Ellen dared another duster to come, because she knew now that the town would meet it head-on, shovels and brooms ready. The people of the plains had been beat down, but they weren’t finished. Stone by stone. Letter by letter.
She said to Wilmington beside her, “You know why these roses are popping up, don’t you?”
Wilmington grinned, winked. “I have an idea, yes.”
“And you won’t tell?”
“Not today.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Don’t know if you’d believe me if I did tell, Ellen. But who really knows what tomorrow will bring.”
And then, suddenly, the rain stopped.
All was quiet as everyone stared upward, waiting to see if it would start again.
One minute turned into two, and the skies began to clear. A sliver of blue shone between two cottony clouds.
Toothache said, “DoitagainMoses. Dothatthingwiththerocket.”
“Fire another one,” yelled eleven-year-old Rachel Finnigen.
After several more shouted requests, Moses Yearling hurried toward the road with his rocket. He looked up toward a patch of sunlight and, probably figuring that it wasn’t the best spot to bust a cloud, he moved west about twenty yards, quickly setting up there. But as he fumbled to get the rocket lit, Deacon Sipes showed himself in the middle of Main Street.
Unlike the others, who seemed refreshed, Deacon still looked tired and beat down by the years of dust and drought.
“Jeremiah Goodbye,” he yelled.
Ellen sensed trouble right away. Deacon staggered as he walked, like he was under the influence of booze, or even worse. And the look on his face was pure hate.
The next few seconds unfolded in slow-motion. Deacon pulled a pistol from his trousers, aimed it at Jeremiah, who turned right toward it.
Deacon said, “Dust to dust, Jeremiah. Maybe you should’ve flipped that coin.”
And then he pulled the trigger.
The bullet whistled.
And then thunk.
Jeremiah spun, dropped to one knee in the middle of the road. Screams sounded. Unaware of what had just happened, Moses shot his rocket into the sky, and the explosion sent everyone down to the ground in shock. Toothache ran at his friend and tackled him at a full sprint. Sheriff McKinney dropped his letter and hurried toward Deacon as well, pulling hand shackles from his belt.
“No!” Ellen screamed, sprinting toward Jeremiah on the ground.
Rose, too, ran toward the growing circle forming around Jeremiah, who rolled onto his back, blank eyes gazing upward toward the rapidly clearing sky. Blood pumped from an entry wound on his right side, just below the rib cage.
His face grew pale, his lips bloodless. His shoulder was still bandaged from where Josiah had shot him days ago. And now this. He couldn’t afford to lose much blood. He was only starting to get his full strength back.
Sister Moffitt was on her knees, pressing a handkerchief against the wound. It was already soaked. Ellen grabbed a shirt someone had removed from his own back and handed it to the sister. “Stay with us, Jeremiah,” she pleaded. “Stay with me.”
His body got to trembling as fear set in. His hands flailed as if fighting off shadows. His eyes closed. What’s he seeing in there?
“Don’t let it get me,” he whispered. “Josiah . . .”
And then out of nowhere, Josiah was there, boots sliding in the mud. He dropped to the ground, found Jeremiah’s hand and squeezed hard enough to turn their fingers white. Jeremiah’s other hand still flailed, fighting whatever it was they couldn’t see, whatever it was he saw behind those closed eyelids. Then Josiah gripped that hand too.
He knelt over his brother’s body and told him to hold on.
“I got you now, Jeremiah. You hold on now! I ain’t never letting go.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
While Toothache and Sheriff McKinney dragged Deacon Sipes down the road to the jailhouse, Josiah and Father Steven carried Jeremiah into the Goodbye house and placed him gently atop a pallet of blankets Ellen and Rose hastily put together on the kitchen floor.
Ellen propped his head on two pillows while Dr. Craven and Sister Moffitt cleaned the wound, working like the dickens to get that blood to stop spilling. After twenty minutes of constant pressure it slowed. The fact that Josiah would not let go of his brother’s hand made it hard to maneuver, but Ellen wasn’t about to ask him to move.
