by Robert Hill
That it should also give Hunko something to hang his heart on was nothing Kennesaw knew of or needed to know; it was True who tipped him off to what Hunko was up to, though at the time it made no difference. Kennesaw all but forgot about the “gift” Hunko was hunkering over in his barn like a workshop elf, or so he said. He didn’t expect anything from Hunko nor of Hunko, and so he was neither displeased nor disappointed when the nothing he didn’t care about didn’t come.
We can’t all be kings, Kennesaw thought then. Not every man is special enough to prove himself special in the simplest acts. Some plant a seed and nothing grows; some measure a plank for sawing, measure it twice, and still saw wrong. There must be that kind among us, the ordinary failures, so that those of us who score the ordinary successes—plant a seed that grows, saw a plank that fits—are extraordinary by comparison. It was like that with Kennesaw and Hunko, his short shadow, years his junior and the mismatched son he might have had, had there been a few more years between them and had he and True given the Bliss-Belvedere drum one last good thump at a very early age. Hunko made those gates for him; it took him years to get them just right. How could Kennesaw have closed his heart to something like that? Special, and not special enough. Between them exists something so special no ordinary lockbox has ever been able to keep it locked from his memory for any significant length of time, and he can feel Hunko gaining on him by the second, as if the boy were following him to True’s.
Call it a sign or that sock in the eye you don’t bounce back from, but what happened that day with the felling of the Drells and the effect it had on Flummox adulted Kennesaw from his father’s son to his own man in a matter of hours, and put him on the path to the rest of his years with only one real regret trailing behind him.
17. Ruff
A flea bites a dog; a dog bites an itch—whose story is it?
Let’s say it’s the dog’s, and let’s say the dog is Ruff Drell. Ruff’s been lounging in a bed of forget-me-nots one sunny afternoon a year or so before his entire family is felled. He’s licked every drop of sweat off of his big dogly sac and he’s moved on to sampling to his tongue’s content the crusty delights that cling to his hind-end outpost. Mid-snack, a sensation takes hold of him that’s as annoying in its suddenness as it is in its itchiness. To his consternation, one side of his big dogly sac is penetratingly beset by what feels like the teeth of a shark, digging in and not letting go. Ruff bares his teeth at the interloper and chomps down as hard as he can on that side of his doghood and gnaws away with the hunger of a lost mountaineer at whatever it is that’s biting him bald. In his frenzy to dislodge the microscopically flat freeloader with the microscopically ferocious fangs, you might say Ruff responds a bit too roughly. A tidal wave of red fluid is loosed from his big dogly sac that gushes with the urgency of a hungry mountaineer’s bowels after dining on his own dog cold and uncooked, and as the fluid flows out, so too does one half of one half of Ruff’s big dogly sac, leaving an oozing and rapidly wrinkling half sac that’s not a pretty picture. Had the dog any bark in him, they’d have heard it in heaven.
The image sticks because of that flea. Had the flea not bitten, Ruff wouldn’t have chomped; and had Ruff not chomped, Roo wouldn’t have chopped the remnants of the half of the half that wasn’t chomped, and had Roo not chopped the half of the half not chomped he might have gotten around to chopping both halves fully and leaving Ruff with no sac to attack and no self-dismemberment to remember.
Memories hitch themselves to the advancing years howsoever they can. A flea bites a dog and a dog bites itself and a man butchers a job and a small bit of business grows into legend. Which memories come along for the ride and which ones flee the first chance they get has no formula to regulate their participation in the scheme of things. Add water and sun to ground and seed and a small green sprig of certainty will grow. But this added to that followed by then does not necessarily guarantee that the true story of whatever is the memory that’s remembered now. Ruff Drell is remembered for two things: for being a dog with one half of his doghood sacrificed by a master who hadn’t the heart to do the job fully; and for being a felled Drell. All who knew that Ruff had maimed himself first had kept that bit of business to themselves, and it fell out of common knowledge when all who knew about it were felled themselves. Ruff knew, not Roo, that he had maimed himself not because he was self-abusing, but because a microscopically small intruder with the appetite of a lost mountaineer had hitched a ride on his sac, and if there was anything Ruff could not tolerate, it was a Ruff rider. So he did what any dog would do to put that lost mountaineer out of his misery, only to create a bit too much misery for himself. Ruff went to where all dog bones get buried with a truism buried alongside him, which was that the legend about his lost doghood was a falsehood.
