The Harkers at Horseshoe Bend

January 12, 2074

Bill Harker ran as fast as his ninety-eight year old legs would take him. He was doing it. He was killing himself the way he’d dreamed of doing it for almost sixty years, made even more perfect because June was jumping with him. 

February 21, 2068

“Does it hurt, Bill?” June asked.

“Nah. I just feel a little tired is all. I’m not going anywhere, baby. I promised I’d outlive you. No act of God or heart attack is going to change that.”

“I’m scared, Bill.”

“Don’t be. I’m not. I won’t die until I’m damn well ready, June.”

“You old fool. You still think you’re invincible.”

“Nothing’s killed me yet, has it?”

Bill lie in the hospital bed looking at June’s hands, holding them in his. 

“I love your hands.” She rolled her eyes.

“My hands are old and ugly. Look at them. You can practically see through them.”

“You never could take a compliment. Just say thank you then shut your mouth.” She laughed. “Can you believe it’s my heart?” he said. “I mean, you’re the nervous one.”

“You can’t leave me, Bill. Not yet.”

“Fine. I’ll stay—on one condition.”

“Anything.”

“I want to do it with the lights on.”

March 11, 2008

“He’s perfect! Look at his little schmeckle!”

Bill was standing over the infant bed in the delivery room looking down at their son. The nurse picked him up and carried him to June. It would be June’s first time to hold him, her first time to see his face. As soon as the doctor pulled him out of June, he and the nurse rushed him away to aspirate his throat. They said he was “bubbly.” He had fluid in his airway. The nurse handed him to June. Bill sat on the edge of the bed. 

“He’s beautiful.” June said.

“You did it, baby. They said it couldn’t be done and you did it.”

June looked at her newborn son.

“Welcome to earth, Holden.”

April 14, 2004

Finally, after two years of trying, June missed her period. She was thirteen days late. Shivering in the unseasonable cold they jogged to the Walgreens on the corner, bought three pregnancy tests, then started back towards their apartment. 

“Nervous?” he said.

“What do you think?” 

“Has it really been two years?”  

“Two years,” she said.

“I was beginning to think I might be shooting blanks.” 

“Me too,” she laughed.

“Hey!”

She took Bill’s hand as they walked up the stairs to their apartment, the noisy white plastic sack swinging back and forth in June’s cold hand. 

May 5, 2001

After June nearly fell into the pool at Carter’s house, Bill 

grabbed her by the hand and whispered, “Are you ready?”

“I’ve been ready since the night we met,” she said.

“I’m calling B.S. on that, dearest, but I appreciate the 

sentiment.” She laughed. He was always making her laugh.

“Shall we?” he said.

She beamed. Thirty-one of their closest friends and family were at Carter’s house for a party in honor of what? No one but Bill and June knew, not even Carter. Outkast’s “Ms. Jackson” suddenly stopped and the place went quiet. Everyone looked around. Bill and June clinked forks against their champagne glasses. June cleared her throat. 

“Good evening friends—and Carter—” 

Carter raised his middle finger high and smiled at Bill and June. 

“and thank you for coming to our wedding."

June 21, 1999

“June what?” Bill said.

“Banks,” said Carter.

“June Banks.”  

“Just started. She’s a physical therapist,” Carter said. “Gonna fuck her?”

Bill laughed, “ I dunno.” 

About four-hundred staff and their dates moved around Isenberg Clinic’s Summer Solstice Gala fundraiser at Vellara Plaza. Despite the faux street lamps illuminating the ballroom, the waxing moon shone through the plaza’s titanic skylight. The smell of lilacs.

June was shaking hands with Carol and Martin Truitt, a pair of big name donors. She was wearing a nude shift dress with a round neck and short sleeves, her raven hair braided in a loose ponytail resting on her left shoulder. Bill wanted to go talk to her but he hesitated. For Bill to hesitate was nothing new—nervous as a school boy. 

