The Bodyguard ("Pilgrim" story #100)

PILGRIM
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother isn’t storming around inside her home anymore. She’s been stopped dead in her tracks and by what she least expected. That damn, dusty old battered photo album. This past week she threw it away three times. Somehow it never seems to stay there where it belongs. It’s as if it were ganging up on her with the detectives. But all these images of the doomed town where she grew up—they have nothing to do with anything—and it doesn’t matter who took the pictures. The past is the past. It’s long since all under water. And, anyway, she’s much too busy now with her plans for the future.

After all her ponderings about the volcanic lingerie museum, she’s decided Hawaii might not be a bad place to hide. And also honeymoon. Her seeing that newspaper article had to be a sign from Jesus. It’s obviously what He wants for her. And who is she to say “no” to her Everlasting Redeemer? As soon as her bridal shower and perfect wedding are complete and her and her bridegroom are safely outside the city limits, she’s going to release her Savior from His Victorian seclusion and give Him a big kiss. She’s so happy that (despite the obvious setbacks) everything is turning out so well. Yes, her Hindu probably won’t at first jump for the idea of tiki torches and colorful umbrella drinks in Hawaii. But she knows it’ll only be because of how busy he’s been planning some mystical hoo-ha newlywed treks for them across India—or some other equally absurd spot where you probably can’t get hot water (let alone clean towels). She’d allowed him to think she’d be tickled by such a frivolous adventure, just like she’d let him think a lot of things. She knows the dawn of his true awakening lurks around the next bend. Once they’re lawfully fused into one entity—that will be the moment his eyes open. He’ll be Christian before he knows what hit him. Other transformations will follow. In the end, after all her construction work, she knows he’ll be happy. Happy as a clam. And she can see the new him now as clearly as Hawaii.

But she’s not actually looking at Hawaii. She’s staring at the photo album. It’s open on her lap to a snapshot of an old bicycle in that dingy mining town of her childhood. A baseball card is clothes-pinned through the rusted spokes of the bike’s front wheel. She can’t see this baseball card in the photo, but she knows it’s there. She can hear it. Flapping. It’s so pathetic, she can’t believe such a sound ever made her happy. But what is she thinking? She has no time for this, she’s supposed to be on the lamb! The ketchup detectives are coming for her ring and to stop her from the island pilgrimage Jesus so passionately wants her to make. She must hurry. She has to hop into her car and speed to the bridal shower and everything else on tonight’s tight schedule. For crying out loud, she hasn’t even booked plane tickets yet! She must close this ratty album. The past is the past. A card flapping against bike spokes has nothing to do with tonight’s journey.