Deep River Burning

by Donelle Dreese

  “Do you have to be nasty and gnarly to walk and think?” she asked with a grin on her face.

  “Ah well, I guess not. Maybe you think too much,” he said with a slight laugh.

  “Well, if I do, I don’t feel bad about it because most people don’t think enough.”

  “I can’t argue with that.” After an awkward pause, he asked, “I hope I am not prying too much, but I was just wondering how you’re doing, meaning after what happened to your parents and all? That’s got to be tough.”

  “It is tough, but I’m fine.”

  “I find that a little hard to believe.”

  “Really. I’m fine.”

  “So what’s the matter?”

  “Oh, just a variety of things . . . nothing I want to talk about.”

  Randy shook his head and looked out the window.

  “It sure would be nice to know what you’re thinking.”

  “Why? I really don’t know you that well, Randy.”

  “Yes, but that would be a way for us to get to know each other.”

  “What do you want to know about me? You know the main aspects of who I am.”

  “Yes, I know all that, but who is Denver really? You show people this strong, self-reliant woman but I haven’t seen what is behind that, what makes you tick.”

  “Well, I don’t mean to disappoint you, Randy, but you probably won’t.”

  “I know what you need,” he said with a grin on his face. He pulled the truck over to the side of the road and went to the back of the truck where he had an ice box. Denver heard the swish and crack of ice adjusting as he came back to the driver’s seat with two beers.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing Denver a Michelob.

  “A beer? You think I need a beer? I don’t drink beer.”

  “You don’t drink beer? Are you serious? What do you drink?” he asked genuinely baffled.

  “Iced tea, coffee, water, juice.”

  “No no, I mean what alcohol do you drink?”

  “I don’t drink alcohol,” Denver replied casually.

  “Really?” He thought about it for moment while putting the truck back into drive and pulling back onto the road. “Well, that tells me something about you.”

  “Oh really? What does it tell you?”

  “Well, I guess that your life has probably been a sheltered one.”

  “Really? Maybe I was addicted once and quit. Maybe my parents were alcoholics and I was so abused by their drunkenness that I vowed never to touch the stuff. Maybe I’m allergic to it. Maybe I find other ways to relax and enjoy life. Maybe I’m a compulsive liar,” she said smiling.

  “I’m just saying . . . if you don’t drink alcohol, you’re anti-social, ya know? You separate yourself from others because you think you’re too good for ’em,” he said.

  “Separating myself from whom? You? Should I start drinking beer just because other people want me to?”

  “No, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that you are choosing to separate yourself from others.”

  “Is it that I’m choosing to separate myself, or is it that these people you are talking about feel threatened that I don’t want to drink? It’s a silly shame when one is ostracized from society because of their beverage choice,” Denver said, looking out the side window.

  “Well, another thing is that you aren’t engaged.”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “I don’t know if you noticed, Denver, but women your age want to be married.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. So that tells me something about you too.”

  “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this,” she said, turning toward him in the truck.

  “Don’t you have any desire to be married?” he asked somewhat flustered.

  “Just because being single is driving you up the wall does not mean that it is bothering me,” she answered truthfully.

  “Then why are you out here walking alone looking sad?”

  “It may be true that I’m not happy at the moment, but what makes you think that the problem is that I need a husband?”

  “Because you’re a woman and women need someone to take care of them.”

  “Do you have a calendar in the glove compartment? I need to check what century it is,” she said.

  “What? It is natural for a woman your age to want a husband!”

  “Natural in what way? In the same way that I should naturally want to drink alcohol?”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. I’m talking about the ticking biological clock!”

  “Which is a myth—”

  “What!”

  “Put into people’s heads so that they will do certain things at certain times of their lives because certain people have decided that it should be that way. More people I know get married because they are conforming to deep-seated societal pressures than because they are in love. Then they end up divorced and scarred and disillusioned. What is so natural about all of that?”

  “I hate arguing with you!” he said entirely frustrated. “I just can’t figure you out!”

  “Maybe that’s the problem, Randy. Why is it so damn important for you to figure me out?”

  “So I can be a better friend to you.”

  “Is that what you want? Or is it so you can control me?”

  “Why would I want to control you?”

  “Because you want me to be someone I’m not. Because, for some reason, who I am makes you uncomfortable. Could you even for a moment dream of working a job that wasn’t nine to five?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You’ll have to figure that out on your own, but I don’t want to get on your case questioning the choices you have made in your life, and I would appreciate it if you would not harass me about mine.” She thought about dumping his beer on the smooth, light gray seats that were still in perfect condition.

  Denver signaled for Randy to pull the truck over to the broken curb in front of the municipal building.

