Fountain Dead

by Theresa Braun

  The dog perked her ears for a second, but curled up tighter and shut her eyes.

  Disappointed, he lay there. His heartbeat had finally slowed.

  Home sweet home. Yeah, right.

  —

  A couple of uneventful days later, Tausha and Mom pulled into the driveway with a jerking halt. Apparently, she’d bought their St. Paul neighborhood off with beer and snacks to help load up the U-Haul.

  Mark shuffled along behind his father, knowing the unloading party was about to commence. His mother shot out of the cab, her hair gathered back in a tangled mess, a hand on her forehead. Tausha hopped out and leaned her back against the passenger door.

  Wrapping his arms around his wife, Dad pressed his cheek to hers. Then he rounded the back of the vehicle and pushed the door up, the noise as loud as five steel barrels hitting the pavement.

  Afraid to assess the amount of work ahead of them, Mark stepped to his sister. “You alive?” he asked.

  “What do you think, dork?” She tapped her temple and shook her head. With a squeeze of his scrawny bicep, she smiled wryly. “Ready to work?”

  Mark flexed both arms and strode off, walking like an Egyptian, but froze when spotting a shadowy form with the outline a cowboy hat.

  His sister chortled at his antics, not seeming to notice the figure.

  “Hey, Taush,” he began.

  “What?”

  Dad whistled for the kids to pitch in for what would turn out to be several hours of manual labor, setting up the three beds, and lifting the rest of the miscellaneous furniture and possessions inside the house.

  “Nevermind.”

  By then the figure was gone.

  —

  Once Mark plunked the last box down in the study, which was a small room under the spiral staircase, he spun on his heel. While he was in the midst of considering what might be on television, Dad said, “Not so fast. Give me a hand in here, will ya?”

  Mark gulped, swiping his face with an arm as he approached the doorway.

  Steering her nose away from the room, Salem rounded a circle and coiled on the floor. She had yet to step in there, preferring almost any other area of the house.

  “Come on, how about for a couple of records?”

  This was serious. Not only were Dad’s eyes bloodshot, but he was hyper-focused, like he’d popped some speed. Mark hadn’t been bribed since his father accidentally threw out a draft of Mom’s doctoral thesis. That had been one hell of a shit storm. Father and son dumpster dove and concocted a cockamamie cover story. Dad even had to offer to re-type the whole goddamn thing.

  The stakes now weren’t as high. Nonetheless, completing this mission promised to make for one grateful parental unit, plus Mark wasn’t about to pass up the added bonus. Legit music on top of his weekly allowance. Totally rad. Not the mixed cassette tapes he’d made from the radio. The timing had to be just right to capture the entire song without recording a commercial or the DJ’s blabbering. Even then, his ear knew it was a lousy pirated copy. However, crisp sound quality and the hearing of the needle skipping along to find the grooves of the first song, that crackling static, was the stuff of instant euphoria.

  Mark mustered a second wind and soon he and his father filled the built in shelves with books, most of them medical reference. The spines sagged and some of the stitching had come loose. Threads sprouted up like spindly roots.

  There were a few mementos wedged between the volumes. Dad unwrapped a towel protecting a couple of his framed black and white prints. The contrast of the image’s light and dark was striking, the sharp angles artistic. At first glance it was hard to tell if you were looking at abstract paintings, or something more recognizable. A portfolio of these had earned him a full-ride to study photography in Chicago, an honor he passed up for a more practical and responsible road.

  Two airline tickets were tucked into the glass of one of the picture frames. Giving up his artistic dream eventually led him to the medical conference in New York, which was the very reason he ended up sitting next to his future wife. Her head was wedged between her knees during the turbulence. After caressing her back and uttering “Sweetheart, it’s going to be okay”, they’d bonded instantly. “Love at first flight,” Mom had always crooned. Mark’s favorite part of the story was how his parents had both kept the plane ticket as a keepsake, which neither of them discovered until years later.

