Jeremiah’s shoulder caught fire.
Rose screamed.
After that, Jeremiah seemed to swim in and out of consciousness. He remembered panting on the floor, pressing against the flow from the wound. He remembered Josiah’s left cheek flush against the hardwood, Josiah staring and blinking slowly, eyelids heavy with a mixture of what could have been both remorse and satisfaction.
And then his voice: “From dust we come, Jeremiah. And to dust we shall return.”
SEVENTEEN
Jeremiah bit down on the leather as Rose poured corn whiskey over the shoulder wound where the bullet from Josiah’s rifle had tunneled clean through and embedded in his childhood wall.
She offered him the bottle. “You need a quick pull?” He spat the belt to the floor and shook his head. Sweat dripped from his brow. The wound burned, and heat waves rolled all over his body as he tried to stay upright on the Worsts’ dining room chair. He eyed the bottle but wasn’t even tempted to partake.
She studied him and asked for a reason, knowing from the trial that at one time in his life he’d been deeply embedded in the drink.
“It was the jolt I took in Old Sparky,” he said, wincing. “Don’t have the urge to drink anymore.”
“That easy, huh?”
He choked out a laugh. “Nothing’s as easy as it seems, Rose.”
Once she got the bleeding under control, she wrapped his shoulder with strips she’d torn from a bedsheet. Rose proved herself braver, stronger every minute Jeremiah knew her.
They were lucky nothing more had happened inside that house. The shooting had been an accident, pure and simple, but the bullet could have gone any which way, and Jeremiah was more than willing to take one if it meant saving Ellen and her son.
Peter sat at the far end of the table, peeking periodically through splayed fingers. Earlier, he’d covered his eyes as soon as he entered the house and saw the blood, but then he’d done exactly what Rose told him and hurried to get the bedsheet. And now, the tighter she wrapped the wound, the woozier and more nauseous Jeremiah became, until he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He closed his eyes for a few beats to quell it. A breeze blew the front door open. Blood trailed from the porch to where he now sat, where Rose, despite her slight frame, had somehow dragged his much larger body and dropped him in the chair.
How much blood had he lost?
He grew lightheaded. His vision swirled, and then it all went black.
Jeremiah and Josiah sat across from each other at a table inside the Bentley Hotel, watching out the window as rain came down in torrents from a sky that kept on giving.
Baseball gloves rested next to plates smeared with remnants of egg yolk, bacon grease, and crust from two pieces of toast each. Josiah liked his eggs runny, but Jeremiah liked his in an all-out sprint, practically drinkable, he’d told Orion upon entering the hotel that morning with his twin and his father. Orion was a fantastic host—everyone loved his hotel and the fancy way he dressed—but many said he was an even better cook.
The boys had hurried through breakfast because it was so good, but also because they wanted to get out to the grass fields, the few that were not plowed for wheat, and toss the baseball around, maybe gather a few of their friends for a real game. Today they’d agreed that Jeremiah would be Ty Cobb and Josiah would be Babe Ruth. But by the time Jeremiah had slurped down his last egg, the one so covered in pepper it made his eyes water, the sky had opened up, and the rain looked primed for a real soaker.
Orion and Wilmington joined the nine-year-olds at the table in an attempt to cheer them up. They’d been behind the bar, cleaning up from a party that had gone well into the night, as most parties inside the Bentley had the tendency to do, but now they took seats on opposite ends of the square table. Now all four sides were full.
Orion pointed out the window to all that rain. “You know what that is, boys?”
Josiah and Jeremiah looked at each other. Of course they knew what it was, but Jeremiah said it anyway. “It’s rain, Mr. Bentley. And it’s ruining our plans.”
Wilmington smiled. “Boys, that out there isn’t just rain. Look closer. Go on.”
Skeptical, the two boys looked again, squinting this time to see if they’d notice anything different. Jeremiah said, “Still just rain.”
Wilmington took a quarter out of his pocket and let it jangle on the table. “This is what’s out there, boys.”
Josiah said, “That rain’s a quarter?”
