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At the Edge
At the Edge
At the Edge
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At the Edge

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Preacher-fugitive from his Kansas congregation and his faith, Ed returns to the Bitterroot Mountains, sets up camp, and takes a new identity above the Clark Fork River. No accusations. No temptations. No abuse. He keeps to himself, makes camp safe from bears and rain, but his inner life turns to disturbing flashbacks and nightmares. With unexpected help from unexplained visitors and a strange girl whose hot tub sits below the edge of his cliff, he begins to confront his past and finds whether he can find a home with Nature and himself.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherAuthorHouse
Release dateMar 16, 2012
ISBN9781468552058
At the Edge
Author

Virginia Fortner

This book isnt about promotion (Eaton) surfboards. The storys mine, a California boy who grew up in surfings golden age. I couldnt weigh the gold, but I felt it. It was the age before commercialization and crowds, before the hordes arrived. If I omitted anyone, it was inadvertent. If I included everyone who influenced my life, it would look like the phone directory. (Mike Eatons adventures include cars, boats, gliders, families, surfboards, and paddling oceans.) As a Hawaii tale-teller, Mike had me hooked long before we began his lifes story. They usually ended in a chuckle, often at himself. While writing, I gained great respect for a man who kept his smile as he broke records, shaped surfboards, gained friends, and met late-life health challenges. He exemplifies his own advice, Dont give up! (Virginia Fortner has published poetry, short stories, travel articles, essays, biographies, a novel, At the Edge.)

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    At the Edge - Virginia Fortner

    Chapter 1

    Ed Moffitt chose his hiding place in the same abrupt way he left the young girl. He pulled off the darkening ribbon of Montana’s Highway 200 into aspen and evergreens. It hadn’t been bad, driving for days, mostly on coffee and Dr. Pepper, mind numbed against an occasional wash of fear or shame. Fear of the past or the future could be tamped down to a manageable lump in his gut as long as he kept going without much thought. Now he’d need to focus, maybe think things through tomorrow.

    An unwelcome thought batted against the edge of his weariness: Isn’t that always my way? Ed cleared enough mental cobwebs to decide not to chance staying long in the Ford with a Kansas license.

    As he put his hand on the door handle, something jumped from the brush and started across the road toward the mountain. It was only a doe, her white held high, a white banner as she headed toward her climb.

    The climb. That was the problem. Fear pressed at Ed’s temples like the vice Dad had used to keep things from moving when he worked on them when he was a kid. That was almost four decades and a few miles from a part of this valley. Only the mountains looked the same—high, jagged, and edged with trees.

    A three-quarter moon played hide and seek with cloud fluff as Ed sat a moment on the Ford’s broken-in seat and strengthened resolve to go uphill. It helped that, on the Clark Fork River bank, all was peaceful.

    He thought it too risky to bed down on the flat, with inquisitive fishermen, sight-seers, and animals coming along. But that cliff behind him looked awfully high. He didn’t know how far up he could get.

    Ed sat still to summon another measure of courage, put a hand on the door handle, and talked to himself. His vertigo would be fine if he stayed away from cliffs, and these rugged Cabinets wouldn’t have a lot of hikers to discover him. He’d just be sure not to look down if he ended up high. Another fleeting thought came.

    I don’t remember being afraid of heights when I was a small kid in these mountains. ‘Wonder what happened?

    Ed popped the top of his remaining Dr. Pepper. He really should have picked up a to-go salad in Missoula—or even a Subway with lots of vegetables—and started to trim up his six-foot frame going to fat. He shrugged tense shoulders—his youthful pride in their width added to their painful droop now. One long slug and he set the empty can as neatly as he could on the floorboards. No need to add littering to my list of sins, he told himself, remembering the dumpsters filled with newspapers and containers of crushed cans his church had cashed in to send kids on mission work trips. With the sweet soda still on his tongue, he grabbed his bag and made a resolution. He’d kick the caffeine-sugar habit, along with his old life. This would be his last carbonated calories for a while, maybe forever.

    Tall pines and leafy trees thinned as he struck out up the rocky slope through early summer brush. His bedroll lolled over the uphill shoulder and balanced the heavy suitcase in the other hand. Lord, he thought, fifty five is a little late to start climbing mountains again, especially the rocky Cabinet range. He pushed on up a ravine, blood pounding in his ears, ankles wobbling over rocks. One of them slid and clattered to his right for what seemed eternity. Fear clutched his solar plexus, worse than any felt on the long road behind the wheel. Had he come all this way to end up at the bottom or a rockslide? Not that he didn’t deserve that kind of Hell. He propped the suitcase on the steep incline, wishing he had taken time to find a backpack before he left Kansas City.