Now take the flea. It hopped from woody mouse to savory chicken to sweaty dog sac, and on that hot and humid ride found itself a feast worth digging its chops into. The flea was only doing what fleas do as Ruff was only doing what dogs and Drells do. Dogs and Drells pay inordinate amounts of attention to their sacs, and fleas bite. The flea had emerged from its larval beginnings as unformed as the day after tomorrow, with both direction and intent subordinate to instinct. It had to have food, that food had to be blood, and beyond that basic necessity, the where and the how and the when of its feeding were as unpredictable in their variables as were the consequences of it getting what it wanted. You could say that all of life in New Eden is like that. You wake up to a day with no absolutes that have to be observed beyond following your instincts for nourishment and excretion and, if you’ve the interest, industry; and if you’ve the outlet—that other business. Where the day takes you is the consequence of how you go about following your instincts—the what you choose to eat, the where you decide to excrete, the how of your industry, the who of that other business—and consequent to all those instincts turned choices come the days after tomorrow and the further choices necessary because of those prior choices made.
A boy goes to take a girl to a dance, gets rebuffed by her mother, takes it out on his father, hides away from his village, and ends his days as a maggots’ feast; and the friend who knew him best keeps the truth locked deep in his heart and whiles away his own life with someone else’s sadness. And whenever one encounters the friend who knew him best, one cannot help but hum the sad hymn that’s sung of the love-lost boy who became one with the everlasting air of the world he left behind. And too, a flea, descendant of the one that roughed up Ruff—to be bitten by one now is to hearken back to that barkless dog as he chomped his sac to stop an itch without a thought of what kind of future might befall him.
18: Petie and Loma
Loma Soyle could stretch forty winks into a voyage round the horizon. When she went down, she was down as far as that golden metropolis that sank into the who-knows-where way back in that ancient time when mere mortals would believe any fantastical story you told them. Good thing bed linens aren’t the briny deep ‘cause Loma wouldn’t bubble a breath for long, long as she went under.
Hephelonius Soyle tried her best to rouse her eldest daughter from her slumber loving. Her two girls, Loma and her sister Petie, shared a room off the kitchen under the shadow of an overgrown elm, and the room had just enough room between the two thin beds for a pantaloon to walk between unmolested, so Hephelonius would starch extra crisp Petie’s undergarments with the cherry appliqué and the lace trim so that when the pretty things moved, their crisp folds would scratch and crinkle like pinecones going up in flames, and her sister would wake and be so undone she’d near go up with them. That was one solution.
Another solution was to set aside a day of the week when Petie would get her hair washed with oil of camphor in a tub drug to the head of Loma’s bed. Hephelonius would pour pitcher after pitcher of warm pure water over Petie’s golden curls and the water that didn’t turn them lustrous dark with damp fell into the tub with a tinny drum-drum. She’d drop the tin pitcher on the floor by the tub at
the head of Loma’s bed and commence to massage Petie’s golden curls with the oil of camphor, rubbing it into the scalp in slurpy sounding swirls and swoops, bubbling up quite the froth and giving moths for miles fair warning. Petie loved the smell of oil of camphor. She’d have had her hair washed daily if she could, just to live in that biting aroma. Hephelonius was partial to that smell, too, and grateful that at least her younger daughter was born with the same wise appreciation for things you didn’t need eyes to enjoy. Loma, if she had to choose between the smell of oil of camphor or having all of her hairs pulled out one by one, she’d yank herself bald. Loma and oil of camphor did not mix.
Loma began her journey as a baby who cried a lot, and grew into a young woman who slept a lot, and if you asked her why she was so selfish to sleep so much while her younger sister was left to have to brush her own hair, clear her own dishes, empty her own slop and deflect the many compliments on how buttercup-pretty she was in comparison to ring-eyed Loma, Loma would fix a stare on you that you just had to slap her out of.
