But now, for the first time, Jeremiah saw that there might be another option. “Where would we go?”
Peter turned toward the typewriter and punched a series of keys.
Jeremiah moved toward the chair next to the desk so that he could watch Peter type. It’s how they’d begun to communicate.
To the next town.
“I’m a fugitive, Peter.”
So am I.
“No, you’re an orphan.”
What’s the difference?
Jeremiah laughed. The boy was stubborn and too smart for his own good. “What about Nowhere? Don’t you like it here?”
As much as anyone can like all this dust. Yes, I love it here. But Nowhere’s not going anywhere, and we’ve got business to do.
He paused to think, then punched the keys again.
They’re safe now.
“How do you know this?”
Same as you. The dust man moved on. And we will too.
“What dust man?”
The one you’ve been seeing in your dreams, Mr. Goodbye. Some of the town folk are starting to talk about him. I mentioned him in some of the letters.
“But how do you know what’s in my dreams, Peter?”
Peter grinned, typed.
You talk in your sleep, Mr. Goodbye.
Jeremiah laughed. “I talk in my sleep, huh?”
Peter nodded, typed.
There might not be these roses where we go next, but they’ll need us just the same.
Jeremiah stared at the boy in awe. “You mean they’ll need you.”
The boy smiled large as he typed.
“Without you there is no me.”
He paused.
If I can call you Daddy then I’ll no longer be an orphan.
Jeremiah couldn’t have hid his grin if he’d wanted to. “Reckon that’d be okay, son.”
That night when Nowhere slept, Jeremiah and Peter delivered the letters together.
Peter let him read what he’d written to each one of the town folk, and as usual his finger was right on the pulse of what mattered most. And although his words hinted toward a departure, it was also made clear that he’d be back after his work was done. In the meantime, it was time they wrote letters to each other now—if not with words, then with deeds and actions.
They needed to just keep on spreading that kindness.
Jeremiah watched the ground as he delivered each letter, taking pride in closing the mouth of each mailbox and turning those yellow flags upright as Peter did the same on the other side of the street.
But as carefully as he watched, no new roses popped through. Must be like watching for a weed to grow. They don’t do anything while you’re spying, but as soon as you turn your back they grow like the dickens.
Ellen woke the next morning with the pleasant weight of Josiah’s arm draped over her shoulder.
His breath touched the nape of her neck, and for the first time in a long time she felt safe.
She eased herself out from beneath his arm and put her bare feet on the floor, which was gritty with dust. She looked back toward the bed and saw the outline of where her head had been etched by dust on the pillow. A duster must have rolled in overnight. Or maybe the dust that constantly permeated the air had just settled.
In the kitchen she looked out the window. Her mailbox flag was up. More roses had sprouted overnight—one right there on the railing of their porch.
But no more rain.
She recalled Wilmington’s story from yesterday, and cold chills covered her skin. The look of relief and contentment on his face when he’d gone to bed last night had warmed her heart, but now it unnerved her. She’d been hoping he’d be up by now.
Had that look she’d seen on his face meant he was ready now? Ready for that bullet to move and take him the rest of the way? To Amanda and his daughter, Rose?
Next thing she knew she was running through the kitchen and down the hallway and opening Wilmington’s bedroom door in one long breath. He lay motionless on the bed, covers tucked over his shoulder.
“Wilmington?” She knelt beside the bed. Sunlight paled his face. His eyes were closed.
She placed a trembling hand beneath his nostrils and couldn’t tell if she felt anything. So she gently shook his shoulder and started crying. “Wilmington, don’t do this. You might be ready, but we aren’t.” She shook him again. “Wilmington?”
And then he opened his eyes, and she fell back on her rear end.
“Ellen, what in the world? I was having a good one for a change.”
She covered her mouth, stifled a chuckle. “I thought . . .”
“You thought what?”
“Thought you were dead,” she said, feeling her face flush red. “I thought that bullet moved.”
He leaned up on an elbow and felt the scar, the entry wound that never did have a proper exit. “Sometimes I think you want that bullet to move.”
She shook her head. “Of course I don’t.”
He sat upright and felt the slightly concave entry above his ear. “I do feel a duster coming, though.”
She smiled, patted his bony knee. “That we can handle.”
At five minutes after ten in the morning, a week and a half after Jeremiah stepped down from Old Sparky with his heart still beating, the lawmen finally came.
They came in four cars and with enough men to bring down four Coin-Flip Killers if they had the need.
Jeremiah waited by the window of the Worst house as car doors closed and boots touched dust. The wind blew. Tumbleweeds tumbled. Guns cocked.
“Jeremiah Goodbye,” shouted one of the lawmen. “I know you’re in there. Come out with your hands up.”
Part of him hoped they’d come in after him. The other part . . . He glanced across the room at Peter and thought, Perhaps in another life.
“Jeremiah Goodbye,” the lawman shouted again, loud enough for all of Nowhere to hear and flock to their windows and doors. “Come out with your hands up.”
Jeremiah looked out the window. Four dusty cars, eight men total, all armed with rifles and wearing hats and badges with titles on them.
