Goldenrod

by Ann McMan

  Each time she rolled one of her heavy loads past Buddy, he’d stop raking and stand at rigid attention until she disappeared below the rise. The third time she approached him, she told him not to stop. Not to wait. She didn’t want her father to notice that he stopped working—even for a few minutes.

  “Don’t stop raking, Buddy,” she whispered, as she pushed the creaking wheelbarrow past him.

  “Watch for Goldenrod,” he’d mutter. “Goldenrod is here too early. Warm weather. Too soon.”

  Buddy always called her “Goldenrod.” At first, she didn’t understand it. But eventually she decided the odd nickname was because of her hair color—gold like her mama’s had been. Buddy tended to do that—to identify people by some odd quirk or characteristic. It was like solving a puzzle to understand his meaning. Most people didn’t bother to try. But nobody was better at it than Henry, who always seemed to know what Buddy was talking about.

  “Hush, Buddy. Keep working.” She’d keep her voice low and hurry past him, hoping her father wouldn’t notice their exchange.

  He didn’t like it when Buddy spoke to her.

  Her father never paid Buddy much for the work he did for them, but he wouldn’t hesitate to pay him nothing if he thought Buddy was slacking off. Most of the time, though, he acted like Buddy wasn’t even there—except when he found a reason to shout insults or criticize the way he was doing something.

  “Fucking retard doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground . . .”

  Once she was safely back behind the house, Dorothy noticed a rhythm to Buddy’s raking. She began to follow along with him. Twenty-two quick scrapes of the rake. Pause. Seven more. Then twenty-two again. It was a good pattern. It split their work into smaller parts. It was a lot like the story in the Bible that described how God divided land from water and day from night. It made sense because little things were easier to manage. People could live through anything if they knew for sure it had an end.

  Dorothy filled her wheelbarrow again and started her slow trek toward the burn can. This time, she gave Buddy a wide berth, hoping he wouldn’t stop when she passed. It didn’t work. As soon as she got behind him he stopped raking and stood at attention.

  “Buddy, no,” she hissed. “Don’t stop.”

  It was too late. This time, her father noticed.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he bellowed. “I don’t pay you to stand there like an idiot. Get back to work.”

  Buddy didn’t move.

  “Buddy, please,” Dorothy pleaded. “Don’t make him mad.”

  Her slow progress toward the clearing came to a halt when the front tire of her wheelbarrow hit an exposed tree root, causing the whole load to lurch to one side. She did her best to hold it upright, but she wasn’t strong enough. The rusted metal tire bracket gave way and the front end of the wheelbarrow collapsed. Leaves and broken sticks spilled out across the area Buddy had already cleared.

  “God damn it!” Her father threw his plastic tumbler at them. It landed near Buddy’s feet. “You worthless pieces of shit are no better than a couple of Mexicans.”

  Buddy stood rooted to his spot like a beanpole. He was staring straight ahead, but Dorothy knew he wasn’t looking at her father. He wasn’t looking at anything.

  “Are you ignoring me, boy?” Her father stepped closer to the edge of the porch.

  Dorothy intervened. “I’ll clean it up, Papa.”

  “You’ll clean it up?” He scoffed and shifted his gaze to her. His eyes were like dark smudges on his face. “Just like you clean up every other mess you make?”

  He came down off the porch and shoved Buddy hard enough to knock him down.

  Dorothy resisted the impulse to run. She didn’t want to leave Buddy alone with him.

  Little things were easier to manage.

  She saw her father’s expression.

  Today wasn’t going to be a little thing.

  He approached the broken wheelbarrow and kicked at it with disgust. Then he slapped her so hard it made her ears ring. “Who’s going to pay to fix that?” He grabbed her by the arms and shook her. “You? That worthless moron?”

  Dorothy closed her eyes. She didn’t want to be there. She didn’t want to be anywhere. But she needed to stop him. She needed to protect Buddy.

  I won’t fight you . . .