Orion chuckled, adjusted the lapels on his coat, and said, “Boys, that rain is money. That rain makes the wheat grow tall and fat. That rain helps feed our soldiers fighting overseas, in a war me and your father were too old for and you boys are thankfully too young to fight in.” He leaned back in his chair. “That rain is money. Prosperity. And my gut tells me the next decade is going to be chock full of both.”
“But you can’t play baseball in the rain,” said Jeremiah.
Orion smirked and reached across for the quarter. “Here, let me show you something you can do inside when it’s raining.” Under the tip of his index finger, he held the quarter on edge, and with the middle finger of his other hand he flicked the coin until it got to spinning. The boys watched it rotate like a top and dance across the table, making that same sound the bowling balls made at Nowhere’s bowling lane, where the two boys sometimes earned coins of their own as pin catchers.
The coin slowed, started to wobble. And what Orion did next made their eyes grow wide. He blew gently on that coin, and it spun faster again. He blew some more to keep it going, even standing from his chair to follow where the coin had migrated across the table. Eventually he sat back down, and the coin rattled still.
“Wow,” said the boys in unison. “Do it again.”
“I’m afraid I’m out of breath,” Orion said, theatrically patting his chest.
Wilmington grabbed the quarter. “Here’s a game me and my father used to play.” He looked at Josiah. “First, call it to see who goes first.”
“Call what?” asked Josiah.
Wilmington showed his sons both sides of the coin. “Heads or tails. I’ll spin the quarter in the air, and you try and guess how it will land. Got it?”
Josiah nodded, said “Heads,” and then followed the coin with his eyes as his father flipped and caught it. Wilmington slapped the coin atop his other hand and slowly pulled it away, revealing the tails side. Josiah said, “What now?”
“You didn’t get it right. So your brother goes first.” Wilmington faced Jeremiah. “Now the rules of the game are simple. You call it in the air. If you get it right, you go again. If you get it wrong, the turn goes back to Josiah. Understood?”
Both boys jerked nods.
“And the first one to call twenty-one tosses wins.”
“Wins what?” asked Jeremiah.
“The game.”
“And the coin?” asked Jeremiah.
Wilmington looked at Orion, who shrugged. “Sure. Winner gets my last coin.”
Wilmington flicked the coin upward and then caught, flipped, and revealed it in what looked like one swift motion while Jeremiah yelled, “Heads.”
“Heads it is,” said Wilmington. “Well done. You’re up one to zero. Now you go again.”
“Heads,” said Jeremiah.
Wilmington laughed. “Slow down, pal. Haven’t even flipped it yet.” He flipped.
Jeremiah said, “Still heads.”
Wilmington revealed the coin. “Heads again. Two zero.”
Josiah was on the edge of his seat, smiling, eager for another shot at the flip.
Wilmington flicked the coin. “Tails,” said Jeremiah.
His father revealed the coin. “Tails it is. Somebody is on a winning streak.”
Orion said, “We should take him to the track and place us some bets on some bangtails.”
Wilmington flipped the coin, and again Jeremiah guessed correctly, as he did on the next four flips, shouting out his answer the instant that coin left his f
ather’s thumb and showing little doubt as he did so.
Jeremiah was now on the edge of his chair, so engrossed in the coin-flip game that he’d knocked his baseball glove from the table to the floor and not even noticed. He rubbed his hands together like he was trying to create warmth.
Down eight to nothing, Josiah’s smile began to wane as Jeremiah’s continued to grow. Orion scratched his head. After two more correct guesses, Wilmington glanced at Josiah. “He’s bound to miss any time now, Josiah, so get your guesser ready.”
“No guessing to it,” said Josiah with a sharp edge to his tone. “Jeremiah already knows the answers, Daddy. He’s a cheater.”
“Seemingly.” Wilmington held up a finger, and Jeremiah noticed it was shaking. “Seemingly, but not possible.”
Jeremiah laughed. “It’s called power, Josiah.”
Wilmington shot Jeremiah a warning glance, as if telling him to temper himself and not get big-headed.