Petie was in possession of many fine qualities that Loma lacked: her head sat directly above her torso thanks to a last-minute change in the direction that her spine curved; her wheeze was not a distraction; and any knowledge of a discomfiting nature would not spend much time in the inner sanctum of her mind. In short, she had a near-quiet, near-empty head, center-most on her shoulders, and milky eyes.
Naturally, as these qualities were Upland qualities from the O’ums side of things, passed on from Hephelonius and her family to her second child, Hephelonius could be forgiven for lavishing upon the daughter who was not her spitting image the bulk of her spit. Loma inherited what she inherited from the Minton end of the Soyle side of things, and the Minton end of the Soyle side of things were not any side of things Hephelonius ever made reference to without spitting, so to mention Mintons was to spit, to talk of Loma was to spit, to talk to Loma was to spit, and, with so much spit generated on her behalf, Loma did what she could do on a daily basis to goad her mother into spit fits that might one day fill a tub that she could then dunk her sister’s half-empty head into, and all the way under, so that the wheezy little thing might bubble her last. That was one solution.
Another solution was for Loma to sleep as long as she could until one day she’d be sleeping forever. Her inclination to the somniferous might, to some, be considered a selfish act, as it did to her mother mostly, and to her sister half the time. They could not understand this girl with the off-center head that was too full of thoughts and not a one of them happy about being Petie’s sibling. Her every action was ingratitude on a scale of magnitude that would take a person with a full brain and another half brain added to fully comprehend. To Loma’s consternation, between them, Hephelonius and Petie came up two-thirds of a brain short, so having the very people who misunderstood her come to understand her was a likelihood as unlikely to happen as a sunken golden metropolis suddenly coming up for air.
Sleep seemed the only way to live through her life. Down she’d go as soon as she could and out for the count as long as could be. She was tired of brushing her sister’s hair, and clearing her sister’s dishes, and emptying her sister’s slop. She was tired of wishing on stars and dreaming of golden metropoli and waking to oil of camphor and burning pinecones. She was body tired, and heart tired, and tired from being so tired. She felt herself in a hole at the bottom of a chasm too fatigued for anything but sinking deeper. She’d curl into a tuck like she was back in her mother’s womb and she’d stay that way for hours and hours and more. She’d stay that way in her bed, if that’s where she took to, and she’d take that way to stay any other place, too. Sometimes it was in the cold dark beneath the sagging front porch among the spiders and moles. Other times it was in the woods not too far from the field where the Drells were felled. She’d find a spot like something only in a dream: a place no one else had ever happened upon, a misty hideaway where new moss had tiny fresh blooms, a holy ground not even ants would blaspheme, and as it would be in a dream, the locale was always as quiet and dark as the night before the first day. She’d lay herself down on the cushioned ground and feel the dew-dropped green on her cheek. She’d draw into her tuck with her knees up close to where her bosoms never grew and her arms enfolded about herself as much as her own twisting spine would allow, and she’d hope that sleep would overtake her soon and completely. Until it did, she’d lie there and listen to the feel of the beat of her heart. She’d slow her breath. And still her blood. And in that near lifeless state of waiting for finality she’d think to herself over and over: I will wake to a golden metropolis … I will wake to a golden metropolis … I will wake to a golden metropolis.
To wake was to be reminded of what life was not, of her sister’s favored position in their mother’s graces and her own diminished standing in her mother’s spit. How one child, an afterthought at that, could stumble upon such partiality just because of a lucky bend in her back, or a pleasing wheeze, or a proclivity for the intoxicant oil of camphor was a boulder of reason ever at battle with gravity that would always nearly make it to the mountaintop of Loma’s comprehension before tumbling down, down, down.
