What Blooms from Dust

by James Markert

  Orion checked his surroundings like he was about to do something he shouldn’t have been doing, and then he slowly lowered the face of the mailbox.

  He reached his arm inside and pulled out a trifolded paper.

  Then he opened it right there in the street and read.

  TWENTY

  How many days?

  How many days since what?

  Ellen’s brain struggled to keep up with her own thoughts. How many days since you’ve changed your clothes?

  I don’t know.

  How many days since you’ve eaten a meal?

  I don’t know that either.

  But the questions had at least gotten her moving, a barefoot shuffle down a hallway covered in dust. James rested lazily against her shoulder.

  Don’t drop him.

  Okay.

  Since the day the world turned black, they’d had a duster every afternoon, and they’d yet to dig out from any of them. The inside of their house was a wasteland, worse than pictures she’d seen from war-ravaged Europe. It looked like it hadn’t been lived in for months.

  Just make it to the kitchen table, Ellen. Her feet pushed under the accumulation of dirt like she’d done with sand on a beach as a little girl. Her legs were heavy, like they were made of iron—anchors connected to hips that had rusted over. Just make it to the kitchen table.

  She stopped five feet away when something out the window caught her eye.

  A tiny spot of yellow in all that brown-black dust outside.

  The flag on her mailbox was up, something Phillip Jansen had always done after he’d put mail in there and closed the lid.

  How long has it been since we got mail?

  I don’t know.

  She faced the window and took a step, this time lifting her foot above the surface of dirt. Jeremiah was out there. The yellow flag on his mailbox—the Worsts’ mailbox—was up too. She took another step, and another. Every flag up and down the street had been turned up.

  Is this a cruel joke?

  Maybe. But maybe not . . .

  Orion was out there too, sitting on the street curb next to the Bentleys’ mailbox with a paper in his hands. He was reading something, maybe something he’d just pulled from that box. Except he’d left the flag up. The rule had always been to put the flag down once you’d retrieved your mail.

  Just make it to the kitchen table, Ellen.

  Instead, she made her way to the front window. The yellow flag had grabbed her.

  “What’s going on out there?” she asked James. He blinked with his head on her shoulder, probably surprised to hear his mother’s voice again, just as she was to hear her thoughts turn audible.

  Jeremiah wasn’t alone. That reporter woman was with him, standing right by his side as he read whatever note had been left inside his mailbox. Rose. That’s it. But why is she there with him now? Did she spend the night? Jeremiah wiped his eyes as if fighting back tears, and Rose put a hand on his shoulder. It was rare to see Jeremiah Goodbye show emotions like that.

  What’s written on that paper? She wanted to see what was in her own mailbox, but she refused to go out there with those two making a scene. So she stood there and watched.

  A minute later Jeremiah folded the note, slid it into his pocket, and pushed that yellow flag down like he was supposed to do. He gave the Goodbye house a look, which startled Ellen’s heart into a gallop, and then returned inside the Worst house.

  Rose watched him go in, and then she quick-walked toward the Bentley, holding her skirt up from the dust like some princess. She paused next to Orion, who showed her his note—not what was written on it, but the mere fact that he’d gotten something in the mail. That somebody had cared enough to write something and put it there. Then Rose hurried inside those swaying doors of the hotel and was gone.

  Ten houses down the road, the mailman himself stood halfway between his house and the mailbox. Phillip stared at that yellow flag like he was as surprised as Ellen to find it turned up. But if he didn’t do it, who did? Phillip took slow, cautious steps toward the street, and Ellen found herself inwardly cheering him on, when just minutes ago her thoughts would have most assuredly grown more morbid, wishing some ill will on the postman who no longer brought them mail.

  But maybe it wasn’t his fault?

  Of course it wasn’t his fault.

  Just make it to the kitchen table, Ellen.

  Instead she moved toward the front door.

  She placed James on the dusty floor and told him to stay there until she got back. But that mailbox looked miles away. Could be an all-day venture.

