G-O-D Spelled Backwards

by Hallie Ranta

Edison and I watch the moon rise between the branches of the surrounding pines. As soon as it hits the top of the tallest tree it will be time to call it another perfectly wasted scorching summer day inside our rock oasis.

I note the tiny sliver missing from tonight’s orb. Not only will it be full tomorrow, but according to Ernie it will pass in front of the sun, a rare annular eclipse. Instead of excitement I feel an unease building in my stomach.

“Something’s coming up, isn’t it?”

The only one left to hear my questions, Edison merely continues to stare out at the trees. A single swish of his tail confirms my theory.

***

I did indeed ask a lot of questions. Mother’s responses were short, both in length and tone, as if I should have been born with all the knowledge of the world burned into my brain. My father was a taboo subject, but I couldn’t help inquiring about his absence now and then.

“He’s gone, Puck.”

“What was his name?

“Killian. Perfectly fitting.”

“What did he do?”

“Music.”

“Three words to describe him?”

Mother snatched the homework assignment out of my hands and dashed off replies to the rest of the questions, then wrote a strongly-worded letter to Miss Jenkins. I didn’t dare read the answers until late that night under the covers, but I learned my father was ‘a foolish, air-headed dreamer’ whom my mother met ‘while stupidly high at the youth-destroying noise festival known as Woodstock.”

I got a C-plus for not completing the assignment myself.

Grandpa, on the other hand, answered my questions with ‘the world is your oyster’ flair and with the accompaniment of pictures, books, and real life examples. He attributed Mother’s frustrations to loneliness, having never met her own mother and bearing a child without a partner.

“Be nice to your Mother, Puck, and learn from her. Don’t play the game of life alone.”

Maybe they shouldn’t make the rules so hard, then. One snake-eyed roll of the dice shouldn’t leave unasked questions coiling in your mind and empty spaces squeezing your heart...

If Mother hated Woodstock so much, why did she let me keep the plush likeness of the Peanuts bird Grandpa gave me? Why did she wrestle it from Mr. Next Door’s flea-bitten mutt and sew its head back on?

If dogs were underworld demons, as Mother claimed, why did she swerve to avoid hitting one in the street?

Its eyes glowed in the headlights, white at first before flashing red like everything else. I came to slowly, hearing the steady beeps of my heart and realizing the lady sitting next to my bed wasn’t my mother.

Nurse Blunt wasted no time telling me of my mother and grandfather’s ill fate before firing off a rapid series of questions. I answered to the best of my groggy ability.

Puck Walters, ten years old, born May 14, 1970 here in Fairview. No living relatives; both grandparents now dead, Mother was an only child. I don’t know who my father is, or was.

“Aren’t you supposed to have this information somewhere?”

The nurse left in a huff and was replaced by a social worker who asked the same questions. I was shouting in frustration by the end of the second interrogation, and Doctor Considerate came in and shooed her away. He gave me a popsicle and told me to rest, which I did for three days before they said I could go.

“Go where?”

The social worker waited patiently while I walked through the house that now felt like a ghost town. She promised I could get the rest of my things later, so I crammed Woodstock and four dresser drawers of clothes into a small suitcase.

“Where am I going?” I asked again.

“Camp.” She explained throughout the long drive that before I lived in another house I had to go ‘into a system,’ and while normally that meant staying in an orphanage, the local orphanage residents were spending the summer at Camp Rydon in the mountains.

I stayed silent as we wove up the narrow road, chewing on my thoughts and a Big Mac (ten year old orphans don’t eat Happy Meals anymore). Soon I became queasy (from the car ride, surely) and dozed the rest of the way.

Dennis the head counselor gave me a quick tour and rundown: rise at 8, team building and activities throughout the day, lights out at ten. Orphan cabins on the east side, delinquent cabins on the west.

“Delinquent?”

Dennis either ignored or didn’t hear me over the bell that sounded from the mess hall. After a dinner of wilted salad and soggy cardboard pizza, another counselor named Ernie led me and several other boys to our cabin. He seemed a lot friendlier than Dennis, calling us all ‘little dudes and bros’ and talking to the surrounding wildlife. Mother would have hated him.

I had missed the opening bonfire, but Ernie promised several more campfires and sleeps under the stars.

“A little fireworks display Friday night for Independence Day, too...”

Did he really just call the Fourth of July ‘Independence Day’ in front of a group of orphans?

“...kick off the dog days of summer!”

“Dog days?”

“The days you can see Sirius, the ‘Dog Star’...and when it’s so doggone hot.”

I shivered all night, hugging Woodstock and watching the moonlight creep slowly across the cabin floor.

I spotted the cave on our first nature hike, a small opening amongst the rocks halfway up what was known as Sunny Summit. Ernie said we would trek to the top one day this summer, but I immediately had my mind set on getting there sooner, on my own.

Our cabin spent each morning meditating, reading horoscopes, and nature watching, all in the thick of the trees. The rest of the group was eager to swim, paddle and race as far away from Ernie as they could during the physical activities of the afternoon.

“That guy’s so boooring,” Camper Drawl complained as we changed into swimming gear. “Who wants to talk about ‘paths and signs of the universe’?”

