The Voice of a Moonbow

"That's what you get for twelve thousand?" Art Berkshire said. "We could have bought a house for that when we were first married." 

"Yes, dear," Betsy said with a tear in her eye.

"I mean, it's robbery. Instead of suits, they should have worn masks."

Betsy didn't respond, and she knew she wouldn't need to for a while because his rants required little response. Fifty-three years had taught her when she should chime in.

"You know they reuse the coffin shell but still charge for it. Highway robbery!" Betsy looked out the window as they drove on the familiar country road that cut through the forest. "The actual coffin is an ugly concrete box, but they don't want anyone to see that one. And don't even get me started on the cheesy video that cost a grand. I bet the Funeral Director's eight-year-old kid put it together." Orange and red leaves fell like snowflakes while the old couple turned up a gravel road leading to their house. "Why so many flowers? What a waste. They could have donated the money to the Shriners. The entire service only lasted thirty minutes. Do you know how much they made per hour?"

"No, dear."

"Well, it's a lot."

They pulled into their drive and sat in the car. Art had nothing more to complain about, although he tried hard to think of something. Anything would work if it kept him from thinking about his best friend lying in the ugly concrete box.

Betsy turned and looked at her husband with tear-filled eyes, 'I know you miss him. We all miss him."

* * * * *

A couple of weeks passed since the funeral. Art was all packed and ready to leave for Cumberland Falls. Betsy made him lunch and then double-checked his luggage while he was eating. He forgot underwear. He always forgot something. She packed the missing items into his case and rolled it to the car.

"You drive safe. Don't leave your cell phone in the car or hotel again. Do you hear me?" Besty said.

"I won't. I'll even keep it charged."

"Call me as soon as you get settled into your room."

"I will. I love you."

"Love you too."

Art pulled away, looking in the rear mirror. She always waved, and it was his job to acknowledge. How many times have they gone through this ritual? He couldn't do the math, but he knew it was well over thirty years.

"This dang trip is taking forever," Art said to himself. "It doesn't feel right." Art thought back to their trips to Cumberland Falls. "When did we first go? 1982? No, it was '83." He recalled every detail. The bright full moon. The midnight shadows. Getting ice cream at the snack shop. Shopping at the gift store. And the crowd jockeying closer to see the ghostly moonbow. The first time Art saw it, he was mesmerized. His lifelong friend, Barren, felt the same. However, the wives weren't as impressed. "It's just a colorless rainbow," they both said. They didn't appreciate how remarkable it was to live so close to one of only two places in the world to have a consistent moonbow. 

He checked into the Lodge, unpacked, and took a late afternoon nap after dinner. He knew he would need one to be awake enough to carry out his plan to be the last one in the Park. He needed to be alone with the moonbow. At midnight, he drove to the falls and hunted for a spot to park but couldn't find one. He was forced to create one on the shoulder of a side road near the parking lot.

He exited his car and immediately heard the roar of Cumberland Falls. It stirred memories of Barren, who would get excited at just the sound of the Falls. Art would chaff him, "It's just the parking lot, you crazy old geezer." But nothing would curtail Barron's boyish fun.

Since it was tradition, and not because he wanted one, Art bought a chocolate chip ice cream cone, something he's done for every year. He walked through the gift shop without looking at anything, then went to the Falls. A crowd had already formed when he arrived, but this was no surprise to Art. It was to be expected on a clear, full-moon night. He joined and slowly inched his way to the rail. As he got closer, he could smell the mist from the Falls. Finally, he was close enough to see the ghostly off-white bow hanging in the air, glowing like a distant city. He smiled.

After a few minutes, he moved to the back of the crowd to allow others to take their turn. He went through the disjointed line many times, and each time it grew smaller. The fourth time he came to the moonbow, he got emotional. "You told me to come here," Art's face tightened, and he closed his eyes to keep the tears from forming. "But it's not the same."

"Are you alright?" A small boy asked.

Art composed himself, "Mind your own business, kid."

"Who were you talking to?"

"Myself! Now leave me alone."

Art then heard something that startled him. A misty voice, "You are always so darn grouchy."

The boy said nothing but was looking at Art.

"What did you say, kid?"

"I didn't say anything."

"How do you know my name?" Art was close to panic and wide-eyed as he stared at the kid.

"It wasn't me."

The crowd began to nudge them so they could have their turn.

Art was freaking out. Was he hearing things? That must be it. Between the falls and the people, he just thought he heard Barron's voice. He had just realized a moment ago that the misty voice sounded like Barron's. He mechanically walked to the end of the line, thinking about those words. Barron had said those exact words to him countless times. He loved making fun of Art's grouchiness.