  He shook her again. “Do you have something to say, girl?”

  She opened her eyes. “I said I won’t fight you.”

  Something flickered across his face. It was there and gone so quickly it would’ve been easy to miss. But she saw it. She always saw it.

  His hands tightened on her upper arms. He hauled her forward.

  “Why do you make me do this?”

  Bourbon and Old Spice. The smell burned her nostrils and made her stomach churn.

  “Why do you make me do this?” He repeated. He shook her like he was trying to force out an answer.

  She didn’t have one. Not now. Not any time he asked this question. And he always asked.

  He shoved her backward. Her leg smashed into the side of the upended wheelbarrow. It was sharp. She could feel something wet on her leg.

  “Get in the house. Now.”

  She stumbled to her feet and turned around.

  Buddy? Where was Buddy?

  He was gone.

  Dorothy half-walked and half-ran across the uneven ground, nearly tripping over Buddy’s rake. Her father was fast on her heels. She was midway up the porch steps when she smelled it.

  Smoke . . .

  Her father smelled it, too. He stopped and jerked around.

  Large columns of thick black smoke rose like a curtain ahead of the tree line.

  “Son of a bitch! That fucking moron will burn the place down!” He took off running toward the clearing. “Call the goddamn fire department!”

  She knew he’d kill Buddy if he caught him.

  But he wouldn’t catch him.

  Dorothy looked out toward the lane in time to see a flash of bright orange before Buddy’s scooter disappeared around a bend.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “There’s a good place right up here. We can tank up and get something to eat at Denny’s.”

  Rita pointed at the exit sign. They’d been cruising along I-64 in Indiana for some time. James never realized how big it was—wide and dull. “Gateway to the rectangular states,” Rita had declared when they crossed over the Ohio River in Louisville.

  James nodded and started gearing down. They weren’t driving one of the big rigs. They didn’t need all that cargo space for this trip—even though Natalie had floated the idea of having them drop off a few loads of pipe stems and mirrors on their way across country. Jocelyn had nixed that idea. “I don’t want to slow them down. This is Cougar’s first cross-country haul, and I want to bring it in under the wire.”

  James didn’t bother telling Jocelyn that “under the wire” meant barely on time. The army had taught him to just roll with whatever his commanding officers said. Things worked better that way.

  He did agree with her, however, that getting back quickly was a good idea, although he had a hard time imagining Dr. Heller getting too bent out of shape if her piano showed up a day late. She didn’t seem like that kind of person. The other thing he was sure about was that his son, Henry, wouldn’t complain about the chance to skip a few more lessons.

  Everything was all set with Santana’s. The LA-based piano mover had the six-foot Steinway broken down, strapped tight and crated. It was being stored in a climate-controlled warehouse until they got there. All they had to do was load it up and make a giant U-turn.

  So far, they were making good time.

  “What’s this town?” he asked Rita, as he slowed down at the end of the exit ramp.

  “Haubstadt. Not much here but a couple hotels and one of them roadside graveyards for aborted babies.”

  James looked at her.

  “They ain’t real babies,” Rita explained. “Just crosses set up in somebody’s
side yard.”

  “Why do they do that?”

  “Don’t ask me. It’s Indiana. Folks here have time to do stuff like that.” She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Seems like they’d do better to take in all the kids that ain’t dead—but they pretty much don’t give a rip about ’em once they’re born.”

  James didn’t comment.

  “Pull into this truck stop and park. We’ll get some dinner first before we fill up and get back on the road.”

  “Where’re you thinking about spending the night?”

  “Columbia, Missouri. That’s about four hours from here.”

  They were taking a more northern route because Rita said she didn’t like driving across Oklahoma.

  “That whole ‘panhandle’ gives me the willies.” She opened a new pack of Dentyne and popped a stick into her mouth. She was trying to quit smoking. “You have to ask why they didn’t lop off that little hunk and make it part of Texas. Mark my words—nothin’ good is going on in Oklahoma.”