The one doing the talking just happened to be the biggest. His badge dappled in the sunlight and he kept his eyes fixed on Jeremiah’s door.
The other lawmen seemed distracted by all the roses—like they were trying to make sense of them and at the same time stay on task. Bringing in the Coin-Flip Killer was no small one.
Peter approached Jeremiah with a rifle in his hands. The boy’s arms shook; it was against his nature to even hold a weapon, let alone urge someone to use it. But if he could have typed out something right quick, Jeremiah imagined it would have been something about desperate times.
Jeremiah shook his head and told Peter to put down the gun. He knelt and hugged the boy like he’d never see him again. “You stay with my brother and Ellen. They’ll watch over you proper. No tears.”
Peter did his best, but the tears still came.
Jeremiah turned toward the door and stepped out onto the porch with his hands up. He walked slowly down the steps. Peter stood in the doorway.
“That’s close enough, Peter.”
“Keep ’em up,” said the head lawman, stepping away from his Model T, both hands on his rifle, finger on the trigger.
“To whom do I have the pleasure on this fine morning?” asked Jeremiah.
“Agent August Livingston,” said the tall one. “I’m with the State Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation.” Up close his face wasn’t fully shadowed. He had a mustache, brown and thick like the hair beneath his hat. “Your little vacation is over, Mr. Goodbye. Keep your hands up where I can see them and approach slowly.” He spoke out the side of his mouth toward the agent next to him, a chunkier man with still enough size to do damage if it came to it. “Get the bracelets ready, Charles.”
Charles unlatched a set of cuffs from his waistline.
Livingston’s eyes shifted from Jeremiah to all the roses. “What
’s with all the flowers? Roses don’t bloom from dust.”
“Seems they do here,” said Jeremiah. “It’s a long story. And you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
“It’s a long ride back. You can tell me on the way.”
“Won’t be a ride at all,” called Josiah, stepping down from his porch with a rifle aimed at the agents.
“That’s close enough,” shouted Livingston, motioning for two of his men to aim their shooters toward the other Goodbye.
Josiah took four more cautious steps before stopping near the street.
“Put down the weapon,” said Livingston. “We don’t want bloodshed.”
“It’ll get bloody if need be,” said Josiah. “Law ain’t taking my brother again.”
Jeremiah turned toward his twin. “Josiah, put the rifle down. I’m gonna get in the car with these gentlemen and go. I won’t cause any more trouble.”
Josiah spat. “You’re staying put.”
Orion appeared next, slowly approaching from the Bentley Hotel with a rifle aimed.
“Halt,” shouted Livingston. “Put the rifle down.”
Orion stopped about twenty paces away, but he didn’t lower the rifle. In fact, he seemed to have Livingston in his crosshairs.
Livingston hissed at Jeremiah. “Get in the car. Put an end to this.”
Jeremiah took a step with his hands still up.
Josiah said, “Stop, Jeremiah. I mean it. I’ll start felling lawmen one by one.”
Just then Wilmington stepped from the house with his rifle and made it to about three paces behind Josiah before Livingston shouted for him to stop too.
Wilmington said, “If you take my son, it’ll be with a bullet in your back.”
“You just threatened a state officer,” said the chunky one holding the cuffs.
“Yes I did, tubby.”
Ellen walked out from behind the house and knelt behind a drift of dust. She had a rifle as well. She leveled steady, finger on the trigger.
Livingston’s eyes darted from rifle to rifle. He looked over his shoulder, as did his fellow lawmen, when they heard footsteps approaching in the opposite direction.
Sheriff McKinney approached with a rifle aimed—not at Jeremiah but at the agents.
Livingston said, “Sheriff, tell them to stand down. Tell them to lower those rifles, or I’ll take them all in.”
“I’ll do no such thing, Agent Livingston.”
Livingston chuckled.
“What’s funny?” asked Sheriff McKinney.
Livingston turned in a slow circle. “What kind of a sheriff are you?”
Sheriff McKinney said, “The kind who knows more about all this than you do.”
Rose had just emerged from the Bentley Hotel in a dress and holding a rifle. She stopped beside Orion’s tractor, where another rose had sprouted from the engine overnight.
Livingston faced Jeremiah again and clenched his teeth. “Get in the car.”
Josiah said, “Don’t move, brother.”
Jeremiah said, “Josiah, don’t do this.”
Livingston regained his focus and pointed his rifle directly toward Jeremiah. “This man was supposed to be dead already. He escaped Old Sparky, but he won’t escape me. He’s guilty of taking the lives of at least four men.”
Josiah said, “He didn’t kill those men.”
“I can prove it,” shouted Rose. “I’m pushing for a new trial. Only thing he’s guilty of is having a conscience.”
By now, windows had opened all over town with rifle barrels poking through. Doors opened and guns were cocked. Toothache stepped from the shadows with a rifle in each arm. Leland Cantain propped his atop his mailbox. Moses Yearling, from the porch of the hotel, pointed one of his rockets toward the agents. Phillip Jansen pulled a pistol from his mailbag and pointed it.