    Ed thought wryly that it would’ve proven pretty hard to stuff preacher’s clothes in a backpack, let alone carry them to national conventions. He guessed his backpacks got thrown away when he took his first pastorate. He’d carried one like another arm as a kid in this valley.

    He felt around to dislodge a boulder, heaved it toward the gulch, and thought he heard a faint splash. Better stay low and close to the stream. There wasn’t much water in the Cabinets, he recalled, so this was a lucky stop. Another lucky break was the cloud covering the moon. He couldn’t see how steep it was down the ravine, even if he sneaked a look.

    Thank you, Lord, he said from habit, hearing nothing in response. In place of the old feeling of surety that he and his Kansas City flock were among the chosen, guilt clawed its way into his mind.

    How many people did he take down that primrose path? They’d made the papers with the soup kitchen, Interfaith Hospitality, prison visits, Habitat for Humanity trips; such good folks, so proud of the Kingdom work, so quick to follow where he led. They deserved better than the betrayal he’s given them.

    Images emerged from the blur of days on the road. This could be Saturday night; that would mean he’d be putting polishing touches on his sermon for the next morning. He winced at the imaginings clustering in his head—his bewildered congregation gathering in their Sunday best, the organist playing an extra hymn, the robed choir in place, and his note clutched below Sister McLellan’s ample breast.

    Beside her mother in the right-front pew, Sallianne McLellan would turn mascara-accented eyes toward the pulpit. She’d fluff the curl she sometimes chewed, smile at the thought of hearing his voice for a 20-minute sermon, getting herself ready to mentally trace him from balding forehead to shoulders. Thoughts of sweet confessions about her Sunday morning fantasy still brought an unbidden smile and stirrings of longing in Ed’s chest.

    He visualized how it played out each week, more delicious because Sallianne sat beside her mother and his head deaconess, Sister McLellan. Sitting primly beside her mother, Sallianne ran her eyes over, then beneath folds of his black robe to imagine twirling his dark chest hairs, finger-skipping down to tickle his leg. He invariably felt fire and an embarrassing erection hidden by the pulpit each week since Saillianne, girl-woman, had described her Sunday morning ritual imaginings. She had then enacted it, quite realistically and in greater detail, behind his locked office door.

    That was the day he’d told her not to worry because he had a great deal of self-discipline, enough for both of them. They could keep on with her delightful little games. And they did, for a while.

    Trying to ignore the itch tearing up both thighs, he painfully brought himself back to the Cabinet mountain climb. Ed shifted the suitcase and bedroll to the left for ballast on the steep hillside. So far so good. No real vertigo thoughts. The path was fairly wide, but his breathing and heartbeat let him know he was climbing, all 250 pounds of him protesting with each uphill step.

    Pictures of Sister McLellan persistently reopened his mind’s eye. He knew she would not glance at Sallianne, nor the choir, just wait for the organ to grind down and leave enough silence for the most patient of 800 worshipers to squirm and realize he wasn’t coming through the front side door. Then the good sister would walk importantly to his pulpit, adjust the microphone, and read his note in clear, righteous tones.

    Dear Congregation,

    By the time you read this, I will be far away. I have increasingly become aware I’ve been living a lie. For some time, I’ve deceived myself, thinking the good I did justified my continued leadership here. I was wrong. The hypocrisy became too much to bear. I am leaving you your faith while it is still intact. My sin is too great for your forgiveness. I will not be found. Being a practical man, I have taken last Sunday’s offering to sustain physical needs while I fight my way out of the spiritual morass into which I have willingly wandered. You were warm and generous people. You deserve better than I have given you.

    Edward Moffitt

    Sister McLellan, with mouth set against memories of Sallianne’s father who had vanished without a word, would leave his note on the pulpit. Without a preacher, there would be no morning service until the deacons met Monday night and decided the church’s next step. Her morning’s work for the Lord done, his head deaconess would grab her daughter’s hand and march the aisle’s length. Gasps, whispered questions, and angry speculations would ignite like wildfire by the time she reached the church doors. Sallianne wouldn’t say a word, perhaps for days. Ed knew, though, that her anger would fight its way out in Lord-knew-what words or acts. Only this time he wouldn’t be there as a sounding board, as he had been when her daddy left. A soft, grim chuckle escaped as he thought of the hours spent in his office with Sallianne crying and yelling by turns and his enjoying the whole show. At thirteen, she was one powerful little actress and probably the strongest believer in her productions.