  James didn’t have any opinion about Oklahoma, but he’d spent time at Fort Hood in Texas, and he had no fond memories of the place. It was where he met Henry’s mother. Sheila worked at a local dry cleaner’s and she was what his own mother called a “camp follower.” James found out the hard way what that phrase meant. They got married when Sheila told him she was pregnant, but he knew it wouldn’t last. She wasn’t cut out for military life—or for motherhood. She wasn’t cut out for much of anything that didn’t involve hard drinking, self-injected drugs and other men. She disappeared a week before his Permanent Change of Station to Fort Irwin in California. He had no idea what happened to her until he got a call shortly before his deployment to Afghanistan. She’d been found dead in her apartment in a small town in Ohio.

  He parked the truck and they hopped out for the short walk to Denny’s. Rita noticed his gait.

  “That leg giving you a fit?”

  He nodded. “I probably need to take this thing off for a while.”

  “Well, hell. Why didn’t you say so earlier? I could a done some of the driving before now.”

  “It’s okay.” He held the restaurant door open for her. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to do the next leg.”

  “Ha!” Rita slapped him on the arm. “Next leg. Good one.”

  James smiled. He was normally pretty sensitive when people asked him anything about his prosthesis. But something about Rita made him feel at ease. He liked doing trips with her. She was laid-back and a straight shooter. She didn’t mince words. You never had to wonder what she was thinking or where you stood with her. After so much time having people tiptoe around him, he found that refreshing. Rita made him feel . . . normal. Like he wasn’t missing any parts that mattered.

  They seated themselves in a booth near the front window.

  Rita liked to keep an eye on her rig.

  James studied her while she looked over the shiny menu. She was probably in her mid-fifties. A little on the hefty side, but still nice-looking. Her hair was bright red—a color not found much in nature. But she had pretty green eyes that suggested it might once have been natural. She always seemed to be smiling. He knew she was Natalie’s sister-in-law, and she was single, but he didn’t know much else about her.

  He decided it was time to change that.

  “What’s your story, Rita?”

  She looked at him over the top of her menu. He couldn’t make out her expression because it was hidden behind bright pictures of pancakes and chicken-fried steak.

  “I’m sorry.” James apologized for his impulse. “It’s none of my business.”

  “Hell.” Rita lowered her menu. “Lord knows I don’t have no secrets.” She waved the waitress over. “Let’s get some food and I’ll give you the 4-1-1 on Rita Chriscoe.”

  They both ordered big skillet dinners—steak, eggs, potatoes and cheese. Rita asked for a side of ranch dressing for dipping.

  “Damn. I’d kill for a smoke.” Rita drummed her fingers on the table. Her nails were short but neatly trimmed. She didn’t wear any polish—unlike Natalie, whose nails probably glowed in the dark.

  “Do you wanna go outside? I’ll call you when the food gets here.”

  Rita shook her head. “Nope. I gone this far without givin’ in. I reckon I can make it through another day.”

  “I know that feeling.”

  She nodded. “I just bet you do, young man.”

  They sat in silence for a minute.

  James knew it was his turn to say something. “I think I get it wrong most of the time.”

  “What?” Rita asked.

  He gave her a small smile. “You aren’t going to make this easy for me, are you?”

  “Why should I? Nobody ever made nothin’ easy for me.”

  He was quiet again.

  “Look it.” Rita picked up her glass of iced tea. “You ain’t the only person to feel like life dealt you a handful of shitty cards. We’re all stumblin’ around half-blind, tryin’ to get it right.”

  “You feel that way, too?”

  “Hell to the yes, I feel that way. You think driving these beat-up rigs is a dream come true for me? You think I like living alone in that fleabag apartment over my brother’s garage?”

  James was embarrassed. “I guess not.”

  “You know not. I had dreams once, too. And plans. And none of them involved ending up a near-broke spinster with a broken heart and no prospects for nothin’ better.”

  James didn’t know what to say.

  Fortunately for him, Rita was on a roll.