Josiah shook his head, smelled the leather pocket of his glove, and said, “Well, go on then. Flip another, Daddy.”
Wilmington flipped four more times in quick succession, with Jeremiah correctly predicting every time, without a second’s hesitation. Jeremiah was now eyeing the coin like it was a golden nugget, rubbing his hands together faster and faster like a dice roller on a hot streak. After four more correct flips for Jeremiah, Wilmington pocketed the coin, ending the game prematurely, and suggested they play something else.
“Game’s not over,” said Jeremiah.
“It is for today,” said Wilmington, with a sternness they saw only infrequently.
Orion stood, smiling large with a handclap, one of those gestures of happy emotion that sometimes seemed so forced. “So who’s ready for some dessert?”
“It’s breakfast,” said Jeremiah.
“Today we’ll make an exception,” said Orion. “Ice cream?”
“Yes, ice cream it is,” said Wilmington with a smile obviously geared toward cheering up Josiah. “Chocolate or vanilla?”
Josiah mumbled, “Chocolate.”
“Jeremiah?”
“You took my coin, Daddy. Orion said the winner got to keep the coin.”
Wilmington paused as if he didn’t want to give it up, as if he didn’t approve of how Jeremiah was handling his burst of luck, but then he reached into his pocket and tossed it over. Jeremiah caught it, and his eyes grew large.
His daddy asked again, “Chocolate or vanilla?”
Instead of answering, Jeremiah said, “Heads for chocolate and tails for vanilla.”
Josiah shook his head.
Jeremiah flipped the coin and revealed it on the top of his left hand just like his daddy had done over and over. “Vanilla it is.”
When Jeremiah came to, he was in the same chair he’d been in when he drifted off, except now his feet were propped up on the catty-corner chair and his boots had been removed.
He wiggled his toes and counted his blessings that he still had all ten of them. He’d never gotten a good look at Josiah’s foot after he’d shot him days ago. Maybe he’d blown one of those toes off and Josiah didn’t want him to know, so he kept it wrapped up. If so, Jeremiah supposed they were all even now and he’d gotten what he deserved.
Jeremiah felt like he’d been given a jolt of energy from that reverie, the memory of the coin-flip game on that rainy day inside the Bentley. One day years later, Josiah had told him that was when it all started.
“When what started?”
“You thinking yourself bigger than it all.”
“Bigger than what all?”
“Never mind.”
Josiah had turned away, the first sign of the wedge coming down between them. Just a chip though. The drinking, which Jeremiah had begun way too young, would drive that wedge a little deeper, but it wasn’t until the arrival that the wedge got hammered home.
Jeremiah couldn’t help feeling, although he couldn’t put a finger on it, that it had started long before that—like before he could even walk. The coin had been just some kind of conduit. And something told him Wilmington might have thought so too, which was why he’d never approved of Jeremiah flipping that coin to make his decisions, even as a kid.
“Jeremiah?”
Rose’s voice brought him back. He shifted in the chair, and a bolt of pain shot down his left side from shoulder to hip, as if he’d caught fire. How long was I out? The sun was already setting purple outside the window.
Why was there a long-needled syringe on the table?
And then Rose stepped into view. “Give it a minute to get into your bloodstream.”
“Give what a minute?”
“The morphine.” She pulled a chair beside him and sat in it.
“Found some at the hospital. The sisters were much like what we saw with your family—worse off than some of their patients. Lying on cots and mostly unresponsive.”
“Were the patients like the rest of the town?”
“Actually, they didn’t seem as bad. They were coughing because of the dust in their lungs and the sickness.”
“But none of them were out when the Black Sunday duster hit.” He shifted in the chair again. Pain stabbed his shoulder, but it didn’t bother him like it had moments before. The morphine acted fast and his head suddenly felt lighter, like it was attached to some string tethered from the ceiling. “That building is pretty tight, keeps out the dust. That’s why they picked it for the hospital when the earth started peeling.”
Rose looked distracted.
“What is it?”