Luckily the bullet had passed clean through the left side of his abdomen. Sister Moffitt cleaned the entry and exit wounds the best she could, tossed aside that blood-soiled shirt, and said she hoped no fabric was left in there to fester into an infection. But at least the bullet was out of the picture, aside from it now being lodged in the wood on the front side of the house.
An hour later Jeremiah’s side was packed tight and wrapped and the blood had begun to clot. The shot he’d taken to the shoulder days before had been a graze in comparison. Ellen had never seen Jeremiah so pale. Sore now from her efforts, she finally rested back on her heels and let time take over. She watched his chest rise and fall. Rose had joined her on the floor, and for the moment the reporter felt like the sister Ellen had always wanted.
Jeremiah was in his brother’s hands now, literally—Josiah had yet to let go of his right hand. And Josiah talked nonstop, telling stories of their childhood, year by year it seemed, just to keep saying something. Behind those closed lids, Jeremiah’s eyes moved, like he was trying to open them but couldn’t. Like he recognized the voice and was rooting for more.
“Keep talking, Josiah,” Ellen said. “He can hear you.”
Wilmington had pulled a kitchen chair close to where Jeremiah’s head was positioned. He ran his hand over Jeremiah’s hair and demanded he stay alive.
After two hours, Peter got on the floor and gripped Jeremiah’s left hand. Peter mumbled what sounded like that nursery rhyme, the one he’d been named from, and Jeremiah seemed to respond. His head rocked slightly.
Color returned to his cheeks.
Ellen put her hands on Josiah’s shoulders.
Josiah must have realized then that he’d stopped talking in order for Peter to get his words in, but there wasn’t any time for taking turns. Josiah dug right into more stories—about the two of them working the wheat fields together, fishing the river when it was full, shooting rabbits and flipping that coin. Josiah laughed about the day Ellen came to town and how he’d said he’d marry her and Jeremiah had said, “Only if I let you.”
“You remember that, Jeremiah?” Josiah wiped his eyes and rocked slightly like Peter was doing. He squeezed his brother’s hand and looked up at Ellen. “He just squeezed me back.”
“Keep talking, Josiah. Bring him back.”
Wilmington continued to run his hand over his son’s hair. “There’s some warmth returning.”
Josiah bit his lip and paused for a few breaths like he’d run out of things to say, but then he went on, his voice cracking. “I needed you when you were gone, Jeremiah. The town needed you.” Josiah’s jaw trembled. Full tears streamed down his cheeks and dripped to the floor. Ellen rubbed her husband’s back, as she sensed where he was going. And then he said it. “The cattle, Jeremiah. I needed you when they came to kill those cattle.”
Never had Ellen been more proud of Josiah on that day when the government came to kill Nowhere’s cattle. But she’d also never been so scared of him. The way he’d gone distant for days after, weeks even. So silent and stoic she feared he’d never bounce back. And come to think of it, perhaps he never did.
“Go on,” she urged him. “Tell him what it was like, Josiah.”
“He knows what I done.”
“But you need to tell him. And he needs to hear it from you.”
Her husband nodded, conjured strength. Wilmington was crying now, and that only made things harder. Wilmington had never really gotten over that day either. It was when he’d started sneaking behind the house for a secret cry every night.
Josiah said, “It was n
obody’s fault, Jeremiah. Those cattle were starving. Skin and bones and dust. They were used up, with hardly any meat on them. The milking cows had long since gone dry.”
Wilmington said, “The town needed money. That money got the economy moving in Nowhere again, at least for a time. We had no choice.” His voice softened. “The cows were gonna die anyway.”
“A dollar an animal was better than nothing,” said Josiah. “Better than nothing. Roosevelt was doing the right thing. It’s just that those government men that come weren’t good about it. They didn’t take into account our feelings for those animals, what they meant to us. Probably numb from having killed too many already.”
“They were gonna die anyway,” Wilmington repeated, closing his eyes. “Jeremiah, your brother was a hero.”
Josiah bit his lip, composed himself. “Did what I had to do.”
Ellen rubbed his shoulder. “Let it out, Josiah.”