  “Where are you going?” Randy asked, sounding exasperated.

  “Someplace where people don’t believe that mental stimulation will shrink my uterus.” Denver unhooked her seat belt. “Oh by the way. Everybody knows you’re a fucking alcoholic, Randy. Maybe you should drop the booze and try being a social outcast for a while.”

  Denver got out of the truck, and that was the last time Randy and she spoke. She felt exhausted and awful after the argument. She knew that the last thing she said to him was cruel, but she resented being expected to fit into someone’s idea of who she should be and conforming to someone else’s idea of what she should be doing with her life. The more she thought about it, the more the frustration moved through her body in swift waves.

  Randy was gone, but in her mind, she was still arguing with him as if he was standing next to her: You want me to be like you because you think that your way is the best way, but it may only be the best way for you, not for me. I don’t do what you want me to do and you condemn me. You think I have a problem or that there is something wrong with me because I’m different from you.

  She sat on the steps of the municipal building and cried. Sometimes it seemed that life was all about maintenance and defense—maintaining your health, your relationships, your peace of mind, your livelihood, your environment, everything from doing the dishes and showering to earning paychecks. And then there is the defense—defending your home, your choices, your point of view, your rights, your body, your life.

  She heard wolves sitting still along a tree line in the distance, their eyes flashing. She heard them breathing. They were in a pack now, but if she fell apart and they came after her, then even these wolves would turn on one another.

  Chapter 13<
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  Death Sentence

  It takes a long time for a town to die, she wrote in her journal. How often does a town truly die, defined only by cracked slabs of black asphalt that proclaim what used to be there? What makes one town come together in a time of crisis and another fall apart?

  Not long after the march through downtown, Adena received its death sentence. The results of the investigation of the mine structure and fire conducted by a New York independent mining corporation were finally published. It appeared that the fire was worse than anyone had expected. The fire was progressing at a rate of about two feet per day and in all directions. It was heading toward the cold side of town and was even beginning to impact a neighboring town, ironically named Burnside. The exceptional heat was igniting mine shafts disconnected to tunnels already burning. The sulfur smell became so rank and rancid that black steel plates were secured over many of the vent and bore holes, but the stench spilled out through crevices and tiny holes in the plates used for lifting them out of their secured place. There was no stopping it.

  Adena was an odd place to be. The continuing investigation of the mine fire had distributed the heaviness of waiting evenly among the residents, and once the news was released of the fire’s extent and severity, the fear and anticipation subsided. Some people cheered and drank beer on their front porches as if it were a long football game that finally found a winning team. Others were in their homes grieving and making plans to move away.

  After receiving the news, Denver went to see Josh. His mother was stinking drunk when she answered the door, claiming that Josh had left weeks ago and that she had no idea where he had gone. Denver had been so wrapped up in the fire and her own misery that she never saw him leave. She ran to the homes of two of his friends and asked where he had gone, but they didn’t know. At first she didn’t believe them, but she knew Josh, and she knew he could just pick up and go without telling a soul. He had warned her that he was going to leave.

  Denver ran down the streets without stopping for several miles. She wasn’t going to slow down until the feeling was gone, the awful feeling that she swore she would never feel again after her parents died. The entire earth might as well have fallen through to oblivion at that very moment because as far as she knew, there was nothing underneath to support her anyway. Every sound became sharp and scraped in her ear. She ran home and couldn’t stay there either. She went into the house and the emptiness was unbearable. The walls were hollow, made of nothing, yet they blocked her vision so that she couldn’t see what was beyond them.

  She ran down the street to see Helena. The lights were glowing from her windows, and the crickets in the bushes around her house were singing in rhythm with one another. The sound of it slowed Denver down. Helena’s door was open except for the screen door. When she saw Denver walk up to the porch, she said “hello” and told Denver to come in before she had to knock. They sat down at the kitchen table made of thick oak. It had a pretty pink and white floral arrangement in the center. Helena’s entire kitchen was decorated in pink. Pink flowered towels, pink lined window curtains, white and pink wallpaper. Denver didn’t like pink. It reminded her of Pepto Bismol. But Helena looked beautiful in it, and it suited her with her rose skin and dark hair.

  Denver did everything she could to hide the fact that she was on the verge of crumbling again, all the while thinking that Josh couldn’t be gone. He would have said goodbye first, wouldn’t he? At least to her. But then she remembered that she had rejected him, at least emotionally. At a time when he seemed most vulnerable and open to her, she closed the door. Denver felt like a vast mansion of hallways and corridors, which still had many rooms she was unwilling to enter. Josh tried to break down the door, for himself and for her. He must have felt that he had no one in the world and no reason to stay in Adena any longer.