  Phillip Jansen was still down the road, inching closer to his mailbox. His hips were probably rusted over like hers. It was just so hard to move, so hard to convince your brain to tell your feet to move one step and then another. But she did it, and then next thing she knew she was opening the door and stepping out onto the porch. Her foot sank into the dust to just below the knee, and she had to hike her leg up high to walk, but the more she moved, the more that rust chipped away, and the less her legs felt like anchors.

  She paused for a deep intake of fresh morning air, then closed her eyes briefly and imagined fields of green grass and even more golden-tipped wheat instead of all this dust.

  Just make it to the mailbox, Ellen.

  She opened her eyes and urged herself onward.

  Leland Cantain had made it out to his porch. He leaned against a column as if to catch his breath, but then carefully navigated down his own dust-covered steps.

  Another door opened down the road, and out stepped Nicholas Draper. He moved faster than the rest. He hadn’t been taken in by that Black Sunday dust, and Ellen knew why. Jeremiah had covered him up. The Coin-Flip Killer had protected him, saved his life just as he’d saved that boy Peter. Like he’d saved that banker Mr. Russell from the town mob that was most assuredly fixing to lynch him for swindling them out of all of their money.

  Nicholas hurried to his mailbox, opened the lid, and reached inside. He read what was on the front and then ran toward the house yelling, “Momma, you got mail.”

  Suddenly Ellen found herself ten paces from the road. Her legs felt lighter with every step, as if Nicholas’s energy had somehow been passed to her.

  Just make it to the mailbox, Ellen.

  And she did. After taking another deep breath and nodding toward Orion, who’d just waved at her like he hadn’t seen her in years, she opened the mailbox and reached inside. She found three separate papers, all trifolded, each with a different name typed in block letters on the front.

  One for Ellen Goodbye.

  One for Josiah Goodbye.

  And one for Wilmington Goodbye.

  She thought about leaving the other two in the box but then ended up grabbing all three. It was the right thing to do. She lowered the yellow flag carefully, then started toward the house. Her heart raced faster and faster the closer she got to the porch, until she couldn’t take it anymore.

  Right there in the middle of the dusty yard, wearing clothes she hadn’t changed in three days—yes, she remembered now it had been three days—Ellen unfolded her letter and read with hands that shook as if palsied.

  Dear Mrs. Goodbye,

  The first time I looked upon you, I saw smiles in your eyes. I knew right away that you were the kind of mother any boy would want to have. When you hug me I feel safe. I get that feeling right after a good meal when I know I won’t go hungry, or sitting by a fire that warms me during the cold. You say you’ve seen me before. Well I think I’ve seen you too. Because sometimes angels fall to the earth and walk as normal people.

  Sincerely,

  Peter Cotton

  A lone tear smeared the page even before Ellen realized she was crying. Her heart was a great big lump in her throat, and she had to swallow hard to get it to go back down where it belonged. She turned toward the Worst house and wondered if that boy was in there and, if so, what he was doing now.

  She folded her letter, tightened her
grip on the other two, and put one foot in front of the other until she was inside with the door closed.

  James was on the floor, sitting in the same spot where she’d placed him minutes before, but now he was pointing toward the kitchen. She followed his finger. Josiah and Wilmington were up, and they’d overturned the kitchen table. Wilmington had popped one of the legs off and was rubbing the padding of his thumb over the sharp point of an exposed nail. He exchanged a nod with his son and choked out a few words toward Ellen. “Table leg was loose.”

  Ellen sat on one of the kitchen chairs and held out the two letters toward her husband and father-in-law. Both men stared at her like they didn’t understand. But then they each took their letter, and she wiped her eyes, which felt cleansed from her tears.

  “Go on,” she urged them. “Read.”

  Josiah read his letter once and refolded it.

