt.” He wanted to say “almost died,” which was more true to fact.
Larry’s thoughts went dark: Oh, he’s one of those “It’s the Lord’s will” kind of people. No coincidences. No chance. Everything controlled by some almighty big man in the sky moving us around like so many chess pieces.
“Yeah . . . yeah, I suppose it was good timing,” was all Larry could allow himself to admit out loud, and to be polite to his hosts of the moment. From here on out he would have to do what he could for himself and find a way to get back to his own world as fast as he could. He realized he didn’t even know what day it was or how long he’d been out of it. That was the first bit of information he would need to help him clarify the situation in his mind. “How long was I out . . . or asleep?” he asked to no one in particular.
“You were comatose for, I would guess, a full forty-eight hours, then unconscious and/or asleep for about three days, until today,” answered the husband—What was his name again . . . Jethro?
Larry kept himself from rolling his eyes. Hmph, “Jethro.” Doesn’t it figure—a name like that in a place like this? At least ole’ Jethro knew some medical words. Maybe there was hope for Jethro yet, Larry thought, chuckling within.
“In fact,” Jethro went on, “if you want the full picture . . . you suffered a mid-shaft, angulated fracture of the femur, a decent-sized concussion, along with uncounted contusions, including a rather deep laceration to the left side of your—” He halted his words and glanced over at his daughters, standing by the side of the bed like young nursing students, both listening intently. “Uh, shall we say . . . your derriere. That’s only held together with thread from Mary’s sewing basket, so we’ll have to keep an eye on that one.”
Larry could only blink at the avalanche of medical knowledge coming his way from Jethro.
“Fortunately,” Jethro continued, “from your own effort, or other unknown forces, your body washed up high enough on that boulder that you didn’t go into thermal shock due to loss of core temperature in that icy river. When we arrived back here at the cabin, we applied traction and realigned the extremity to, hopefully, drain the blood buildup in your thigh and maintain perfusion. We used that rope and bag of rocks you see at the end of your bed, in case you were wondering whether we were getting ready to torture you. We then applied a splint to maintain the alignment. Full healing should take between three and twelve months, though you’ll want to consult with an orthopedist, who may recommend pins or plates for added stability.”
Feeling a bit embarrassed now, Larry blinked, then finally said, “You sound like you know a thing or two about medicine.”
“I read,” was all Jethro said, reaching for another slice of pie.
* * *
“Mr. Carter, we need to keep that leg of yours completely immobilized for at least another few weeks,” Jethro said to Larry rather matter-of-factly about ten days later. They had just fed him a hearty breakfast of eggs and grits, with a slab of ham on the side, and now Jethro sat at the table writing something while the rest of the family moved about doing some chores.
Jethro knew from his medical knowledge that Larry’s fractured femur would require six to eight weeks of immobilization before he could even attempt put any weight on it. Trying to get him on crutches too soon would risk further displacement and damage. Jethro made a note to himself to continue monitoring Larry’s leg for proper alignment and healing. For now, strict bed rest and splinting were essential.
Larry said nothing and closed his eyes. He had been wishing for—yet also fearing—the day he would have to get up and around. As he had lain there, he had had a lot of time to think about things. It had been a long time since he’d been laid up like this. In fact, he didn’t remember when. There was the bad flu he’d had in his late twenties. He remembered vaguely he was in bed for a week then.
But this was different. Here he had no reference point. Here he was floating, like in his dreams. The Bentons were cordial enough, but both they and he had kept their distance. So, all the company he had were his thoughts. And it was slowly becoming clearer to him: he did not enjoy being alone with his thoughts. His thoughts were not his friends. His thoughts were filled with, well … with voices. Voices of derision, of disappointment, of distaste. What had he become? What had he accomplished? What would he leave behind when he was gone? After all, you could have died out there. It’s not like you got a bad sunburn or got a hook stuck in your finger. This leg wound was bad stuff. If you survive—if you escape—you’re gonna be crippled. No more pickup games with the guys. Maybe even a cane …
His career was going poorly enough, and so what would happen if he became known as a “cripple” too?