  Mark broke down the empty boxes, flattening them under his feet, feeling a little like an astronaut walking on the moon. Going above and beyond might earn him some extra credit, possibly a bonus record; but it was more about completing a job and doing it right. When Mark committed to something, he didn’t half-ass it. It was a flaw his father had joked was just the type of attribute to list on a future resume. My worst quality is that I’m too committed, too hung up on the details.

  Ripping open the cardboard flaps, Dad fished out the rest of the books, as well as his antique chest of surgical tools dating to the 1700s. They’d always been in the family, and grandpa had kicked the bucket before divulging exactly where they’d come from. Healing the human body, or at least knowing how to do it with Western medicine, went back generations—the reason Dad’s family patriarchs practically shredded his photography scholarship from beyond the grave.

  Dad slid the chest onto an upper shelf, propping the frames up against the front of it. Whether that was a commentary about his chosen path, or an out of sight out of mind type deal, was hard to say. Mark perused his father’s face for an answer, but Dad plucked a skull from the bottom of the last box. It was the head of an anatomical model, which he’d stolen from a much hated biology professor. For weeks, the class had made jokes about the decapitated skeleton. Dad elevated the skull with one hand and manipulated the jaw, the hinges squeaking, and the teeth chomping. With the campy expression of a terrible ventriloquist, he adopted a cartoonish voice. “Yuck, yuck, yuck! That’s all folks.”

  Mark genuinely laughed. Had they been in public, he’d have covered his face and pretended his father was some random stranger. Here, there were no witnesses. To match Dad’s goofiness, Mark sidestepped his way out of the library, throwing in a few Rockette kicks before he lost his balance and nearly tumbled over.

  “Oh, one more thing,” his father said.

  Mark stuck his head back into the room.

  “Put this under my bed, would you?” Following a check to see if the shotgun’s lockbox was secure, Dad passed it to his son.

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “Remember, always assume the gun is loaded, whether it’s in here or not.”

  Due to the ease with which Dad hefted the lockbox, Mark miscalculated how heavy it’d be. Considering he’d never been allowed to go anywhere near the gun, he had no concept of its weight. Mark was grateful his sister wasn’t around to witness the veins bulging from his neck and his cheeks reddening. She’d probably call him The Hulk just to rile him up.

  Were all rites of passage this taxing—like the African scarification in his mother’s anthropology textbooks? Intentional lacerations seemed traumatic, proving a youth worthy of facing future obstacles. Unbeknownst to Mark, the Victorian planned his summer boot camp the minute he stepped onto the property.

  July 1862

  In the middle of town, Emma sat at one of the tables under the tent, inhaling the smell of jasmine. The flowers she’d planted back in the yard in honor of her mother hadn’t reached full bloom. She’d have to feed them additional fertilizer, or were they absorbing too much? It’s like Mama’s memory depended on their thriving, which was a lot of pressure.

  Practically the entire town had gathered for the Independence Day celebration, which included the firemen from La Crosse who’d been competing with Winona firemen in a tournament earlier that day. Several of the girls were whispering to each other about which of the gentlemen they fancied.

  Emma concentrated on her mother’s love of this holiday. The two of them had giggled while twirling sparklers on more than one o
ccasion. According to Mama, fireworks brought enchantment to the rest of the year. Emma envisioned her mother transmitting celestial magic to her from heaven.

  The laughter and sounds of clinking glasses reminded her of that homecoming party. A guest had drunkenly keyed lively entertainment on the grand piano, while clusters of people cavorted and belted the song in unison, all of which abruptly terminated at the sight of Mama’s corpse being carried through the revelry. Papa had cried out, throwing himself onto his dead wife. The worst was how Emma felt culpable. Just one bullet would’ve saved Mama’s life. Just one. Riley’s glowering at Emma seemed never ending, and still to this day. She was no longer his innocent little sister. There may as well have sewn a scarlet letter on her chest.

  Needless to say, they’d all dealt with their grief in their own ways. Papa doctored patients in between teaching at the college. By then, the Civil War gave both Hugh and Riley a cause. With Papa’s blessing and a bit of his funding, the brothers started their own garrison, recruiting willing and able-bodied local men and boys. Emma had gotten word that they were going to be passing through and hoped to make it to the Fourth of July Festival, so she said a little prayer for it to come true.