  She knew that Josh was far more sensitive than anyone ever gave him credit for. He always smiled and took on troubles with an enviable composure that made him seem impenetrable. This side of him was real, but it hid the part of him that was intense, vulnerable, and contemplative. Only those who were perceptive could see in his eyes the conflict that rolled and thundered beneath his exterior. He needed Denver. He came to her and reached out to her, and except for that one night at Desert Ring Island, she wasn’t there for him. The guilt and regret she felt could have swallowed her whole and drowned her in a bed of seaweed, choking her in its shallow depths, if it wouldn’t have been for Helena and Aunt Rosemary.

  Helena looked inquisitively at Denver’s face, damp and flushed from running. She went to her cupboard and pulled out two wineglasses and placed them on the table. From the kitchen counter, she chose a bottle of wine and poured the dark red liquid high into the glasses.

  “You don’t look good,” she said. “Actually, you look beautiful . . . tragically beautiful.”

  “Where’s Carl?” Denver asked.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “No. I really don’t.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “What happened?”

  “You know what happened. You just didn’t want to be the one to tell me. You’re my best friend, Denver. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t know for sure. I only heard rumors. That’s not the kind of thing you tell someone unless you are absolutely sure. What if it would have been wrong? Once that seed is planted, it’s always there.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry.” Helena lit a cigarette.

  “When did you start smoking?” Denver asked with surprise.

  “Everything and everyone smokes around here. I was feeling left out of the action.”

  Denver laughed a little at her remark and looked down at the pattern on the table cloth.

  “So the rumors are true,” Denver said.

  “Yes. Do you believe that? We’ve only been married a few months and he starts messing around. Geez, if you’re going to commit adultery, at least wait until several years into the marriage to do it, when you’re bored to tears and looking forward to the mid-life crisis. Is it just me or is cheating during the newlywed stage particularly tacky?” Helena asked.

  “There are problems with it at any time during a marriage,” Denver replied, knowing Helena wasn’t really looking for an answer to her question.

  “Well, you know what they say, ‘once a cheater, always a cheater,’ so his new girlfriend will have her heart broken in no time. Once he cheats on enough of us we can form a support group.”

  “Did he move out yet?” Denver asked. “I see his truck is outside.”

  “He’s moving out this weekend.” Helena looked down at the floor.

  “Be glad you aren’t pregnant.”

  “Yeah. That’s true,” Helena said quietly. There was a long pause before she said, “What’s wrong, Denver? I can tell you’ve been running. You only run when you’re upset.”

  “It’s Josh.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “Totally gone. No one knows where he is. I stopped over at his house. His mother was wasted. He could have left right in front of her and she wouldn’t have known the difference.”

  “Are you sure he just didn’t go into the woods for a few days?” Helena asked.

  “I’m positive. He always told someone when he went to the woods. No one knows where he went, and he took things with him that he doesn’t take to the woods. He kept a secret box. Only I knew about it. He kept all of his money in it.”

  “When do you think he left?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If it was recently, maybe we could still find him,” Helena said optimistically.
<
br />   “Not Josh. Even if he just left last night, he’s yawning through Ohio by now.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  It was the most deafening question Helena could have asked. Denver would have preferred if she would have asked her to single-handedly put out the mine fire with a garden hose. Denver looked at Helena with eyes that saw little into what was going to happen passed the present moment, other than the fact that the sun had set and it was now dark outside.

  “Well, it looks like we’re a pair, you and I,” said Helena. She finished her wine and went to take her glass to the sink when she reached for the bottle and refilled the glass.

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Helena.

  “What?”

  “Let’s go out and do what we used to do, you know, when we were kids and stupid and were expected to do crazy things so then we didn’t get into that much trouble.”

  “Like what?”

  “You remember what we used to do.”

  “Well, yeah, I guess so, but Josh was always the ring leader when it came to mischief and juvenile rebellion. Do you remember how the boys on Walnut Street always got into trouble for what we did?” Denver asked.

  “Of course they did. We were girls and everyone expects girls to be angels. And since Josh was usually with us, he was never implicated. All I know is that I’m going to go insane if I’m cooped up in this Betty Crocker picket fence hellhole any longer. We don’t need Josh. We can be bad girls all on our own. Let’s go cause trouble!”

  “This is so unlike you,” Denver said sarcastically.

  “All the more reason to do it. Cork the bottle and bring it along. Wait, I have some things I need to get from the bathroom first. Here are the keys. You drive. And if we wreck that bastard’s pickup truck, we’ll tell him his new girlfriend’s husband came over and stole it and drove it into a ditch. Maybe we’ll go ahead and drive it into the ditch anyway, just for laughs.”