  He stared at Ellen with a glow in his eyes that reminded her of why she’d agreed to marry him in the first place. He was a kind and gentle man. An honest man. He unfolded his letter and silently read it again, his lips moving along with the words, which got Ellen to wondering what had been written.

  Wilmington gulped and wiped his face. He folded his letter and slid it into his shirt pocket. The top of the letter still jutted out, reminding Ellen of when he used to wear those red roses in his lapels. Wilmington stood with a grunt and looked out the window over the sink. He exhaled two full cheeks of air and headed for the front door.

  Maybe the rust was wearing off him too.

  He moved like a man who was about to do something that made him uncomfortable, like he didn’t want to do it but knew he should. He took his hat from the rack beside the door, blew dust from it, and then placed it atop his head.

  Ellen watched Wilmington from the window. Josiah had sidled up beside her, so they watched together as Wilmington walked across the road in the direction of the Bentley Hotel, where Orion still sat on the curb.

  Orion pushed to his feet when he saw Wilmington coming, and then the two men slowly approached one another as if preparing for an Old West gunfight. They stopped about five feet apart, and as much as Ellen could tell, neither man said a thing.

  But then Orion moved closer, and Wilmington did the same.

  Wilmington extended his hand and Orion shook it, the grips of two strong men who’d made fortunes and lost it all. Then they hugged in the middle of the street as if all things said in the days prior had been forgiven.

  Ellen’s breath caught, looking on. Then she felt a touch. Josiah was rubbing her back.

  And Ellen’s tears started all over again.

  In the afternoon a duster rolled in, a sturdy one that lasted nearly ninety minutes and threatened to break windows.

  If dusters could talk, Ellen imagined this one saying, How dare you?

  The heaviness in her legs returned, and although she thought about it, she couldn’t muster the energy to dig out when it was finished. No one did except Jeremiah and Peter and Nicholas Draper. Dust flew from their doors and windows like they’d taken on the energy of the entire town. And down the road it looked like Reginald and Emory Rochester were digging out too. When did they get back?

  Ellen also noticed that every one of those yellow flags had been turned down. All over Nowhere, folks had at least gotten out of their houses long enough to retrieve what had been placed inside their mailboxes.

  And that evening Ellen smiled as she lowered her head onto the pillow.

  Reading that letter had triggered something. It had turned ugliness to a smile like one would flip a light switch. She lay in bed that evening with James by her side, wondering if in the morning she’d find that yellow flag turned up again.

  She hoped so.

  Not every car turned over on the first try. Her daddy said that sometimes it took several cranks on that engine.

  Tomorrow maybe she would try another crank.

  Just when she was about to give in to slumber, Josiah appeared in the doorway to their bedroom. He said, “Good night, Ellen.”

  “Good night, Josiah.”

  He nodded, then disappeared down the dark hallway to go sleep on the living room couch.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Jeremiah checked on Peter first thing the next morning.

  The boy had been up all night again, writing more letters, and was now asleep on his lumpy mattress with his arms and legs spread out all akimbo and intertwined with the bedsheet.

  Even before fixing himself a cup of joe, Jeremiah looked out the living room window. Just as he’d figured, every mailbox flag in Nowhere was standing at attention.

  Again.

  Jeremiah had seen the reaction on Ellen’s face yesterday when she read her letter in the yard, and he still wondered what Peter had written on it. He’d saved both of his own letters so far—the first one, which said just plain “Thank you,” and yesterday’s, which had brought him to tears. That one said, “I wish you’d been my father from the get-go.”

  Jeremiah smiled even now just thinking of it. His heart galloped in anticipation of what currently rested inside that mailbox. But then his eyes caught something he didn’t think at first could be real—a bright spot of red amid all that dark dust and those yellow mailbox flags.

  He looked again, and the red remained—right in the middle of the road between the Goodbye house and the Bentley Hotel.

  Red no bigger than a baseball.

  The coffee could wait. He stepped outside and approached the road with a bit of caution. He walked past his mailbox and decided that whatever was in it could wait too. He’d get today’s letter on his way back inside.