“Some people need an explanation for everything,” Camper Nosebleed agreed, rolling his eyes.

“Like people who have lost everything?” I reasoned. “Don’t you think he’s trying to help us, I dunno, make sense of our lives?”

“Make sense?” Camper Lefty spat. “Fuck, Puck, we know it don’t make sense, that’s why we’re here!” He gave my right shoulder a painful jab and everyone else made for the lake, shooting dark glares my way.

I didn’t follow, hanging back and rubbing my aching shoulder. I looked around for Ernie and saw him shuffling a deck of cards under a tree, oblivious to what had just taken place. Hoping to set my escape plan into action, I sat down next to him.

“Puck, my man, in need of some more celestial guidance?”

I had already heard my daily horoscope so I declined, pointing instead to a small poster depicting a wheel of animals.

“What are those?”

“Twelve animals of the Chinese Zodiac. Use the lunar calendar to see what Year you were born in, and what inner traits you possess.”

I scanned the wheel for 1970.

“Year of the Dog?”

“Year of the Metal Dog,” Ernie nodded, flipping through a small book. “I might have known: honest, independent, and persistent, though stubborn.”

“Can I independently do some exploring? Just for a bit?”

Ernie was skeptical, but I promised to be back in an hour and stay on the east side of the camp.

“You’re a persistent metal dog, all right,” Ernie laughed. He handed me a whistle from his pocket and I headed straight for the base rocks of Sunny Summit, hidden from view of the lake by a line of pine trees.

It didn’t take long to see how Sunny Summit got its name; my shirt was drenched with sweat in minutes. The climb wasn’t too difficult, but the rocks were hot underhand. I collapsed gratefully into the shady shelter ten minutes later, my neck and arms burning.

A few moments to catch my breath and I eagerly looked around the cave. About ten feet wide and deep, its walls were surprisingly smooth. The ceiling was low, however, a fact I discovered when I jumped at the shock of realizing I wasn’t alone.

In the far corner sat a small dog. Through watering and popping eyes I could make out he was some kind of terrier. His beige fur stuck out at every angle, like he’d stuck his paw into an electrical socket. I immediately christened him ‘Edison,’ but years of living next door to a monster made me wary to approach him.

“Mind if I join you for a bit?” I walked toward the entrance and sat down, taking in the view. Camp Rydon was almost completely hidden, and for a brief moment, I forgot why I was an attendee.

The dog had moved next to me. He peered intently into my eyes, and I saw my fragile reflection in his. Suddenly the pain returned in my head, shoulder, and heart. I remembered I was alone in the world, even in a camp full of boys in the same situation. My awkwardness would likely follow me to the orphanage where I would not have free range, and despite the desire to make sense of it all, the others were probably right in their belief that life had no rhyme or reason. It simply sucked.

Edison sat, still as a statue, alternating his gaze from me to the trees. His presence provided a sense of security; it was okay to feel like shit, to curse the world, and to cry.

So I did.

I spent all of dinner negotiating my daily allotted free time with Ernie. I got him all the way up to three hours, providing I participated in morning rituals and one team physical activity, and reported back to camp by five.

“Deal?”

“Deal, dog.”

Morning activities were a breeze, but by lunchtime, the yearning to decamp camp would start to build. While I pitched, ran, and swam with the boys, my mind was already up the cave, often resulting in painful returns to the physical playing field.

“Earth to Puck, head in the game!” Camper Sucker Punch called, beaning me with a fastball. I shook off their laughs and took my base. An hour later, I iced my arm and breathed rhythmic insults that slightly echoed in my cool stone confines. The meditation practice definitely had its perks.

Edison waited for me each day, though he didn’t eat any of the table scraps I brought him or engage in any kind of activity. He simply sat at my side, and when I voiced my questions to him he answered with a throat growl, head tilt, or tail wag.

I learned to tell time by the position of the sun, and if I dozed off I would awake to a reverberating bark that prevented me from missing my curfew.

My absences did not go unnoticed. Despite Ernie’s claim that I was attending grief counseling, some of the boys did not buy it and followed me one afternoon. Not wanting to give away my hiding spot, I stalled at the edge of the pines and pretended to tie my shoes.

“Hey Puck, crybaby building is that way,” Camper Acne sneered. “Where are you going?”

“What do you care?”

“You’re skipping too many physical activities; you’ve got to stay in shape,” Camper Muscles said. Hoisting me up by the armpits, he carried me squirming all the way to the end of the dock.

“The Puck drops here.” They howled with laughter as I splashed into the lake.

Had Grandpa not taught me how to swim I may have met my watery demise that day. As I made my way back to the dock, Acne picked up my backpack.

“Going on vacation or something?” he asked, dumping its contents. Out spilled snacks, books, and Woodstock.

I gave a strangled cry as I pulled myself out of the water and lunged for him, but he tossed the bird to Muscles and a game of keep-away ensued.

“What, can’t sleep without your little baby toy?” Muscles laughed. “Okay, you can have him back.” As I grabbed Woodstock’s body, Muscles kept hold of his head and pulled.