    Some other unsuspecting male—he was sure of that—would help her process powerful feelings, channel anger, and finally come to some degree of understanding. At least that was her journey when he had counseled Salliane. Now he was the cause of the anger and hoped she kept it a secret. Best not to speculate on how—or with whom—that might play out.

    Ed allowed the regret to knife through him for only a moment, then firmly resolved to put all of it—Kansas City, Saillianne, his past 39 years—out of his mind. He’d ended up back in Montana to get away from the temptations that came with his former do-gooding lifestyle. No more praying for forgiveness. No more saving souls. Maybe, in these mountains away from everybody and everything, he could find a way to save his own.

    I’ll just hide out and see if I can make some sense out of who I really am, why I let life become such a sorry mess.

    Pain knifed his left ankle, and he fell uphill. The bedroll, flung ahead, sounded like it caught in a nearby bush. The suitcase skated away down the dark mountain. At 250 pounds, he knew he’d gather deathly momentum if he started the long slide downhill. Razor-sharp pain sliced from ankle to knee. He groaned, rolled over on his good leg wedged against a rock, tested his weight, and sat right back down. Moving to hands and knees, he felt his way across a treeless area punctuated by sharp rocks. He reached a flat area just behind the bushes that caught his bedroll. Already half unrolled, it easily doubled back over his sweaty body. He was suddenly freezing, shivering—from fright or the moon’s having moved into a cloud shadow, he couldn’t tell. The ankle’s flashing pain dulled as he fell into exhausted sleep.

    Chapter 2

    Ed opened his eyes to dark stillness. His wriggled his nearly-numb toes and looked up at a velvet-and-diamonds sky. Piercing awareness of a sprinkle of stars streamed into patterns—Big Dipper, Little Dipper, Ursas Major and Minor. He traced the Greater Bear’s tail up the handle of the Big Dipper and moved from its lip to the North Star. Ursa Minor, Little Bear, slipped easily into the Little Dipper configuration with the tail becoming the long ladle. For a moment, he was a Clark Fork Valley kid again, eager for hunting season to begin, lying in his fold-over sleeping bag next to Dad’s long mummy bag. Ed had pointed out configurations he’d learned from the visitor who had come to Paradise School for a week of fifth grade, hands-on science. His dad and mom had expressed doubts about that departure from book learning. We don’t pay taxes and sacrifice for you to stand outside and gawk at the sky when you’re needed at home milking and tending horses.

    Ed had pleaded daily. With no brothers or sisters to help with the farm work, his parents worried about any new change that came along to threaten their routine. He dutifully kept his promise to do his early chores, and Dad’s attitude had softened into a kind of grudging respect for Ed’s sky knowledge. After that, he’d set his alarm and nearly danced out to feed the horses, with Pegasus and surrounding configurations doing their own cosmic dance in his head.

    He skipped memories ahead 40 years to Kansas City. The best he could do was look up in the parking lot after a late deacon’s meeting and pick out one, maybe two stars from the city lights’ glow. Usually, he couldn’t avoid a disorienting searchlight substituting for stars, spanning the sky to announce another multimillion-dollar franchise’s grand opening.

    He’d missed starlight’s clarity. Once, with Kids for Jesus in his backyard for an evening swim party, he’d gathered them into a circle on newly-laid patio stones and pointed out constellations. The children had giggled at Orion’s Belt, jumped on his back and tickled him into a delicious, wriggling tangle.

    He’d noticed blond Sissy pulling away from the hugging bodies, What is it, Sissy?

    Time for Dr. Pepper, Pastor Ed.

    You mean Prune Juice? got a chorus of Yeah!

    He’d poured chilled sodas, and the kids clinked goblets, Cheers!

    How he’d enjoy one, maybe two of those red cans they’d called prune juice now. He wondered if McGowan’s was still the local Plains grocery, remembering discounted 12-packs sitting on the soda shelves. A few cans of the Good Dr. would’ve fit well in his suitcase, the one lying down the mountain in the dark.

    A strong whiff

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