The Color of Ordinary Time Read Free

the landmarks in my mind. The rusted thresher left out in a field for at least a decade. The Lutheran Church that I always swore I’d stop and look around one day. A man-made lake next to a corn field. The tumbledown farm house with the antique ferris wheel out front.
    It started to rain as I got closer to Cahokia. Not one of those weak rains that only left the air hot and cloying, but a nice, strong, steady rain that would leave the air cooler. I didn’t consider it a bad sign, but a blessing. There was no thunder or lighting, no flooding. It seemed to be an omen boding no ill.
    When I got to Cahokia I pulled into the gravel lot at the base of Monks’ Mound. Ivy was very much one for tradition, and this was ours. Every year, before I joined her at her parent’s house for two or three weeks of vacation, we stopped off here. We had climbed the mound together for the first time the summer we were eleven, and we’d climbed it together every summer since. We always have nacho chips and cream soda at the top.
    I will say that in order to understand how good nacho chips and warm cream soda taste at the top of Monks’ Mound you have to have started the habit early. Also, it’s best not to invite the park police to your impromptu picnic.
    Ivy is almost never late. So after I had waited ten minutes in my car, with the rain slipping down the windshield, I began to worry. After fifteen minutes I fervently wished that I had given in and gotten a cell phone when everyone else started to get them. At the twenty minute mark I started to consider going over to the interpretation center and seeing if they had a pay phone. I was saved the trip when Ivy’s blue sedan pulled into the parking lot two minutes later.
    The rain had mostly let up by that point, so I slipped out of my car, relieved to see her, and not at all bothered by the remaining sprinkles. The air had cooled, and a breeze had come up from the east. At least it smelled like the east. Like damp corn fields and grass, instead of the city to the west.
    When she stepped out of her own car, I thought Ivy looked pale. I didn’t remark on it as we hugged. Then, empty-handed, Ivy turned down the gravel and dirt path that led to the base of the mound. I followed her.
    In silence we started to climb the mud-slicked train-tie stairs. Only twice before had I seen Ivy struck silent. I pondered this as we climbed, our sneakers squishing.
    When we reached the the top of the first level, Ivy glanced over at me. “I read somewhere that the ancients believed that climbing their temple was a meditation that would bring them closer to heaven.”
    “Heaven or Nirvana?”
    Ivy shrugged.
    “Sounds like Angkor Wat,” I offered. Again Ivy merely shrugged. In my stomach I felt a sharp pain that made me suck in my breath hard as I realized the truth of what was going on. Someone, somehow, had broken Ivy’s heart. Or maybe not broken her heart, but struck at the very essence of her being. This was no unfaithful boyfriend, or even a lost job. This was disaster.
    When we reached the top of the second level, Ivy led us over to the far railing that would allow us a view of the green plane below. If it had been a clear day we could have seen all the way into St. Louis — the Arch, and the vague skyline beyond. That day what stretched out before us was wet grass and trees made brighter by the gray clouds overhead.
    “I forgot the nacho chips,” said Ivy, leaning on the rail.
    “No biggie,” I said, consciously mirroring Ivy’s attitude.
    I let her be quiet for a while. I could hear her mentally sorting and straightening. Putting all the information I was sure she was going to give me in neat little stacks on the desk of her mind. This would be an important step. Ivy didn’t like turmoil. If I allowed her all the time she wanted, I would get the facts. If I rushed her, I would get emotional vomit she would later be embarrassed that I heard and saw.
    “I’m going to tell you a story, and I want