RIP.

The two parts came apart completely, and the air exploded with white confetti. I couldn’t hold back; I slumped to the ground and let the angry sobs escape.

“What’s this, Puck?” Muscles wheezed. “Your mother was too poor to stuff your toys right?”

I wiped my eyes and looked around. Instead of fluff, I was surrounded by crumpled paper. I also saw Ernie making his way around the lake. While the other two were distracted by ‘the fuzz’ I threw everything into my bag, gathering as much scattered paper as I could. Ignoring Ernie’s calls, I hightailed it to the Summit and didn’t stop until I was facedown in the cave crying a new wave of tears and screaming every curse word I knew.

I paid no attention to the setting sun, making a meal of the provisions in my bag and curling up to sleep in the corner.

Edison kept watch at the cave entrance the entire time, a silent sentinel.

Dark slowly turned back into light. I awoke with every muscle stiff and sore, and the previous day’s events came back with a jolt when I pulled Woodstock’s head from my bag.

Groaning, I dumped him and the paper stuffing onto the floor. Though I was tempted to hurl each piece down the hill, I picked up the nearest one and began uncrumpling it.

It was a newspaper page, dated August 18, 1969. Across the top read the headline: WOODSTOCK ROCKS. Beneath were several dozen pictures of crowds with captions such as: Music lovers unite in front of stage and Creedence Clearwater Revival delights thousands.

Along the last row was a close-up picture of two people. I immediately recognized the first. My mouth fell open as I studied Mother’s younger face. She was happy. The man next to her had long hair pulled back into a ponytail, one arm raised with a guitar in the air and the other wrapped around Mother. The caption read: Lunar Phazes’ Killian Michaels embraces fan.

“Father?!”

I eagerly read other articles, though their tone became steadily grimmer: LUNAR PHAZES ENDS LONG TOUR, BAND TAKES RECESS WHILE MEMBERS TACKLE PERSONAL OBSTACLES, BAND CUTS REUNION TOUR SHORT...

One page was a flyer for a Lunar Phazes concert: May 14, 1977 at the Armstrong Arena, just outside Fairview.

I thought back to my seventh birthday...Mother had insisted we go to Disneyland for the weekend to celebrate, even though I had never asked to and we could scarcely afford it.

I smoothed out the last page with a sense of foreboding. The headline dated November 12, 1979 indeed made my stomach drop: LUNAR PHAZES’ MICHAELS DIES FROM OVERDOSE. The accompanying picture of my father showed a lot more than ten years of wear on his face, his eyes no longer full of passion and hair cut short, yet still unruly in an oddly familiar way.

“WHY?”

All the time asking who my father was, and now that I knew it didn’t do me a lick of good. I was still alone. Mother could have told me the whole truth and ended my curiosity. She could have told Killian he had a son, and maybe his fate - our fate - could have been different.

I curled into another fit of angry sobs until Dennis showed up late that afternoon. I didn’t care how he found me or how severe my punishment would be; I felt nothing as we started down the Summit. I looked back for Edison and saw only the darkness of the cave.

Over the next few days, I really did spend time at grief counseling, though Doctor Feelings wasn’t as good as Edison. I refused to participate in any sports, and our morning rituals were put on hold because Ernie had taken leave. I read most of the time, and Dennis showed me the basics of sewing. Woodstock got his head reattached after I stuffed him with Muscles’ pillow contents.

***

I have permission to spend one last day in the cave. To my relief, Edison is back and we spend the entire time watching clouds drift by and the moon creep upwards.

Edison confirms my ominous feelings, and I reluctantly make my way back to camp, wondering if tomorrow’s eclipse will change how the world looks.

“Whoa.” Even Muscles is tripped out by the midday darkness making its way slowly across the grounds. I chance a quick glance up at the ‘ring of fire.’

Kinda cool.

Then, as quick as the sunlight left, it returns and we all resume our activities. For me that means reading up on Taurus personalities under the shade of a tree.

“Missed it, didn’t I?”

I look up as Ernie sits down. Yes, you missed a lot.

“Where’d you go?”

“I had some important things to take care of.” He doesn’t elaborate, but reaches into his shirt pocket and hands me a creased newspaper article.

“You dropped this.”

I unfold it and stare once again at my father’s face. The article is an obituary, headlined: KILLIAN MICHAELS: MAY 11, 1946 - NOVEMBER 11, 1979. I skim through it, looking for any hints of myself. ‘Persistent.’ Well, that’s one thing.

“You know, May 1946 is a Taurus and a Dog, like you.”

“Really?”

“Yep. You read the end?”

I find the last sentence: Killian is survived by his parents Frank and Emily and his sister Jillian.

“Survived by means...?” I think I know, but I’m afraid to say it.

“You have family, Puck. And they want to meet you. Soon.”

I reread the last line until it’s too dark to see.

August 11, the final dog day of summer. I want a good look at Sirius, so I make the familiar trek under the cover of darkness. I sit at the cave entrance and watch the small twinkling light move slowly toward the horizon of the coming dawn.

“You still here, Father?”

Edison is gone, but a quiet bark echoes off the cave walls and into my heart.