And he did. “Got tired of hearing those animals crying. All that anguish from the owners as the government gunned them down one by one with no remorse. I looked at all the town folk. And I did what you would have done, Jeremiah. You hear me? I did what you would have done.” He looked up at Ellen. “He just squeezed my hand.”
“Go on,” she urged.
“The cattle needed to go out proper, Jeremiah. So I took my pistol and as many bullets as I could muster. Those government men told me to stay back, but I said no. If someone was going to shoot those cows, it was gonna be someone who knew them. I threatened to shoot those government men, Jeremiah, just like you would’ve done. And you know what? They listened. They backed away and said, ‘Be my guest.’ So I did. One by one I petted those cows between their eyes and whispered them calm. I said sweet words to accompany them to the afterlife, and then I pulled the trigger. Told each one of them I was sorry for what I had to do.”
“They were gonna die anyway,” said Wilmington. “The town was desperate for the money.”
Josiah never broke stride. “If I didn’t know the animal’s name I’d call the owner over. They’d tell me, and then I’d move on to the next one. It took me six hours, Jeremiah, but I did it. I did what you would have done. For the town.”
Jeremiah’s eyelids fluttered. They all stopped talking and watched. A minute later the whites of his eyes showed, and his lips opened a crack. He found his twin brother and a weak smile emerged. “You done good, Josiah. You done good.”
Josiah finally let go of Jeremiah’s hand. He exhaled and stood, then took a slow walk around the kitchen to compose himself. Ellen had never seen him so emotional, but knew it was needed— not so much the emotion, but the willingness to show it.
Peter stood from the floor, let go of Jeremiah’s hand, and left the house without telling anyone where he was going. He returned a few minutes later with his typewriter. Josiah helped him get inside the door with it and set up on the kitchen table. By then Jeremiah had propped himself up on his elbows and asked why everyone was huddled so close.
“Give him some space,” said Wilmington, which they barely did.
Peter loaded a sheet of paper into the typewriter and clacked out a few quick words. He rolled the paper out and carried it over to Jeremiah, who chuckled weakly.
Ellen took the paper next and read,
Quit getting shot, Jeremiah.
She smiled and passed the note around the circle, because everyone was eager to read anything Peter wrote.
The atmosphere was jovial again, not too unlike what it had been during that short burst of rainfall, but then a quizzical look passed over Jeremiah. “What’s wrong?” Ellen asked.
Jeremiah looked up at his father. “I sometimes have memories of Mother.”
Wilmington went quiet, as did the room.
Jeremiah said, “Memories of things I should have been too young to remember. But with me, they stick. She used to tell me things, probably thinking I wouldn’t remember, or understand.”
Wilmington’s jaw quivered, and his eyes pooled.
Jeremiah grunted, asked for an extra pillow to prop him to a sharper angle. “It’s time we talk and make sense of some things, Daddy.”
“Like what?” Wilmington asked, fishing to see what all Jeremiah knew.
“Like the day me and Josiah were born.” Wilmington stared at the floor, but then he looked up when Jeremiah said, “I know there’s something you aren’t telling us—you and Orion and Dr. Craven. I think you know exactly why these roses are blooming from dust.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Wilmington kindly asked those who weren’t family to give them privacy. But when Rose grabbed Peter’s hand and began to walk him to the front door, Wilmington stopped them. “No, I need you both to stay.”
He motioned for Rose and Peter to sit at the nearby kitchen table. Peter grabbed a chair like he’d been born a Goodbye instead of bought at a dugout, but then he changed his mind and sat on the floor next to Jeremiah. “And Ellen, if you could go across the street and fetch Orion, I’d appreciate it.”
Turned out Orion had been watching through the porch window anyway. Ellen needled him for staying outside, and he told her the sight of blood made him queasy. But when she told him he’d been summoned by Wilmington, his face showed that he had an idea of what this was about. The two town founders shared a glance, then a nod, as he stepped over the threshold, and then they all pulled chairs closer to Jeremiah’s pallet—Wilmington and his two sons, Orion and Rose, Ellen, Peter, James, and Dr. Craven. They were afraid to move him just yet, so they’d made him as comfortable as possible with pillows and blankets.