And then there was Julia. What would his wife think? He knew she had little respect for him as a man as it was. Now he’d be hobbling around the house. A whole lot of good he’d be for her now. She definitely had better options than him.
Larry felt a surge of panic. He needed to get up. Get out. Escape. He was trapped in this place, in this body, in this mind!
As he hoisted his torso up onto his elbows, he realized his heart was racing and his brow was sweaty. He knew it was totally irrational, but he wanted to lash out, to hit, even to bite. He glanced around. Then his eyes alighted on the well-worn book on top of the nearby shelf.
With no reason or context, Larry blurted out, “So you’re saying you believe all the stuff in that old book?”
He could tell he had startled the Bentons. They’d apparently thought he was napping.
Jethro looked up from a ledger sheet he’d been writing on, gathering his thoughts and trying to form a response. “Well,” he finally said, “first of all, we haven’t been ‘saying’ anything. But considering that the question seems to be bothering you for some reason, I’ll reverse the question on you: What bothers you about that book? You’ve been eyeballing it like it’s some kind of snake ready to bite you ever since you woke up in our home.”
Larry scoffed. “Are you kidding? Don’t get me started. I am an educated man here—” He halted a split second as he glanced down at the rest of the contents of the bookshelf, wondering whether to proceed with that approach. “And I consider myself a man of science —” He slipped further on the confidence scale as he remembered the summary of his medical condition this mountain man had given him. He hastily decided to take a different tack: “Look, there are a lot of documented errors in that book—not to mention the number of frankly absurd statements on science, from the book of Genesis all the way to the Revelations,” he said in what he hoped sounded like an authoritative voice.
Jethro simply said, “Well, first of all, it’s ‘Revelation,’ not ‘Revelations.’ But no bother. And that book does not pretend to be a book of science … or history for that matter. But when it does speak to science or history—in its various literary styles, mind you—it is entirely accurate.”
Now Jethro rose and brought a chair with him to sit at the side of the bed next to the bookshelf.
Larry said nothing, and Jethro went on, “But if you, or anyone else who pretends to be an honest seeker of knowledge, will ever read that book thoroughly and devote themselves to really knowing it before passing judgment, you’ll realize some remarkable things about it.”
“Remarkable?” Larry said, sniffing. “Well, it’s remarkable that a crusty old book of antiquities and myths has lasted so long.”
Ignoring the jab, Jethro countered in a comic tone, “On the bestseller list for hundreds of years. That lunatic fringe sure loves buying books, don’t they?”
Larry remined silent.
So Jethro reined in his sarcastic tone a bit and continued, “Well, first, as you read, several things will dawn on you. When the book is viewed as a whole, you can’t help noticing the sweeping, majestic style of the entire thing. Secondly, you can’t help noticing the consistency of its main teachings from beginning to end, even though it was written over thousands of years and in a number of literary styles and cultures. But most of all, you’ll see that it ultimately points to only one way of salvation for humanity throughout: a substitutionary, sacrificial death of a redeemer sent by God himself, and repeatedly symbolized in the Old Testament, then completely fulfilled in the New.”
“Well … that’s how you see it, I guess,” Larry said as he squirmed a bit in the bed. “Hey, you said you’d be getting me up.” Apparently the thought of testing his injured legs felt a less painful prospect to Larry than being subject to what he was sure to be more preaching from this strangely educated hillbilly with his time-worn old book at his side.
“Well, you asked the question,” Jethro replied.
He rose and reached for some sturdy-looking crutches, which looked to Larry to have been recently hand-carved.
“Ma! Son! Give me a hand over here,” Jethro called out. “We’re going to get Mr. Carter back on the road to recovery.”
“It’s about time!” Ma said in a firm, slightly acerbic voice.
But when Larry got brave enough to look over at her, wondering whether to be offended, he noticed a definite twinkle of humor in her eye. He was beginning to realize that these people were definitely a force to be reckoned with.