  “You think you’re a failure as a parent? Everybody in hell and half of Georgia thinks I’m a failure ’cause I never got to be a parent.” She shook her head. “We don’t always get to pick our poison, boy. Sometimes it gets doled out whether we ask for it or not.”

  “You wanted to have kids?”

  “Not really. I came close once, but it wasn’t meant to be. And that ain’t what I’m talkin’ about, anyway.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m fixin’ to tell you.” She drained her tea. “I have what our God-fearing friends and neighbors in Jericho like to refer to as a ‘checkered past.’ Know what that means?”

  “In general or in particular?” he asked.

  She laughed. “In this particular, it means I don’t play for your team.”

  “My team?” He was confused. “What team?”

  “You don’t get out much, do you boy?” Rita rolled her eyes. “It means I ain’t straight. Or wasn’t. I don’t know what the hell I am these days.”

  “Oh.” James wasn’t sure how to reply. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, I don’t know how in the hell you missed it. It’s all but posted up on that bulletin board in the canteen next to them lost-time posters.”

  “I don’t talk much with people at work.”

  “You don’t talk much with nobody about nothin’, do you?”

  “Not really.”

  “You might should try it.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing, you’d know that you ain’t alone in feelin’ like a failure. For another, you’d know you can relax on these long hauls ’cause I ain’t fixin’ to get into your drawers.”

  He blushed.

  “Am I right?”

  “I never thought that about you, Rita.”

  “Not even once?”

  “Well.” He smiled at her. “Maybe once . . .”

  Rita sat back and seemed about to share something more when the server arrived with the food, ending their conversation. James was too shy to try to restart it, and Rita seemed fine to let it drop and concentrate on eating.

  Forty-five minutes later, they were back on I-64, heading west into the setting sun.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “I need to show you something.”

  Syd held a folded piece of paper out to Maddie.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a note Henry brought home from
school. I just found it in his lunchbox.”

  Maddie took the paper and unfolded it. “He didn’t give it to you?”

  Syd shook her head and sat down at the kitchen table and watched her read the note. She watched Maddie’s eyes widen.

  “Suspended?”

  Syd nodded.

  “He’s suspended? For what?”

  “Insubordination.” Syd pointed at a line of type at the bottom of the paper. “Apparently, he was rude to his teacher.”

  “Henry?”

  Syd nodded again.

  Maddie refolded the sheet of paper. “That’s impossible.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  “Did you ask him about it?”

  “No. I thought it was better for us to talk with him together. Besides, he hid this from us.”

  “Well, he must’ve known we’d figure it out when he didn’t go to school today.”

  “You’d think. When I went upstairs to wake him, he said he didn’t feel good.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Maddie sighed and looked at her watch. “What do we do? Call James?”

  “I thought about that, too. But James won’t be back for three more days.” Syd picked up the paper. “I think we have to handle this.”

  “Oh, man . . .”

  Syd patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, sawbones. I’ve got your back.”

  “My back? What about your back?”

  “Sorry. You’re the Ward Cleaver in this domestic drama.”

  Maddie rolled her eyes. “I don’t see why.”

  Syd smiled at her. “You’re taller.”

  “Oh, give me a break.”

  “You look better in cardigans.”

  “Nice try.” Maddie pushed back her chair and stood up. “What else you got?”

  Syd glanced at her feet. “You wear wingtips.”

  “These are not wingtips. They’re Josef Seibel lace-ups.”

  “You say tomato . . .”

  “All right, all right.” Maddie feigned umbrage and stared up at the ceiling. “Boy. I never saw this one coming.”

  Syd stood up, too. “Me, either.”

  “Okay. Let’s get it done before I lose my nerve.”

  They were halfway across the kitchen when Henry appeared at the bottom of the back stairs. He was still wearing his Scooby-Doo pajamas and his hair was tousled from sleep. He seemed surprised to see them standing there together. It didn’t take him long to notice the sheet of paper in Maddie’s hand.