Nicholas was the kind of boy everyone described as full of life. The kind of boy who wore out jeans and shoes and mitts but never his welcome. The kind of boy parents treasure.
Nicholas may have suffered a schoolhouse scrape or two but never had a real fight. He had no enemies and no aptitude for making them. He grew through adolescence innocent of violence and the ignorance that begets violence.
When Nicholas was drafted into the Army on his eighteenth birthday he did not know what to do. He was not afraid but neither did he wish to hold a gun and had no desire to kill other young men who, he imagined, were much like himself.
Nicholas joined the Army as a conscientious objector, and left his family for an Army base across the country. There his job was to measure the dead. Hundreds, thousands, arriving home in plain oak caskets. Each soldier received, deserved, a burial uniform: white wool to represent purity of spirit; red cuffs to represent the heart’s courage; gold buttons to represent the nation’s loss; blue trim to represent the vastness of sky and eternity.
Each body had to be unpacked, identified, processed and placed cold and naked on a steel table to be measured head to toe, hand to hand, like a cross; neck, chest, torso, waist legs—all measured and recorded, if there. Many men were missing arms, legs, feet; even chests and heads. These Nicholas would have to guess. Nicholas did this all day, every day, except Sundays, when he prayed.
Others grew callous in weeks or even days; those who could not grow callous or at least indifferent fled. But Nicholas could not grow callous, or indifferent; nor could he leave. He was caught measuring the dead as his soul and his sanity threatened to separate from his body and float away. The night came when Nicholas stood naked before a mirror and measured himself, head to toe, hand to hand, like a cross.
I drive alone at night along the river, most nights, windows open to the smell of the river, and its sounds. A highway along the river joins with the back roads where I live. Only at night can the radio signals from far away drift across the cities and fields and lakes and rivers to our corner of the world, bringing news of pestilence and corruption and Jesus. It comforts me.
I think about the Spirit. The Spirit lives in everyone—it’s all part of God’s plan—it’s why babies have to be protected, especially the unborn ones. It’s a sin to take away the Spirit. But the Spirit is not equal in everyone. Most people don’t know that. It’s strongest in babies and healthy people, and weaker in old and sick people, and bad people. The sin is not so great there.
Sherry is at home asleep. She sleeps a lot because she smokes too much and now she needs a machine to give her air. Her Spirit is weak, I’m thinking. I’m thinking I may be called to help her along any time now, even though it would be a sin. Not a terrible one, though, I think. And I’m already a sinner, God knows, as we all are. Still, there’s no denying it’s harder when you know somebody.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m one of those avenging angels the Reverend talks about. You can’t tell just by looking. They do God’s work but I’m not sure Jesus knows. It’s confusing. All sin can be forgiven, the Reverend says, and I believe that, but there’s no need to go adding on terrible sin. Harder to forgive, I’m thinking.
I once helped a man along who had a strong Spirit. He was skinny and pale and looked sick to me. But I could tell, during, the Spirit was strong. I promised then and there to be more careful and I have been. I’ve been very careful.
I feel restless tonight. Maybe it’s the heat, too early this year. Maybe the rain. There’s a truck stop ahead about ten miles. Usually crowded with truckers and highway riffraff. Decent food, though, and tonight I feel hungry.
