I slept until a shadow blocked the sun and cooled my skin. Sitting up, Joyce's presence did not surprise me. She was sitting at my feet, crossed legged, hands folded in her lap, her dress spotless, her pink ribbon tied in an exaggerated bow. Her look was intense, confused. She studied me as if from a great distance. To those I confessed this event, they asked if she looked ghostly, or translucent. She did not. The grass folded to her body in the same manner as it did to mine.
"Hello Joyce. I'm glad you came to see me." I said as naturally as talking a known friend.
Startled, Joyce appeared frightened. Considering the circumstances, I found her reaction bizarre. "I wanted to thank you for saving Red and me."
Joyce tilted her head, confused. I'm not sure if she understood the implications of her manifestation, but I believe she sensed a change.
"Can you hear me?" She asked in hope.
"Yes. And I see you." I answered with a smile.
She hesitated before saying, "How did you know my name?"
The question unbalanced me. I took a minute and answered. "I know your mother."
Joyce sat up, clapped her hands together and her face brightened in delight. "You know mommy. Oh my goodness, do you know where she is?"
Joyce's question answered one of my own. I wondered if she had ever appeared to Ruthie.
"She's," I searched for the right answer, "she's working, busy, but doing well."
"Oh." Joyce responded sadly. Then she got excited and asked, "And my daddy, what about him?"
I felt no option to lie. "I don't know your Daddy Joyce. I'm sorry."
Joyce withered at my response. "I miss them. I haven't seen them for a long time. I keep looking for them, but I only find people I don't know."
"People?" I asked
"Yes." Said Joyce. "Lot's of people. I feel okay when I'm with them. Not like mommy and daddy, but not lonely."
I shook at being in the presence of her world. My body vibrated with the excitement, and the thrill of the exposure.
"Can you," She looked down in her lap, "can you touch me?" She looked up sharply, tears in her eyes.
"I don't know." I answered honestly trying to hide my trepidation. Seeing and talking to ghosts was one thing, touching crossed into a territory in the same category as forbidden fruit. We watched each other, neither sure what to do.
"Can I try, touching you?" She asked with hesitant anxiety.
I have tried to explain to some, and I have had time to examine my thoughts, but I cannot-with complete satisfaction-explain my reaction.
"No!" I responded in haste.
I saw that it hurt her. She pouted, and picked some grass in front of her. Physically picked grass. I saw it; I know it to be true. I sensed how desperate she was for human contact. My reaction came from a place I have never been able to access again. It was a protective reaction, as instinctual as avoiding open flames. I stammered an apology. The moment was awkward. "I mean it, about thanking you. I know you saved us."
Remembering the event, Joyce perked up. "I had so much fun. People running, looking for me, but couldn't find me. Not even the bulls could find me! It was so exciting."
Joyce drifted in the thought and I watched her body sag, as the reality of her predicament began to engulf her.
"I wish I could do something for you." Immediately on saying it, I trapped myself.
Joyce sat up on her heals, leaned forward, her pretty face alight in anticipation. She reached out her hand to my face, the closer she came, the more she faded. Her hand would never reach me.
As she fell into me, looking desperately sad she said, "Please be good to mommy." Then she disappeared.
"The thing is, I feel as though I can't leave. I feel," I hesitated as I struggled for the right word, "obligated, responsible in someway, as if without me the animals, Julie and her kids have no hope." I mumbled Julie's name under my breath, uncomfortable saying it in front of Cathie.
"It's called the White Knight Syndrome." Said Cathie, making her the first person to use the term about me. Later I was to hear the term used in my defense.
"Explain" I asked moving up on my elbows towards Cathie to listen carefully.
"It means," she began, sighing deeply, "Exactly as it infers. A person, usually male, convinced that he is the White Knight saving the world from great evil. The person struck with this symptom cannot see outside the circumstance. Exactly as a knight in his armored suit. Difficult to get in to him, and he is hindered reaching out. It can be a self-inflicted symptom, escapism if you will, or," Cathie sat up and leaned closer to me, "it can be a clever and sophisticated manipulation of a persons natural qualities."
Cathie paused at this point. She searched my eyes to see if I had understood the implications.
"Go on." I implored.
"Listen closely Ben. The theory is, one person could manipulate another, whose natural disposition is one of kindness with a heightened sense of fairness. Given the right circumstance, a good story, using the right cues, suggestions and prompts, almost anyone can have their own robot to do their dirty deeds."
Julie hadn't moved from the sink. She tried to answer me, but found the effort too much. She cupped her hands to cover her face and broke down. I went to her as a reflex. I had no intent, no forethoughts, or ulterior motives. I went to her the way one would go to someone after a car accident. I hugged her and she melted into me. The great sobs that poured from her increased. I held her close and firm for some time. When she had cried herself to a stable state she nestled into me and I allowed it. The kiss was part of the natural progression, the next step in a series of events.
When our lips touched something mysterious took over. The kiss was electrifying and addictive. It was an experience beyond anything I had felt. We progressed beyond the kiss. Julie began responding in a desperate need. Full of heat, and released desire. Pulled into a tidal wave of passions, I had to come up for air. I pulled back, holding her apart, looking to the ceiling, and breathing deep.
I saw it all in slow and deliberate stages. The grayness of the old man's face, his strength flowing from him and the weight of the forked silage tipping him as if an overbalanced medical scale. The bull he leaned into had the longest horns I had ever seen. They spread over three feet and curved in. The animal's eyes radiated pure malevolence. Not confusion or fear, but anger and hatred. Pure hostility. With all of those emotions propelling the thrust, the bull struck at Mr. Zoskie.
The horn penetrated through the back of Mr. Zoskie below the shoulder blades. It exited out his front in a smooth and surgical motion, simply appearing through his chest, shiny and red with Mr. Zoski's blood. The bull lifted Mr. Zoskie off the ground shaking his dwindled body as if he had been filled with air and now deflated. The shock of the thrust showed in every painful detail on Mr. Zoski's face. The eyes bulging, the body stiffening, the spastic shivering of a dying person.
The bull let out a bellow of triumph. A bellow so loud it quieted the entire herd. The bull lifted his head high, his neck taut, and disgustedly flung the broken body of Mr. Zoskie off his horn. The body flew to the back of the barn and crashed into the wall falling in a heap to the dirt and grim on the floor.
The rain pelted on the tin roof, and I recall how fitting it seemed. Mr. Zoskie groaned a muffled, deep groan. Grant was kneeling before him holding Mr. Zoski's head in his hands. Grant was crying. The end of Mr. Zoski's life too sad to accept.