“Just something I saw that I’m having trouble unseeing.” She stared blankly out the window toward Main Street. “When you were out, I took a walk around town—you know, to check on things. That auto repair shop by the Baptist church.”
“Deacon Sipes owns it.” Jeremiah did his best to focus, but the morphine was muddling his brain. “He can be mean.”
“I didn’t see him,” she said. “But the door to his shop was open, so I took a look inside.” Her eyes glassed over. “There were so many of them, Jeremiah. A hundred at least.”
He blinked hard through the opiate. “Hundred of what, Rose?”
“Jackrabbits.” She motioned with her hand. “Hanging from the ceiling by their feet. He’d skinned them all. Gravity had stretched them longer than any jackrabbit I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s what we live off, Rose. Times are hard.”
“I know that, but . . . they rustled, Jeremiah. Those rabbits. Even dead they rustled. The breeze moved them like muted wind chimes.” Her chin quivered. “Can’t unsee it, is all.” She took a slug from the bottle of Old Sam on the table and gulped. She coughed and patted her chest.
Jeremiah laughed. It was the morphine’s doing, because nothing was funny.
Rose laughed too, wiping moisture from her eyes. “Not usually much of a drinker.”
“Desperate times,” he said softly. His vision wavered, and Rose became blurry.
She got up from her chair and returned a minute later with a blanket. She covered him with it and ran the back of her hand across his forehead, feeling for a fever like his mother used to do before she’d died. When he and Josiah found her dead in her bed, Jeremiah had done the same to her. Except her skin had been cold.
Jeremiah heard Peter on his typewriter in the back room.
He fell asleep to the rhythm of those keys.
Amanda Goodbye had eyes like a summer sunset, and when she smiled her entire face lit the room. She gathered Jeremiah on her lap, smelling of piecrust and peaches. She was pale and impossibly thin from the cancer, and her breath came out in thin wheezes, but she still insisted on cooking, taking breaks every few minutes to sit down and rest.
Wilmington had remarked later that it took her all day to finish a pie, but he’d looked proud when he said it, not angry. “But I’d give anything to have those days back,” he’d added. “Your mother died too young, Jeremiah. Death ain’t picky when it comes to things like that. It takes you
when it takes you and then leaves you to cope without the least bit of instructions on how you’re supposed to do it.”
Jeremiah should have been too young to remember his father telling him that, which was probably why Wilmington said it. He’d needed to let those words out. Just as his mother did when she placed him on his lap and said, “Now Jeremiah, you’re probably too young to ever remember what I’m about to tell you, but it’s more for me than you.”
He did remember. Come to think of it, the first thing he’d ever seen was his mother’s eyes on the day of his birth, and that memory hadn’t left him either.
“You’re a special kind of child, Jeremiah,” she’d said. “We thought you’d never come out, and when you did, well, perhaps one day I’ll let your father tell you about that. But I’ll go to my grave knowing that those night scares you have, they all stem from what happened after you were delivered. I’m telling you, only the strongest of the strong could overcome what you did.”
She laughed, and her eyes grew wet. “You know what I think? I think life and death were wrestling over you, Jeremiah. Or maybe it was good and evil. Yes, that’s how I look upon it now. And you were just too darn stubborn to give in without a fight.”
After a pause, she added, “Too bad you didn’t share some of that fight in the womb.”
Jeremiah had been drifting, half-asleep, dreams mixing with thoughts and memories in his mind. But now he awoke with a startle. His feet fell from the chair where they’d been propped, fragments of his mother’s words still drifting through his mind.
Josiah’s got fight. I’ve seen it. He felt defensive on his brother’s behalf. As if his mother had been talking down about his twin, her firstborn son, who had been born so easily and never given them any trouble. Besides, Josiah had only been three years old when Mother died. How could a boy that young be expected to fight?
Apparently Jeremiah had.
“Welcome back.” Rose placed a rifle on the floor next to the far wall. Beside it was another rifle that looked like Wilmington’s along with a handgun, a set of knives, two hammers, an ax, and a loose bundle of rope.
What Blooms from Dust Page 17