He continued to circle from the back to the front until the crowd dwindled enough for him to politely stay at the railing guarding the overlook. The words kept haunting him. He remembered the last time Barran told him he was grouchy. It was here last year when Art barked at an old lady hogging the overlook. "Move it along, lady," Art said.

"You don't fool me, you know," the misty voice bounced off the moonbow and reverberated. "Others only think you're a grouchy old man, but I know you're a grouchy old man."

"Barron? Is that you?" Art looked around. He was alone except for a janitor sweeping near the shops, but it couldn't have been him because he was more than a football field away. "Impossible!" He didn't believe in ghosts, but his belief system was being seriously tested.

After only a few minutes of hearing the crashing water of the falls, he began believing it was all in his head. He wanted to hear Barron. To banter. To laugh. To contemplate. To stand in silence with a friend so close, they didn't have to say anything. These desires caused him to hear Barron's voice.

"I miss you, old friend."

"It's a shame our wives never liked this place. I always thought they would have been closer friends if they had come with us," Barron's voice said.

Art looked over the rail, down to the river, through the moonbow, and over to the falls. He knew this wasn't in his head, but he couldn't find where it came from. It sounded like it came from the moonbow. He thought this should scare him, but he felt at peace instead. He stopped questioning and simply enjoyed one more conversation, real or not.

"Yeah, perhaps. How did they put it? 'We aren't State Park kind of girls.'"

"You know, the thing I love about the bow? It's unique-ness. The only other place in the world you can see this is in China, and we live just a short drive away."

"I remember," Art laughed. "You said it every year. Do you remember what I would say?" Art waited for an answer that didn't come. "You know." He paused, but nothing. "I'd growl that you said that last year. Now stop it," Art smiled. "You never did."

"Let's promise each other that if one of us kicks the bucket, the other will keep coming to the bow."

"That's why I'm here, Pollyanna," Art called Barron this whenever Art thought Barron was too optimistic or sentimental. "You sentimental fool."

"I have something I need to tell you. I have cancer. Don't worry. I'll lick it, but I just wanted you to know."

"I know." Art lowered his head and wept. He wasn't a man who cried, maybe a tear here and there, but crying was for women. However, for one of the few times in his life, he let it all out and lost control. Hot tears flowed and wouldn't stop. He clenched his teeth and cleared his throat, but the pain grew. He pounded on the rail with his fists. "I know! I know! I know!" He shouted. Then he did something he had never allowed himself to do. He yelled. He yelled like a Viking going into battle, like a grizzly bear dying in agony. He yelled until he had no more strength and then yelled a few more times. When he was finished, he felt physically drained. He could barely stand and almost feel the adrenaline pumping through his body. He wasn't an excitable guy, so it was a strange emotion for him.

After some time, he began to return from his grief. He noticed the moon shadows again, the sound of the falls, and the moonbow. He took a few deep breaths and composed himself. A feeling of peace washed over him because he knew Barron was in a better place and that he'd see him again someday. Looking at the moonbow, he smiled, a little of his orneriness returning, and said, "I know, old friend and I hate to be the one to have to tell you this, but you didn't lick it."

Art stayed on the overlook for another hour, hoping to hear Barron's voice again, but he never did. The misty voice vanished. Art tried to process the night. He struggled to understand what happened. Did Barron return from Heaven and speak to him? Or was this all in his head? After much thought, he realized everything the voice said was words he heard the real Barron say while standing before the moonbow. It was like the moonbow recorded the phrases, then played them back.

"Sir," the janitor said. "I hate to bother you, but we are closed. Have been for a while."

"I'm sorry, but thank you for letting me stay this long."

"I remember you. I've been here for over twenty years and seen you and another guy every year. You came alone this year?"

"Yeah," Art paused. "Well, not completely alone. I had the moonbow."

"Ah, yes, sir. I figure you and I think alike about that bow. You have to. Why else would you come back as many times as you have?"

"What do you mean?"

"The bow is unique. I've seen people react to it in different ways. Some just yawn because they can't hear it. But the ones who hear it keep coming back. You've got to be one of those who can hear the bow."

"You’ve heard the bow? I know what you mean. I'm sure I heard it tonight. That explains so much."

"Yes, sir. I've heard the bow. But right now, I'd like to hear my wife saying breakfast is ready."

Art and the janitor walked to the parking lot together, not talking but listening to the roar of the water. They also strained to hear if the moonbow had anything else to say. It didn't, but they both knew it would again when needed.