THE RAPTURE
BY John Thomas Tuft
Martin is a man who believes in being ready for anything. His greatest desire is to forfend any great surprises in his life. Because his greatest fear is being exposed. Martin did not have any deep, dark secrets of any portent, but he is filled with fear of being seen for what he is. And in Martin’s own eyes he is not lovable. It is a heavy burden to carry through life. You are not lovable, so you need to prove it before it is proven to you. And on and on. Martin works at a record shop, something once thought to be long gone, but now a chic born again way of listening to music. The shop had two Pro-Ject Debut Carbon Evo turntables up front behind the counter that Bluetoothed sound to large speakers around the store in this age of wireless wonder. Martin loved to busy himself standing at a rack of records and flipping through them one by one. In case you are wondering, before it even dropped, Taylor Swift’s new album sold over 1 million vinyl copies. Everything old becomes new again.
In any event, Martin’s job entailed looking for covers that might have been opened and the vinyl disc removed for whatever reason. This kind of solitary detail work suited him just fine as he meticulously went from bin to bin, flipping the records in their cardboard covers forward front to back. As he was doing this one day, he came across the first album of Crosby, Stills and Nash from 1969. The faded cover was obviously worn and frayed. Martin knew that the store did not carry used records, so he pulled this one out. As he lifted it, the corner of a piece of notebook paper slipped partly out of the cover. He pulled it out and opened the folded sheet. It was a note, written in the fancy, girlish scroll of a young woman from that era, with little hearts used to dot each i. It said: “To Whoever Finds This, know that the Rapture left me behind. And I am good with that. Amen and peace out.”
There was no name indicating who wrote the letter other than the first name of the subject of the story. Martin took the album and letter back to the office and sat alone to read it. “Charlie and I started dating in ninth grade. We were sweethearts all through high school. Our senior year, this was our favorite record. Then in December 1969 they started the draft lottery. Charlie’s number was in the end of the first third of numbers, but he decided to enlist in the Marines after graduation. We both went to church and prayed that he would come home to me. And he did. Sort of. I like to think that he got Raptured.” Martin picked up the album cover and removed the disc, looking for more identification of whose story was being revealed, but there was nothing beside the letter. He put the record on to play as he continued to read.
“Prom night was a big deal. We went to the Holiday Inn after the wild party with our friends. While Charlie was in boot camp I learned I was pregnant. I was afraid to tell Mommy and Daddy and I didn’t want Charlie worrying while he was over in Vietnam. But when I saw him at the big graduation ceremony, it was kind of obvious. We both swore that our love was enough. We would raise our baby together. And then he shipped out. Six months later our beautiful girl was born. A month later I learned the Charlie was wounded. A shell fragment hit him in the head and damaged his brain. Guinevere was six months old before she ever saw her Daddy. I think he smiled when I put her on his chest, but I’m not sure. His eyes just stared. Like there was nothing going on behind them.” Martin stopped reading. He stood up to pace the floor. How did a letter like this get into the store?
He went back out into the store while the song “You Don’t Have to Cry” blared through the speakers. He asked the others if someone had dropped off some old records, but no one could shed light on his discovery. For some reason he did not reveal the existence of the letter. He went back and resumed reading as the song “Wooden Ships” played. “I did my best to provide for my little girl. And every night I prayed for Charlie to be raptured. I don’t think he could even think anymore. No smiles, no words, no touches. I missed him something fierce. I started to dream that Jesus came back for him. Please, oh please.” Martin got an uneasy feeling, but he could not stop reading. “One night I had this strong feeling that I needed to get to the VA hospital real quick. I rushed there and ran to Charlie’s room. There was the angel of the Lord standing over him. He put a pillow over Charlie’s face and held it there. Until Charlie was ready to go.” Martin dropped the letter. “Helplessly Hoping” played; inside his head it felt the voice of God.
He noticed some writing on the other side of the paper. He picked it up. “People that need gods and demons find comfort over being told what to do while waiting for someone to come take them away and make it better…” It abruptly ended. Except for one last note. “Charlie is gone. You are left behind.” Martin slowly ripped the letter into tiny pieces and threw them into the trash…
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
johntuftbooks.com
John Thomas Tuft 