* * *
Later that evening, when the family was gathered back into their shelter after a long day of what Larry considered back-breaking chores—even the youngest joined in!—they took their places at the rustic table. Larry had begun to wonder if these people’s lifestyle had produced their faith or had their faith produced their lifestyle. Hmm. He was proud of his highly perceptive dialectical debate. And as long as he kept thinking this way, he could keep these strangers at arm’s length, like lab animals to be studied instead of flesh-and-blood human beings like himself.
“Why don’t you come on over and join us?” Ma called over.
“Yeah, you’re getting pretty handy with those crutches, as primitive as they are,” the son added.
Timothy was his name, Larry recalled. Larry knew from some of the family talk that Timothy had been the one who had helped Jethro pull his broken body off that rock in the river and was virtually his father’s right-hand man. The way this father and son worked together was rather foreign to Larry—far from how he and his father had functioned. Ever since Larry could remember, his relationship with his father wasn’t much more than an uneasy truce between entrenched enemies, maintained mostly by geographical distance. It just seemed the easiest solution … for both of them.
Larry nodded, then tentatively reached for the strange crutches by the side of his cot. He rolled a bit to his side to try to position them under his armpits and then get some leverage to lift his dead weight. He wanted so much to yell out, to demand that someone help him over to the table, but he thought better of it. He did not want to be any more beholden to these mysterious mountain people than he already was. He didn’t know exactly why, but a bitterness and rancor continued to build inside him.
He finally made it over to the table. He thought at first that the family was just trying not to notice his struggles. But then he realized that they truly were not noticing him at all. Apparently each was used to the other pulling his or her own weight and gave only the assistance that was absolutely necessary—help that couldn’t possibly be rendered otherwise. Was this the “mountain way” or something else? Anyway, Larry took the empty wooden chair that just happened to be situated on the bed side of the table. He stuck his injured leg out to the side and slid down onto the hard seat.
“If you don’t mind,” began the father, “we always begin our meals with a short prayer.” The others each bowed their heads and closed their eyes.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name …” they intoned together in perfect unison—down to the youngest.
Larry tried not to look up but found himself surveying this small troop until they concluded with their “Amen,” most loudly added by the smallest. How quaint, he thought. Like some Norman Rockwell painting. He vaguely remembered a few mealtime prayers—bedtime too—when he was a child. But he had outgrown them long ago. Just an early way to make me conform to what my parents wanted, he knew now. He was intellectually embarrassed he had ever thought there was any reality to it. Of course, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny were still in the mix at that point too.
Before Larry knew it, the fried chicken was almost circling past his plate. His stomach rumbling, he reached out to get his share, especially before it went by the teenage son. He lifted a piece and took a bite.
“Hope you like rabbit,” the older daughter said, with a giggle under her breath.
That started the whole table laughing.
Larry’s face flushed with a combination of embarrassment and resentment. Then he gave up fighting the humor of the situation and joined in with a sheepish grin with the rest of them, taking a hungry bite of the fried meat and then licking the bread crumbs and grease from his fingers. At least the vegetables were easier to identify, and in no time he was soon chowing down with the rest of them.
As the meal concluded, the mother promised another apple pie. Larry guessed that pie was either her specialty or the family’s favorite or both. He didn’t mind. It was, admittedly, the best pie he’d ever tasted. Certainly would be better than any hospital food he would have received back in “civilization.” He thought for a moment and then boldly stated that comparison out loud. The family looked up at him for an awkward moment … then two … then Mrs. Benton said, “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment, backhanded though it might be!” The rest of the family joined in another giggle fest.
“As you may have noticed,” the father said as he pushed away from the table, “we also gather ’round for a Bible reading as well, before the children do their studies.”
As Larry tried to make himself more comfortable—and invisible—at the table, they all formed a circle on the floor. The father returned from his bookshelf and positioned himself on the hearth.