“Are you going to stare the poor girl down all night or are you going to talk to her?”

Carter Belmont—Bill’s closest colleague and friend, a thirty-one year old neurosurgeon and a notorious Lothario—elbowed him.

For years Bill had said he’d know when he saw her. He couldn’t put his finger on it but there was something otherworldly about her, something that made him feel like a kid again, the same way he had felt when he was fifteen and fell madly in puppy love with Samantha Sutton at summer camp. It was happening, the feeling he thought couldn’t experience anymore: butterflies.

“Pussy!” Carter coughed into his fist.

“Yeah, yeah, asshole. Here goes nothing.”  

July 3, 2004

While they waited on the doctor, Bill and June held hands. They were nervous and excited. He kissed her hand and smiled at her. 

“I think we should name the baby Doctor,” Bill said. “That way, even if our kid’s a screw-up, people will still have to call him Doctor Harker.” 

June rolled her eyes. Bill laughed. 

“At least you think you’re funny,” she said.

Dressed in a white coat, Dr. Barber entered his office. He sat down at the desk. June squeezed Bill’s hand. She took a deep breath, eager to find out if they were having a boy or a girl.

“Mrs. Harker, your FSH levels indicate POF; that’s why you haven’t had your period in three months.”

Behind Dr. Barber’s desk, lining the shelves were medical reference books and pictures of his wife and three boys. The room smelled of cinnamon and latex. Dr. Barber, a tall bald man who was fifty but looked forty, folded his hands and leaned forward on his desk.

“You’re a little young for it. Most likely the chemotherapy contributed to the condition.”  

“What do we do?” said June. “Will the baby be alright?” 

“The baby?” said Dr. Sutton.

June nodded.

“You haven’t had your period in three months because of the POF. Again, the chemotherapy is most likely the cause.”

Bill could see fear in her eyes.

"English."

“You keep saying that. What’s POF?” she said.

“Premature ovarian failure.” 

“Will the baby be okay?” she said.

“Mrs. Harker, there’s no baby.”

She put her hands on her stomach. “I lost the baby?” 

“No, no, Mrs. Harker. You’re not pregnant. You never were.”

She looked like she was going to cry. Bill turned to her and grabbed her hand. 

“It’s okay, baby. We can try again. We’ll keep trying,” Bill said. “Whatever it takes.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr. Harker.”

They both turned to Barber. Bill looked sick. 

“It’s called premature menopause, Mrs. Harker. I’m sorry. Outside of a miracle you’ll never be able to get pregnant.” 

After she let go of Bill’s hand she wrapped her arms around herself. She was devastated. Her eyes closed, her body tremored, and she began to sob. Bill went to put his arms around her but she pushed him away. 

August 8, 2015

As Bill, June, and Holden peered down at the ribbon of Colorado River wrapped around Horseshoe Bend their hair stood on end. The water looked green from where they perched on a cliff’s edge. With no other tourists around and no guardrails to interrupt the panoramic view they had their own private Grand Canyon.

“Holy shit, dad. We’re so high!” Holden said. 

“Holy shit is right, kid,” Bill said. 

“Boys!” June said. She wanted to make civilized men of them but Bill and Holden shared the philosophy that no words were bad. They were only sounds; they were only bad if they hurt somebody’s feelings. As a result of this philosophy, seven year old Holden had a mouth like a stand-up comic. Bill didn’t want anyone shaming his son because of “inappropriate” language, the way he’d been made to feel shame when he was a kid. June, on other hand, didn’t want Holden’s vocabulary so densely populated with four letter words. Admittedly, Holden’s lexicon was littered with obscenities, or “fun words” as Bill called them. Even Bill confessed that his parenting approach had backfired. His aim was to demystify bad words, but Holden’s latest original composition, a song in which he sang “fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuckhole, fuckhead, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” which by now—day six of the fuck parade—tried June, and even Bill’s patience. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuckhole. Fuckhead,” Holden sang.