To wake was to also confront an unfortunate truth about the haphazardry of life that ran counter to her feelings of turpitude towards Petie. Petie’s lucky back bend and her pleasing wheeze and her overall buttercup prettiness were a sight for every sore eye in town, save two: her own. Her milky eyes, set in her near quiet, near-empty head, had never in her life seen the light of day. Loma’s eyes had taken in everything the world has to offer, every shape and form, every shade of day, of night, every color from buttercup to periwinkle. She had vision enough to imagine the golden metropolis in all its ancient splendor, while to her sister, be it standing or submerged, all golden metropoli looked alike. Hephelonius had been insistent since the insufficiency was discerned that Loma be the eyes that Petie lacked—to look for her and look out for her—so that Petie might see the world as God’s eye sees it, and Loma, as she did so, might see the world as Petie saw it.
It was expected that Loma would take Petie by the hand and guide her through the years. If there was a climb to make then Loma should be the one to say to her sister two steps up, that’s one, that’s two; if a footfall was imminent in her sister’s path she should say to her sister rocks ahead, step left, now right; if the woodstove was hot to the touch, she should say to her sister careful now, that’s hot, don’t touch; if left with only each other after their mother’s passing, she should say to her sister, I’ll always be here, I will. A life of lead and follow would be what life would be and Loma should tell herself that this will be enough, enough.
Loma began her journey as a baby who cried a lot, and grew into a young woman who slept a lot, and in the dappled light that only she could see between the two she was a daughter who resented a lot and a sister who regretted even more.
This hurts my finger, Loma. What is it?
That’s a knife.
My arms and legs and neck and face are all itchy, Loma, what are you rubbing on my body?
It’s called poison ivy.
I smell smoke, Loma. Where’s it coming from?
Your hair.
Am I as pretty as you are, Loma? Am I? Loma? Are you crying? What do tears look like, Loma?
Tell your sister, Loma. Loma! Wake up, Loma!
When you can’t see a way out, the way out is you. Loma’s tongue grew tired speaking to and for Petie’s eyes. The more their mother insisted on her sacrifice, the deeper Loma retreated into her own heart, slowing her breath, stilling her blood, and becoming actively inert. It was tranquil there. She was neither resentful there, nor remorseful. She would close her eyes and see the world as she imagined both God and Petie saw it—as a beautiful black void of perfect ever-after-ness. As the years washed forward like the hues in a prism that only she could see, Loma tried to spare her sister the hardened black heart that beat at her daily. As a small girl she had swallowed whole a new potato
her mother had yet to quarter for Petie; she choked on it and sputtered and spasmed like a rat on arsenic until she flailed herself against the hot woodstove and miraculously dislodged the spud as if from the ground anew. She reasoned she could do the same with the turmoil of her feelings. She’d swallow them as arsenic down her rat hole of a throat, but stop short of dislodging them by throwing herself on the hot woodstove. That thing burned the hell out of her belly.
She tried, so often through the years she tried just that. At the sun’s every shadow around the dial, on the green moss of the forest floor, under the sagging front porch among the spotted spiders and the gray moles, at every stiff swish of her sister’s starched pantaloons with their pretty cherry appliqué and lace trim, when spring was all diamonds and summer all circles and autumn all hexagons and winter all flat; as the years put new bends in their spines and spots on their hands, when the box with their mother was lowered into the ground and the rich, dark dirt shoveled back over it like a sprinkling of brown sugar on a cake only worms would enjoy, after every encounter with her own reflection in the parlor looking glass, at every washing with the oil of camphor that Loma in her hard heart had to admit was the silkiest substance she ever saw poured—rather than make Petie more sorry for the golden metropolis she’d never seen nor see, Loma curled into her tuck and tried to will her own sinking, wished for it, cried for it, dreamt of it, prayed, but it never did happen the way she envisioned.
Petie’s invisible hands were full caring for a self she could not see. Best she could on a daily basis she brushed her own invisible hair and cleared her own invisible dishes and emptied her own invisible slop while trying to make herself invisible so Loma could continue to sleep. More often than not she brushed hair that was seldom washed, and cleared away dishes that rarely touched food. More often than that she brushed her own hair with a dish, and emptied her own slop into the kitchen sink, and when one day she cleared her invisible hairbrush into the invisible slop bucket and reasoned she’d have to reach her invisible hand into the invisible reek to retrieve it before Loma woke and got wind and got mad, Petie sat down on the invisible woodstove and burned her invisible behind and cried tears neither one of them would see.