  The closer he got, the brighter the red became, until he stopped three feet away and realized it was a rose. A living rose with a single leafy green stem and thorns. A rose that had no earthly business growing there right in the middle of all that dust—and in the middle of the road to boot. And didn’t roses usually grow on bushes, not single stems?

  Jeremiah scratched his head.

  The red petals were unfurled and strong, glistening as if they’d recently seen water.

  He squatted down for a closer look. He blew on it and the petals moved, proving the flower was real and not some imagined impossibility. He started to reach for it, but a voice stopped him.

  “Don’t touch it.”

  Jeremiah looked over his shoulder, and there stood Ellen a few feet away. “Morning, Ellen.”

  “Morning, Jeremiah.” She stepped closer, her eyes fixed on the flower.

  Jeremiah said, “What do you think it is?”

  Ellen looked at him funny. “It’s a rose.”

  “I know that, but . . . where’d it come from? Nothing blooms from dust.”

  She didn’t answer, but he noticed she held a folded paper in her hand. She’d apparently taken her letter from the mailbox on her way out to the road.

  “You read it yet?”

  She shook her head no.

  Orion was on his way out of the Bentley, and behind him came Rose, wearing, of all colors, a yellow dress to match those flags.

  Her name now seemed oddly coincidental. Dizziness swept through Jeremiah, and he had to close his eyes to make things right. He stood from his crouch and recalled the way his father had hugged Rose on the evening she’d arrived in town. For some reason that embrace no longer seemed strange to him.

  A door banged closed, and Wilmington and Josiah stepped from the house, both men squinting like they hadn’t seen sunlight in days, which was probably true. Jeremiah shared a glance with Josiah, and then both brothers looked away.

  And now, one by one, the rest of the town was emerging from their homes and making their way toward the hotel. Some stopped by their mailboxes to check what was inside. Others chose to wait. Sister Moffitt read her letter as she approached the gathering crowd. She walked with a hand clasped to her mouth. She could have been hiding a smile or holding in a cry, but the show of emotion was apparent. She was a different woman than the one they’d seen mu
mbling through that rosary the other night.

  Five minutes later it seemed everybody in town had gathered, two rows deep, standing in a circle around that perky red rose. Whispers ruffled through the crowd, but mostly everyone just stared, transfixed by the bright, luscious color of that flower. Sheriff McKinney opened his letter and read it to himself while standing there, clenching his jaw as he did so, as if to stifle some show of emotion he didn’t wish the others to see. Phillip Jansen had opened his letter too, and read with a smile.

  Peter had joined them, yawning into his fist. His hair was tousled, and his dimples were so deep they could have been holes. The people were watching him as much as they were watching the rose, and Jeremiah read the question in their eyes, the same question that had him wondering: How does he know so much about me? But more than one person said a silent thank-you to Peter as he stood there, eyes fixed on that red rose—a red rose that Jeremiah now felt the boy had something to do with, perhaps unknowingly. Did the boy understand what he’d done—or had begun to do— to a town so close to the brink? Jeremiah had a feeling he did, yet Peter hung back in a shy way that showed he wanted no credit.

  Glancing back, Jeremiah saw that Wilmington and Orion had inched their way forward until they stood on opposite sides of the rose, eyes locked. Jeremiah wondered how many people had seen the two of them embrace in the middle of the road yesterday at just about that same spot.

  What did it mean?

  The two town founders looked to be asking the same question of each other.

  The rose had sprouted where there’d been an outward display of kindness and forgiveness—not in the exact spot, but darn close. But Jeremiah sensed more in that look they shared, something that had to do with the past even more so than the present.

  Then Dr. Craven stepped forward out of the crowd, frail and pale and wrinkly-old, but alert enough to share that same look with Orion and Wilmington. The three of them stood there together for long time, even after the town folk started to return to their homes.