up to my knees. Next to it was a wheelbarrow full of earth. One of Dad’s drums hung on a tree spur nearby—evidently at the ready if he suddenly needed to go into a trance.
Dad moved to one side of the wall and I to the other. He hoisted a tire onto the stack, and we moved it into position.
“That looks good,” he said.
We scooped the soil in with our hands and pressed it into the casing. Much as I’d hated building The Center, I had developed a kind of rhythm with tire filing, and it realy wasn’t unpleasant. I liked how the earth felt in my hands—as if I was making myself a part of it.
The first few measures of the Pleni drifted through me again.
“Full are heaven and earth of Thy glory” was what the Latin words said. Mom told me the Josquin had been performed at Nonni and Opa’s church when Dad was a teenager. How had she known that? Had he told her?
When we’d done as much hand filing as possible, Dad grabbed his sledgehammer and I grabbed a shovel. I scooped dirt out of the wheelbarrow and emptied it into the tire. Dad climbed onto the wal. Tentatively, I hummed the opening notes of the Pleni .
Dad lifted the sledgehammer and began to pound the dirt into the casing. The next few notes were too high to hum, so I sang the Latin, “ Pleni, pleni. ” Each word stretched out for measures and measures.
Dad pounded harder.
I dumped in another scoop of dirt and sang a little louder,
“ sunt coeli .”
Dad pounded louder still.
My cheeks began to burn. I switched to his part instead of mine, “ et terra .”
He didn’t look at me; he focused entirely on the tire. He began to pound in a contrary rhythm. I dumped in another shovelful and began to sing the next section—a difficult passage we’d had to play over and over before we got it right—“ gloria, gloria, gloria a tua .”
Dad stopped pounding and climbed down onto his side of the wal. “Let’s take a break, Brigitta.” He brushed his hands on his jeans. “There’s some iced tea in the house.” He reached for his drum and made for the sweat lodge.
I put my hand on the stack of tires. Dad and I hadn’t created much of anything together since he’d abandoned the mass. And now we were making a wal. I almost laughed.
•••
My alarm clock and I settled into the tree house about 10:00. I’d told Mom I was at Natalie’s. It felt strange. Another lie. And to Mom, who I’d never lied to.
When I woke up, it wasn’t to the alarm. I squinted. 2:00 a.m.
“Don’t worry. I got the one o’clock feeding.” It was Luke. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
He sat with his back to the wal, barely visible in the clock glow. “Thought I’d let you sleep,” he said.
“Before giving me a heart attack?” Did my breath stink? I was acutely aware that all I had on inside the sleeping bag was my Tshirt and a pair of white cotton panties. “How long have you been here?”
“Long enough. Wasn’t tired anymore. Lying in bed running movies in my head.”
“Movies?” I didn’t say, “Like Imlandria ?” but Luke could hear it in my voice.
He chuckled. “There you go again, Brigitta. But seriously, don’t you do that? When you can’t sleep? Make things up and watch them rol?”
watch them rol?”
I clicked on the mag light and sat up carefuly, with the bag gathered around me. “I guess so. What were your movies?” My brain was moving slow. This was so surreal.
The shadows made odd angles on his face. He wore a hoodie, and his hair was sticking up. He rested his arms on his knees. “Wel, in one I got in my car and just drove.”
“Where’d you end up?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get that far. It was just me and the car and the road.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a plot.”
He smiled. “No, probably not.”
“So, where are you going? What are you looking for?” I could never have asked that question of Devon.
Luke was thoughtful. “Eden,” he said.
I was surprised. “As in, ‘The Garden of’?
Dad moved to one side of the wall and I to the other. He hoisted a tire onto the stack, and we moved it into position.
“That looks good,” he said.
We scooped the soil in with our hands and pressed it into the casing. Much as I’d hated building The Center, I had developed a kind of rhythm with tire filing, and it realy wasn’t unpleasant. I liked how the earth felt in my hands—as if I was making myself a part of it.
The first few measures of the Pleni drifted through me again.
“Full are heaven and earth of Thy glory” was what the Latin words said. Mom told me the Josquin had been performed at Nonni and Opa’s church when Dad was a teenager. How had she known that? Had he told her?
When we’d done as much hand filing as possible, Dad grabbed his sledgehammer and I grabbed a shovel. I scooped dirt out of the wheelbarrow and emptied it into the tire. Dad climbed onto the wal. Tentatively, I hummed the opening notes of the Pleni .
Dad lifted the sledgehammer and began to pound the dirt into the casing. The next few notes were too high to hum, so I sang the Latin, “ Pleni, pleni. ” Each word stretched out for measures and measures.
Dad pounded harder.
I dumped in another scoop of dirt and sang a little louder,
“ sunt coeli .”
Dad pounded louder still.
My cheeks began to burn. I switched to his part instead of mine, “ et terra .”
He didn’t look at me; he focused entirely on the tire. He began to pound in a contrary rhythm. I dumped in another shovelful and began to sing the next section—a difficult passage we’d had to play over and over before we got it right—“ gloria, gloria, gloria a tua .”
Dad stopped pounding and climbed down onto his side of the wal. “Let’s take a break, Brigitta.” He brushed his hands on his jeans. “There’s some iced tea in the house.” He reached for his drum and made for the sweat lodge.
I put my hand on the stack of tires. Dad and I hadn’t created much of anything together since he’d abandoned the mass. And now we were making a wal. I almost laughed.
•••
My alarm clock and I settled into the tree house about 10:00. I’d told Mom I was at Natalie’s. It felt strange. Another lie. And to Mom, who I’d never lied to.
When I woke up, it wasn’t to the alarm. I squinted. 2:00 a.m.
“Don’t worry. I got the one o’clock feeding.” It was Luke. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
He sat with his back to the wal, barely visible in the clock glow. “Thought I’d let you sleep,” he said.
“Before giving me a heart attack?” Did my breath stink? I was acutely aware that all I had on inside the sleeping bag was my Tshirt and a pair of white cotton panties. “How long have you been here?”
“Long enough. Wasn’t tired anymore. Lying in bed running movies in my head.”
“Movies?” I didn’t say, “Like Imlandria ?” but Luke could hear it in my voice.
He chuckled. “There you go again, Brigitta. But seriously, don’t you do that? When you can’t sleep? Make things up and watch them rol?”
watch them rol?”
I clicked on the mag light and sat up carefuly, with the bag gathered around me. “I guess so. What were your movies?” My brain was moving slow. This was so surreal.
The shadows made odd angles on his face. He wore a hoodie, and his hair was sticking up. He rested his arms on his knees. “Wel, in one I got in my car and just drove.”
“Where’d you end up?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get that far. It was just me and the car and the road.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a plot.”
He smiled. “No, probably not.”
“So, where are you going? What are you looking for?” I could never have asked that question of Devon.
Luke was thoughtful. “Eden,” he said.
I was surprised. “As in, ‘The Garden of’?
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