“We’re in the middle of the Gospel of John right now,” Jethro said as he fingered open the autumn-leaved pages. “Chapter Fourteen: ‘Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going.’
“‘Thomas said to him, “Lord, we don’t know where you are going, so how can we know the way?” Jesus answered, ‘I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really know me, you will know my Father as well.’”
Jethro then rose and put his book back on the shelf and motioned for the children to head for their own books. He then went to the stove and poured himself a steaming cup of coffee. He offered one to his wife and then to the Larry, who accepted gladly.
“That reading you did … it’s very exclusive, isn’t it?” Larry said, setting his cup on the table.
“I don’t follow you …” the father replied.
“You know, Jesus saying ‘I am the way.’”
“Oh, you caught that. I thought you weren’t listening,” Jethro answered, toying with him a bit.
“Don’t have a lot of options in this cozy little place,” Larry retorted.
“I suppose you don’t. At least not until you’re well enough to be transported back to ‘your world,’ as you’d call it.”
Larry wasn’t aware that he was being quite so obvious about playing the foreigner in this strange woodland realm.
“Well, what other ways are there to God?” the father asked.
Larry thought for a moment. He knew the woodsman was more well-read than that. Fearing a trap, he decided to blunder in anyway: “’Course there’s quite a number: Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Shinto … You know, the usual suspects.”
“Well, each of them would also say they are the only way, so in a manner of speaking all ways are equally narrow, aren’t they?” Jethro responded.
Larry hadn’t thought of it that way.
“And besides, if you heard the first part of that reading … which of those other religions offers such a beautiful promise of an individually designed, custom-made dwelling place with a personally present and loving god?”
Larry shrugged. “I suppose none—if you believe what’s written there.”
“Yes, I suppose the writer does have a definite bias. Heck, he—John—even admits it straight out at the end of his book: ‘… these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name.’ A lot of people say that’s a reason not to believe what’s written there. But when you think about it, they never use that argument with any other book. What’s wrong with believing what you write? Does that make it automatically false?” Jethro sipped his coffee, glancing up into the man’s eyes for a moment.
“Hmmm, never thought of it that way,” Larry admitted.
Jethro pushed himself up off his chair. “Well, I’ve got a thing or two to tend to before nightfall. You able to make it back to the bed, or do you want to set a spell longer?”
Larry again chuckled inwardly at the quaint vocabulary of these folks. “No, I’m all right here for a while, if I’m not in the way.”
“Not at all. We’d tell you if you were.”
As Jethro headed out the door, Mary wandered over from the kitchen area, laying a towel aside. She worked a little at the sink, and Larry watched, then rose and clambered back to his bed using the crutches. After he got himself settled, Larry noticed Mary looking over at him.
“You know, my husband and I have been wondering …” she said, slowly. “We’ve been curious how … when … you’d want to contact someone. You know, your wife? Your work? It’s been over two weeks and surely they’re wondering about you.”
Larry slumped back against the wall next to his bed. He let out his breath, like someone who’d been caught in a lie. His hesitancy to respond revealed a lot to Mary. She waited. He rubbed his forehead while continuing to stare at the floor.
“I didn’t mean to …” Mary said.
“No, no, that’s alright. It’s something … something I’ve been struggling with. When I booked this trip, it was because I wanted to get away from things for a while. Well, it certainly has done that! It’s become more of a forced retreat now. And I guess I’m realizing it’s something I … I needed. Or wanted … deep down.”
He sighed and went on, “Now I’m conflicted. Not to dump everything on you, but, well, my job … and my marriage … neither of them is what you’d call perfect. In fact, to be honest, I could do without either of them … and they could probably both do without me.”
Mary noticed that his last words trailed off with a catch in his throat.
“So, yeah, I guess I’m probably, in a way, taking advantage of you folks to feel a bit sorry for myself and stay hidden away from it all for a while. I apologize.”
Mary just looked at him as he sat hunched on the cot. He finally looked up at her, wondering at her silence. Her eyes glowed with simple tenderness and understanding.
Read next chapter
Read previous chapter