  The fifteen months of loneliness had tainted her mood. She needed to see Hugh more than ever. Only he’d been able to dig her out of a rut. When she’d told Hugh how Papa would only pay for her tuition if she studied medicine, Hugh said, “Take control of your life.” By that, he’d meant finding a husband to support her goal. However, that wasn’t what Emma had in mind. No man, not even her father, was going to keep her from her dream. She fantasized about bumping into Ollie, bragging about how she’d become a reputable teacher and tutor, all without his recommendations. Her determination and spunk would convince Papa that he’d been wrong. He’d continue to save the townspeople’s lives, while Emma saved their hearts and souls. Maybe she’d even educate the future president of the United States.

  Lost in that reverie, Emma didn’t notice the man in uniform who’d approached, tapping her on the shoulder.

  “Hugh!” she exclaimed when glancing up. She jumped to her feet and threw her arms around him.

  “We made it.” He laughed as she kissed his cheek. “How about a dance?”

  Emma hesitated, eyeing what was once his clubbed foot. Not many people noticed his shuffle, since Papa’s radical treatments and surgeries had mostly corrected the problem when Hugh was young. On occasion, she’d caught Hugh grimacing in pain.

  “That hasn’t kept me out of the war, so it sure in tarnation isn’t going to keep me from taking my favorite sister for a spin.”

  Emma rolled her eyes and smiled. “Speaking of our other sister, where’s Riley?” That was their inside joke, as their brother was the definition of manliness. In all of his life, he’d never lost a fight, nor failed at anything involving using his huge hands. Hugh had said that Riley almost single-handedly built the house. Papa had merely told him how, while Hugh stood by with a hammer and nails, and an entourage of workers who were all thumbs.

  “Oh, he’s over there somewhere.”

  The two of them combed through the crowd to find their brother canoodling with a blonde who was batting her eyelashes at him.

  “Is that Molly Sims?” Hugh asked, tugging Emma onto the dance floor.

  When they’d all gone swimming down at the lake after Mama’s funeral, Emma and Molly wore one of the guy’s shirts over her silk drawers, which once sodden became somewhat transparent. That in itself was bad enough. Although the moon hadn’t been full that night, they’d seen Molly’s full moon when she’d snagged her drawers on a branch while rushing to change back into her dress. Tipsy with drink, their hysterics rang out for miles. Whereas for Emma it was a reminder that there was a time to weep and a time to laugh, Molly had been so mortified she hid at home for weeks.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. It sure is.” Emma rifled through her memory for a time she’d smiled this much. Her cheeks were already sore.

  “What about you? I’m sure Thomas Laird will cut in any minute now. You know Mama—.”

  “I know. I know.” She hated the constant reminder, and that her mother’s wishes hadn’t made Emma any more interested in Thomas. Sure, his money would’ve paid for her schooling, but what good would that do her with a house full of children of her own? He’d always had this kid or that on his shoulders after church, or was showing them magic tricks with one of his coins. Emma still wasn’t sure if she didn’t want kids, or just didn’t want his.

  “He’s barely talked to me since we moved. Nor has he sent me one letter. Clearly, I’m not a thought in his head.” What a relief that’d been.

  “He speaks of you often. And about that time at the lake.”

  “When we’d all had too much to drink? Please.” Or maybe it was merely the sight of her body through the waterlogged swimwear. He’d probably etched the image into his mind, like one of those postcard nudes she’d seen in Riley’s room.

  “Seems that memory has gotten him through some lonely nights.”

  “Augh.” Emma perused Hugh’s face, wondering how serious he was about all this. “I need someone who can have a conversation, who has passion—for me, for life.” She twirled herself under her brother’s arm and back to his chest. “While he’s off fighting a war I don’t even think he knows what he’s fighting for—I’m making something of myself.”

  Hugh scanned the area and spoke in a hushed voice. “You’re going to school? You convinced Papa, then? How’d you manage that?”