“Dude,” Bill said.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“You’re more creative than that.”

“What?” 

“You’ve been saying the same word for a week. Change it up a 

little. What other words can you think of?” 

“Asshole, craphole, fart sniffer,” he sang.

“What do you think of your ‘pioneering’ parenting technique now, smarty pants?” 

“Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck,” Bill said, glaring into June’s eyes.

They both laughed. Bill took June in his arms and pulled her against him. They kissed. She licked his tongue. 

“I’m going to fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck you when we get back to the hotel tonight.” 

He loved it when she whispered. He was already getting hard. Bill grunted like a gorilla. She loved it when he grunted. She was already getting wet. She pushed Bill away.

“All right boys, picture time!” she said. “Get together. I want the water behind you.”

Bill and Holden stood near the edge of the cliff with Horseshoe Bend behind them. Bill put his arm around Holden.

“Smile, boys,” she said. “Oh, wait. Hold on. I’m too short. I can’t see the river. I’ll stand up; you squat.”

It was only for a moment that Bill let go of him to squat. Holden’s foot slipped and he fell backwards. Bill looked back in time to see Holden already sailing down the one-thousand foot drop. Already out of reach. No sound came from Bill. June ran after Holden. She would have jumped after him if Bill hadn’t tackled her and restrained her in his arms. She writhed and seized, a captured wild animal with only one cry over and over and over again: no.    

September 8, 2013

“Mommy, how do babies get made?” Holden said.

“You wanna take this one, dear?” said June. 

“Nope. Yeah, mommy, how do babies get made?” Bill smirked.

The full medical explanation is what June decided to tell six-year old Holden on the way to school that morning. He was fascinated, asking questions, talking with his hands about sperm and eggs, as if it were the greatest story ever told.

“I was a sperm? And I swam out of daddy into your stomach?”

“You sure did. And then you got too big for my belly so I pushed you out.”

 As they pulled into the circle drive, Holden said, “I have to go to class now, but I want to talk about this some more. Can we talk about this some more after school?” Impassioned, he grabbed his backpack and opened the car door. 

“Sure, Kid. Have an awesome day, Red Dragon,” Bill said. 

It was a nickname Holden had given himself. Blue Eagle was the name he’d given Bill. June was Rainbow Unicorn Princess. “I love you, kid.”

“I love you, honey,” June said. 

“Okay bye,” he said as he stepped out of the car onto the sidewalk.

Wasn’t that just like the kid to leave them hanging. As he walked away towards the front entrance to Kellerman Elementary, he skipped a little, his thumbs hooked under his backpack straps. Before he opened the door, he turned, looked at Bill and June, then he raised his left hand into the air next to his face, lifted his index finger, pinky and thumb, and smiled. After he put his hand down, he walked into the school. The big door closed behind him. 

October 8, 2015

“You have to stop saying that,” June said.

 “I should have jumped,” Bill said. “I could have done something.” 

Laws of physics didn’t stop him from imagining saving Holden as the black Lincoln Town Car drove them home after Holden’s funeral. For three months they searched and waited and hoped, but his body was never found. The best guess the rangers and police could come up with was that after the initial fall, he’d tumbled into the Colorado River. Blood but no body.

If Bill and June had to hear one more concerned voice utter, “he’ll turn up,” or “the body will turn up,” they might fall apart. They couldn’t decide which phrase hurt worse, to hear “he’ll turn up,” as if Holden were going to come walking through the front door soaking wet from the river; or to hear Holden referred to as “the body.” He wasn’t “the body.” He was their miracle baby. 

June’s amenorrhea had been misdiagnosed as premature menopause. How they found out about the misdiagnosis was when June—clinically depressed for over three years because she would never conceive—began to show.   

They decided to have the funeral without “the body.”