The three older men sat together and exchanged nervous looks.
Wilmington poured himself some Old Sam corn whiskey and downed it in one shot. He placed the bottle on the table and let out a deep breath. “Do you all believe in miracles now?”
Jeremiah said, “As it pertains to those roses outside, yes I do.”
Wilmington began. “You are astute as always, Jeremiah. Well, I’m going to tell you about the miracle that happened when you were born.
“It was a hard pregnancy from the start. Your mother began to show much sooner than her lady friends thought she might, and the guessing started right away. ‘You’re gonna have twins, Amanda.’ ‘Triplets,’ another friend would say. ‘Quadruplets,’ even.
“She’d laugh along with them, but as that belly grew, it became harder for her to sleep at night. Harder to breathe as well. Even as a child she’d had problems sometimes catching her breath, and it had only worsened with age. The doctor thought the air out here on the plains might could help, so when we heard about this new town called Majestic, Oklahoma, we jumped on a train and headed west.
“I noticed a difference in your mother right away. But as Orion and I have told the story many times . . .” He trailed off, wiped his face.
Orion said, “There was no Majestic.”
Wilmington smiled, reminiscing. “It was your mother’s idea to name this town Nowhere—’cause that’s what it was. We’d been dumped out in the middle of nowhere.”
He moved the empty glass from hand to hand, showing nerves Ellen was unaccustomed to seeing from him. “The town came together quickly. We set up windmills and started pumping up water from the ground. Started tilling and dropping seed right away. Lived in dugouts at first until we could get real houses up.”
Orion said, “Remember those centipedes?”
“You could hear them nesting in the walls,” said Wilmington. “Scratching all night and into the morning.” He laughed. “Your mother would take a flatiron to the walls and crunch them.”
Orion said, “For insulation we used to put newspapers on the walls. I remember reading them by candlelight sometimes when I couldn’t sleep on account of not being used to the winds yet.”
“Boy, we lived through some stuff, didn’t we?”
“We sure did,” said Dr. Craven. “Prairie fires. Flash floods. Thunderboomers and roof busters with hail twice the size of a baseball.”
“But we started making money, and soon your mother was ordering appliances from those Sears and Roebuck catalogues.”
Orion nodded. “Built my first house from a kit ordered from there.”
Ellen scooted forward in her chair. “Wilmington. The birth?”
Wilmington sighed and poured himself another shot of whiskey. This time Orion took one as well. “Soon after the town got going and weeks before she was to deliver, Amanda started having these nightmares.” He glanced at Jeremiah. “Not exactly like yours, but perhaps similar. She’d wake up sometimes and cry out that he was trying to take her babies. Even then, all the needling from her friends aside, she knew she was carrying more than one.”
“But who was he?” asked Josiah. “Who was Mother talking about? Who was trying to take us?”
“That I don’t know for sure.” He looked at Jeremiah. “Do you remember that day when you were a boy? It was soon after you started flipping that coin to make your decisions. You remember what you told me?”
Jeremiah nodded. “You told me not to speak of it again.”
Josiah looked at his brother and father. “What?”
Wilmington said, “I asked him why he flipped that coin to make all his decisions. He said he had an angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other and he could hear them both whispering in his ears.”
Jeremiah shifted on the floor like he was uncomfortable, like the discomfort involved more than just the physical pain of the bullet wound.
Wilmington said, “I didn’t approve of his flipping. But I told him to go on with it if that’s what he did for fun, but to speak no more of that angel-devil nonsense.”
Jeremiah said, “It wasn’t nonsense at all.”
Wilmington gulped, wiped his eyes. “I know that, son. But the unexplainable is just easier when buried. Or at least that’s what I thought at the time.” He looked at Josiah. “So now that that’s out, the he your mother spoke of—I can only assume she was talking about the devil.”
“Or not,” said Jeremiah. “In my nightmare, I felt both sides.”
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