As our Dad slowed the old Packard down preparing to make the turn onto Boggle’s Bridge, he would always ask, “Are you Jonahs ready for the belly of the whale?”
Once, when I was a preschooler, I began to whimper after he asked. Mom had been reading me Pinocchio’s Picture Book, and I had looked ahead at the illustration of Pinocchio and Geppetto sitting in the belly of a whale with only a candle for light. I had no candle, and I was afraid of the dark.
My big brother, Billy, was in the backseat with me. He told me to shut up and hit me. I got mad and hit him back. Mom gave us a warning look over the back of her seat. We stopped fighting. With root-beer ice-cream floats hanging in the balance, Mom asked me, “What’s wrong?”
I sobbed as I said, “I don’t want to go in there.”
She assured me that it was going to be alright. We be would be out soon.
Dad steered the sedan onto the tracks inside that barn-like structure. I closed my eyes as I waited and listened to the planks creak, and the car squeak, and the Catfish River gurgle below—the sounds echoing off wooden walls. Or was that my own stomach gurgling? My imagination was getting the better of me, and I began to throw a fit.
“Jeter, what’s wrong now?”
“I can’t get out of the whale.”
“Yes you can, Silly,” Billy said and pointed up ahead, “through the other end.”
But I couldn’t see over the front seat like he could. In an age when youngsters were not required to use booster seats, I saw only wooden walls on the sides so I shut my eyes tight again. Then I couldn’t see the dark. I wasn’t a very logical child, according to Mom.
Dad said, “You know the story of Jonah, Baby. The belly is the place where God looked into Jonah’s heart. He made Jonah stay there until God liked what he saw.”
Maybe I was going to be punished for hitting my brother or for telling a lie. I became even more scared.
With my eyes closed, I crossed my fingers. With the palms of my hands pressed awkwardly against each other, I promised God over and over again that I would be a good.
Billy socked me on my shoulder again. “Look, Jonah. You’re free.” I opened my eyes and tried to hit him back, but he stopped my swing.
As I looked through the side window at streaks of morning light filtering through hardwood trees, he let go of my arm. I finished hitting him anyway. So much for becoming an angel any time soon.
To make matters worse, Billy called me "Jonah" for the rest of the day, even though I was no pants-wetter. Jonah had wetted himself more than once in Sunday School. It never occurred to me that my brother was a "Jonah" too.
When we finished our errands in Bogglesville, I faced a second problem. We had to re-cross the bridge from the other direction.
Knowing that I’d passed God’s test and looking forward to my root-beer float, I was braver this time. I crossed my fingers and closed my eyes and envisioned the biggest root-beer float ever.
* * *
Many years later, my spouse and I were experiencing the empty-nest syndrome. We down-sized in a nearby town and visited Bogglesville often because Mom still lived there. I decided to revisit the bridge only to discover that Bogglesville had devoured the whale.A modern bridge now crosses the west fork of the Catfish River near Forest Park now. An asphalt trail follows the river upstream to Boggle’s Bridge which is closed to vehicle traffic. It is a well-maintained centerpiece for another park inviting me to enter the belly of the beast, but this time on foot.
Standing in front of the bridge, I remembered this story that must have changed many times in the retelling. But I knew that if I entered the barn-like structure, I’d once again become a "Jonah." Eyes opened, I crossed my fingers and stepped up onto the planks.
 |
| by Jeter Skeet |
A version of this story appears in Polk Street Review, Vol. One
No comments:
Post a Comment