Demon Box

I have never bothered you about another single thing since that, Jesus, as I solemnly promised. What was there for me to ask, actually? I have never doubted that angel with the book. Not from that instant to this have I ever faced mortal danger, nor never thought I would have to, either—leastways till nineteen eighty-something rolled around. And I always figured that by then I would be more than tickled to be getting shut of this wore-out carcass and battered old mug anyhow. So I swear to You with God and that tall angel as my witness that I am not shivering scared here on my knees like some dried-up old time miser pinchin life like her last measly pennies. Because I’m not. What I am asking for is I guess a sign of some kind, Lord; not more time. Running out of time simply is not what I’m scared of. What I am afraid of I can’t put a name to yet, having just this day encountered it like finding a new-hatched freak of nature, but it is not of dying. Moreover I am not even sure whether my fear is of a real McCoy danger or not. Maybe the simple weight of years has finally made its crack in my reason like it has in poor Miss Lawn and in loony Mr. Firestone with his Communists behind every bush and in so many other tenants at the Towers lots of whom I know are way younger than me—made its cruel crack in my mind so that all these sudden fears these shades and behind-every-bush boogers and all this dirty business that seems to have leaked in are nothin more than just another wild black mistake from Borneo this old white hen is making… is what I’m wanting to know, Lord Jesus, is the sign I’m praying for

I stopped when I heard something way off. Oh. Just that old log train tooting at the Nebo junction. Bringing the week’s logging down from Blister Creek. Unless they had changed their schedule sometime since those sleepless nights years ago it meant it was getting near midnight. Good Friday’s about to turn into what I guess a body might call Bad Saturday. It sure didn’t feel like Eastertime. Too warm. This was the first time Easter would be late enough in April to have Good Friday fall on my birthday since it must of been the first spring after marrying Emery. That first Oregon spring. It was hot and peculiar then, too. Maybe it’d cool some yet, bring down the usual shower on the egg hunt. Still, driving out from Eugene this afternoon I noticed a lot of farmers already irrigating. And the night air dry as a bone. Blessed strange.

I clenched my lips and reminded myself in a calm voice, This isn’t strange at all, Old Fool. This is me-and-Emery’s old cabin, our old Nebo place. But another voice keeps hollering back, Then why’s everything seem so hellish strange? Well, it must be because this is the first night away from Old Folks Towers in about a century. No, that don’t account for it. I spent last Christmas and New Year’s at Lena’s and things was no stranger than usual. Besides, I felt it before I left the apartment. The moment my grandson phoned this morning I told him I didn’t want to go. I says, “Why, boy, tonight the Reverend Dr. W. W. Poll is having an Inspiration Service down in the lobby that I couldn’t miss!” Having accompanied me a time or two, and knowing that the doctor’s services are about as inspirational as a mud fence, he just groans, ugh.