  “Oh, he doesn’t know,” Emma whispered, putting a finger to her lips.

  Hugh’s mouth opened, twisting into a misshapen O. “How on earth?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  As the band finished the song, the siblings clapped along with the other dancers.

  “I think you can trust me by now,” he said.

  “It’s not that. I fear you’ll beg me to stop.”

  “Stop what?” His eyes narrowed with concern. “Prostituting yourself?”

  Hugh took her hand, and they spun to the edge of the dance floor as the band played on.

  “Come now. Don’t be like Riley.” She huffed. “Remember when I asked you to teach me all your secrets?”

  After tripping over his own feet, he said, “Where? If Papa catches wind of you—”

  “He won’t. Don’t you worry.” She grinned wryly. “Really. He’s utterly preoccupied.”

  Gripping her by the shoulders, he shook his head. “Sis, you’re playing with fire. Promise me you’ll quit.”

  “Just a couple more times, then I’ll be done.” She squeezed his forearms. “I promise.” If she got fortune to eat out of her hand, she’d be able to keep her word. She’d mapped out how many credits until graduation and just how much of a bankroll that required. The edge of her dream was within reach.

  —

  Emma wasn’t the only one playing with fire.

  After watching the fireworks display, she and her brothers were carrying on with Thomas and Molly like old times, reminiscing over the rest of the wine after almost everyone else had traipsed or staggered home for the night. The boatload of La Crosse firemen had left a short while earlier as well.

  During a lull in conversation, Thomas took Emma’s glass and set it aside. Then he leaned in, meeting her eyes. “I have something I’ve been meaning to say to you.” His hand reached for hers. It was damp and unsteady.

  Emma wanted her heart to flutter, to feel a spark of lightning. Instead, she wondered if she’d somehow be able to tell him to save his breath. Not in a cruel way, but to prevent him from hurting. She’d known what it was like to be on the other end of this scenario. Damn Ollie. He’d burst into her head again.

  At that precise moment, the streets erupted into screams and the yelling of “Fire!” Alarm bells chimed.

  Thomas’ mouth fell agape, the alarm in the air the last thing he’d expected at a time like this. In a way, Emma was saved after all, just not in the wa
y she’d envisioned. He pecked her cheek and took off with Riley in the direction of the glowing sky.

  The violent swooshes and the crashing of glass and building materials reached her ears. There was no doubt in Emma’s mind this had something to do with the night’s show.

  Hugh found one of the servants snoozing at a table and urged him to rouse the town firemen, and the ones who’d left on the Mississippi. Then, he was to fetch Papa.

  Hugh and Emma raced to the inferno, Emma outrunning her brother, not thinking he’d care under the circumstances. Her instinct to aid any of the potentially wounded took over. She wondered if it had been instilled in her because that’s what she’d known all her life, or if she’d been born this way. It wasn’t time to reconcile all of that with her current studies. No future existed while at least four downtown blocks were ablaze. The flames leapt, scorching the buildings all the way to Clapperton’s bakery on Center Street.

  Emma’s cheeks flushed as she observed those stumbling outside to safety. Many of them were in their underclothes, while others merely wrapped themselves in sheets. Some clutched their belongings, others their children.

  Before long, goods, merchandise, and personal effects were scattered along the street and on the levee. A dense cloud of smoke drifted overhead and toward the river.

  Emma inspected the dazed victims for those requiring medical attention, while assuring others they were okay and had to breathe. Most only needed to calm down or have their minor injuries dressed.

  Papa arrived with the bandages and other pertinent supplies, which Hugh aided in unloading, bringing them to Emma.

  The firemen and bucket brigades appeared. The horses balked, forcing the drivers to inch back as the townsmen, including Papa, Hugh, Riley, and Thomas, lifted the buckets to start squelching the fire. They needed to prevent the conflagration from jumping to Main Street. If the flames hit that block, the whole town was liable to turn to ash.

  Emma spotted Riley’s blistering hand and forearm as he dropped a crying boy in front of her. “You should let me wrap that.”