Father Steven and Sister Moffitt were unarmed, but their intentions to intimidate were clear in their straight-backed postures. Pastor Johnson stood a few steps behind them, frowning.
Minutes ticked by, and the agents grew skittish.
More of the town folk stepped from the shadows and around house corners and parked cars with pistols and rifles aimed. William “Windmill” Trainer held a shotgun. Ned Blythe gripped a pistol in both hands like an Old West gunslinger.
Jeremiah grinned as he took it all in, but still he said, “Josiah, put a stop to this.”
Josiah said, “Close your head, Jeremiah. For once you’re listening to big brother.” He took two steps toward Livingston. “Ever heard of Tombstone, Arizona, Agent Livingston? The shootout at the O.K. Corral?”
Livingston spat to the ground. Sweat dripped from his brow. “What do you think?”
“By the looks of that sweat dripping, I think you have.”
“You’re no Wyatt Earp.”
“And he was no Goodbye.”
Livingston scoffed, his eyes darting toward all the aimed rifles. “You don’t have the sand.”
“Maybe not.” Josiah took another step. “But I’ve had my share of dust. And I’m prepared to make Tombstone look like a tea party if you and your badges don’t go back where you come from.”
Livingston eyed his men, straightened his hat. “You won’t do it.”
Josiah shrugged. “Try me.”
“I’ll come back with an army. You know that, don’t you?”
“Figured as much.”
“And I’ll bring you in with him.”
“Figured that too,” said Josiah, jerking the agents a nod. “But not today.”
Ten minutes after the lawmen’s cars left in clouds of dust, Ellen sat trembling on the porch step.
Josiah sat beside her and kissed the top of her head. “It’ll be all right, Ellen.”
She gripped his hand and squeezed. Somehow she could tell by his touch that it would be all right. The law would return, but by then Jeremiah would be long gone. He and the boy were packing inside the Worst house now.
The door closed behind them, and Wilmington walked out to the porch holding James’s hand. Ellen opened her arms, and the boy came running. He’d shown more energy of late and less of that croupy cough.
Rose was fixing to leave town as well. She stepped from the Bentley Hotel with her bags packed and approached an idling Model T on the street.
Jeremiah must have seen her. He hurried from the house and met her in the middle of the road. They talked for a minute and even spent a few beats of it laughing. She covered her mouth as if he’d said something to make her blush, and then Jeremiah kissed her hand.
Rose said her good-byes, which included a firm hug and a wish of good luck from Ellen. Then she got in the car and drove away.
Jeremiah stood next to Ellen and Josiah until Rose’s car was the size of a thumbnail and then disappeared. He looked at his brother. “Would you have really pulled the trigger and started a gunfight earlier?”
After some thought, Josiah said, “Yep.” He nodded toward the road, where Rose had gone. “She going to get you a new trial?”
“Gonna try to,” said Jeremiah. “Woman’s determined.”
Ellen said, “I’ve been seeing how you look at her, Jeremiah. And how she looks at you.”
“And how’s that?”
“Like there isn’t enough to go around.” Ellen folded her arms. “I can’t believe you just let her go like that.”
Jeremiah grinned out toward the distant road.
“What?” asked Ellen.
“She’ll be back, Ellen. I’ll see her again.”
“And how can you be so sure?”
Jeremiah winked.
“You didn’t?”
“’Course I did.”
Twenty minutes later the entire town had gathered around the packed car, and Jeremiah leaned against the open driver’s side door.
He said to Josiah, “Thanks for the wheels. I wasn’t looking forward to carrying that typewriter on foot.”
“When they come back, I’ll say you stole it.”
“Punched
you and stole it.”
“Even better.”
The two brothers embraced. Wilmington was next. Then Ellen held Jeremiah and looked up into his eyes. “I know why you have to go, but I wish you didn’t.”
“A thought come to me last night, Ellen. I figured all this time it was chasing me.”
She didn’t need to ask what was chasing him. The nightmare. His gift. It was all one and the same. “And now?”
“I think I’ve been the one chasing it. And I ain’t done yet.”
She stepped away from Jeremiah, then knelt down and hugged Peter tight. “You promise to come back and visit?”
“Come back and visit,” said Peter. “Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater.”
Figuring that was as good of a verbal answer as she’d get, she stood and wiped her eyes.
Jeremiah knelt down, and with his pocketknife cut a red rose from the dirt. He smelled it and then stuck it in the pocket of his button-down so that the working end showed bright.
The gesture clearly made Wilmington proud.
Jeremiah pulled a quarter from his pocket and prepared to flip it, but then stopped. Instead, he handed it to Peter. “You do the honors. Heads we go west. Tails, east.”
Peter flipped the coin in the air with pride and let it puff to the dirt.
Jeremiah plucked it from the ground and dropped it back into his pocket.
“West it is.”
AFTER
Dusters raged for years after Jeremiah left town, and the rains continued to stay away. More grasshoppers came along with the rising temperatures and more rabbits too.
But Nowhere lived on.
What Blooms from Dust Page 27