November 19, 2073

There was a smile in June’s grey ninety-six year-old eyes, that cold afternoon inside the atrium at Evergreen Hospice Care. Bill pushed her wheelchair along the path next to the tinkling man-made creek. 

“You know, baby, when we said our vows you said you’d stay with me forever. Frankly, I think you’re using this whole terminal cancer thing as an excuse to bail on me,” Bill said. 

“I’d stay with you ninety-six more years if I could. Well, I’d stay if you stopped trying to be funny.” 

“I still remember that dress you wore—at the hospital gala a million years ago. And your braided hair. You know, I almost didn’t have the nerve to talk to you that night. If Carter hadn’t egged me on I might not have.”

“Carter, that raunchy old dog. May he rest in peace.” 

“Who’d have thought he’d turn out to be such a decent man. He swore he’d be single for life,” he laughed. “Three kids and a wife. Fifty-two years they were married before he croaked.”

“We’re so old,” she said. “I never imagined I’d live so long. I never imagined a life this long could seem so short.” She sighed. “I’m leaving you, Bill. I can feel it. I don’t have long.” 

“I know, June. You go whenever you want. You gave me a beautiful life. You saw me through three heart attacks. You gave me a beautiful son. I’m the happiest man alive.”

“Our beautiful son. Seven years old for eternity,” she said. “I can’t wait to see him.” 

He started to cry, took her hand and kissed it. “Do you remember the time we all went to the town square to see the lighting of Christmas tree and Holden got sick?”

“He was five. He threw up in the trash can on the square,” he said.

“We tried to take him home, but he wouldn’t leave before he saw the lights,” she said. 

“When the lights turned on he was throwing up in a trash can, but he never stopped watching the lights,” he said

“He didn’t want to miss it,” she smiled. “Bill?”

“June.”

“I want to go now, like this. I love this moment and I’d like for it to be the one I go out on,” she said.

“Now?” 

“Now, Bill. Will you tuck me in?” she laid down on the stone path next to the small waterfall.

“Here?” he said. She nodded.

He laid down next to her and she took his hands in hers, “you were a good man, Bill Harker, a good husband and a good father. Promise me one last thing.”

“Anything.”

“Take my ashes to Horseshoe Bend and throw them over the cliff where Holden fell. Maybe it’ll make it easier to find him when I get there.” He squeezed her hands in his. 

“I promise.”

She smiled at him, said “thank you,” and closed her eyes.

December 24, 2014

“What is it?” Holden said.

“It’s a dream sword,” said Bill. 

“What’s it for?” 

“It keeps you safe when you’re asleep in your dreams,” said June.

They sat crisscross apple sauce on Holden’s bed next to the little miniature Christmas tree on his nightstand. Holden was scared of the new house and he missed his old room. Every night since they moved in two weeks ago he’d been awoken by nightmares of a hooded beast. 

“How does it work?” 

“Well,” he said. “It can do anything you want it to. It can be big or small and it can transform into anything.”

“What if I lose it?” 

“You can’t,” she said. “It’s a part of you and you can never lose it.”

“Really? I think I feel it.”

“It’s in there all right,” Bill said. “Now get some sleep, kiddo. Tomorrow’s Christmas day.” 

Holden closed his eyes and rubbed his palm. He whispered, dream sword.

January 12, 2074

He sat down and looked out over the cliff’s edge at Horseshoe Bend. The air was warm for January and it smelled like earth. The sun was in his eyes and the breeze blew across his fat old nose. It was a good day. In front of him were her ashes. He removed the lid of the yellow gold urn and looked down at what was left of love of his life. Bill peeled off his jeans, t-shirt, and his underwear. He took a handful of June and rubbed it on his naked body. He took another handful, kissed it, then it put it in his mouth. The rest of the ashes he scooped up and held in his two hands. 

As fast as his ninety-eight year old legs would take him, Bill Harker ran to the edge of the cliff overlooking Horseshoe Bend and soared toward eternity.

Here we come, Red Dragon.