Jewelweed

by David Rhodes

  Blake didn’t sleep well and his brooding desire for companionship refused to provide any clues about how to find companions. He harbored no insights into how to dress up his need in an acceptable manner. Not out here.

  In prison, shared fears, animosities, and frustrations had often provided the assumptions necessary for shared identity. He had friends there, even if they were temporary. There were guys to talk to, other inmates with whom he could complain about the food, make fun of the guards, talk about old times, and imagine what absolutely perfect women might be like.

  But out here, assumptions about things in common seemed wildly presumptuous. He simply couldn’t allow himself to think he shared anything with anyone else. Too much of what he had come to understand about the compelling ignorance of hatred—and the distress entailed by coming to understand it—had to be kept hidden.

  Invariably, when Blake recognized someone he remembered from before, the last eleven years opened up between them like an unbridgeable ravine. After making eye contact he usually looked away, acknowledging that whatever they might have held in common at one time was now private property.

  His father was always there for him, of course. And because of Nate, Blake could sometimes imagine what a reasonably balanced state of mind would be like. He could almost picture a less-haunted edition of himself, sense an inheritance that might come due someday. Because of his father, he had a chance of succeeding in a better world. He knew this because he could feel his father knowing it.

  But fathers didn’t count as friends.

  There were also Winnie and Jacob, of course. They had found a way to bridge the ravine, or at least they were willing to try. They were maybe, theoretically, hypothetically, possibly, perhaps potential friends. But as much as Blake liked Winnie—and he liked her enormously—he had to stay away from her. No better world that he could imagine would ever allow Reverend Winifred Smith Helm and him to be friends. It simply would not happen, and Blake was determined never to act on his impulse to resume the friendship they’d struck up during her visits to the prison. He owed her too much for that. He had vowed that she would never regret those visits, and the only way to ensure this was to stay away from her. He was not going to muck up her life with his own.

  And as for Jacob, he was both Blake’s employer and married to Winnie. Bosses could sometimes be friendly, Blake thought, but they could never be friends. And single men couldn’t really be tight with married men. Different rules applied to married men. Everyone knew that.

  Also, Blake occasionally detected a hint of charity in the way Jacob and Winnie related to him. It slipped out unintentionally, in nearly imperceptible expressions of patronizing indulgence. And this type of fond patience differed from the reflective good humor that sometimes characterized how older people related to younger people—the amused detachment of remembering earlier years while witnessing someone else living through them. And Blake could tell the difference.

  His hostility to charity had been polished to a dazzling glare. At an early age he could tell from clear across the room if someone saw him as a victim of maternal absence. And by the second grade he had little tolerance for kindheartedness of any sort.

  With the first money he made at the shop, Blake repaid Winnie for all the books she’d brought to him—with interest. He still felt morally indebted for the world of refuge the books had provided, but at least he’d dispensed with the monetary obligation.

  Thanks to her, Blake’s passion for reading had grown exponentially. With books, there weren’t the difficulties of up-close relations. All the immediate, personal barriers were gone. Through the ladder of language he could climb into the minds of others.

  He reread all the books Winnie had brought him in prison, especially those by Baruch Spinoza. Though separated from him by some four centuries, Blake identified with the solitary lens-grinder. Spinoza had been excommunicated in his early twenties. A branded outcast whose unconventional ideas were widely known, he lived a careful, examined life. When a zealot viciously attacked him once, Spinoza barely escaped with his life. And rather than repairing the hole left in his jacket by the attacker’s knife, he wore it that way in order to remind himself that no endeavor was more dangerous than expressing new thoughts. Supported by a few anonymous individuals, he continued to puzzle out the problem of God’s everlasting goodness and the enduring presence of evil, until he died from inhaling glass dust.

  Sometimes at night, beneath the only burning light in his father’s house, Blake’s loneliness often gave way to such thought. He walked beside Spinoza along narrow trails of speculation, into the wilderness of thought, searching for that precious living concept that would allow the mute and unconscious wonder of nature to escape the captivity of inert matter and leap into pure conscious bliss. Each night they ventured a little further, as far as Blake could go, and the path grew increasingly hard to follow.

  In order to keep moving forward, Blake needed more books. But when he went to the library in Grange to look for them one day on his lunch break, he immediately recognized the woman behind the front desk. She had worked as a secretary in his high school, and he could tell that she remembered him too. They looked at each other briefly and Blake quickly left. He tried to make himself go back, but he didn’t know what to say. Though he hadn’t really known her, he didn’t know how to talk to her, how to sound casual, normal, unlike someone who had just been released from prison. He finally convinced himself there wasn’t time, anyway. Jacob needed him back at the shop.

  When Blake returned home that evening, he parked the pickup next to the house, carried in the mail, checked the answering machine for messages, and ate a piece of bread with peanut butter in an attempt to counteract a nauseous fatigue. His father was supposed to be back by now.

  He reread a section from Spinoza’s Short Treatise on God, mowed the lawn, carried out the garbage, and went out back behind the house to pick a small armload of vegetables. Standing in the garden, he watched his release officer’s blue Mercury drive slowly along the blacktop and turn into the driveway.

  Jack Station sat in the car with the motor running. He did not get out.

  Bastard even uses his own car for harassment, thought Blake.

  He checked his watch. Curfew in a half hour. The week before, a parolee Blake had known in Waupun was returned to prison for walking out of his Milwaukee apartment after curfew to bring in a package from UPS. Jack Station made sure Blake heard about it. “Rules are rules,” he said.

  Blake freed another cucumber from the vine and stepped from behind the house. Cursing himself, he waved, smiled, and walked down the driveway. As he approached the rolled-up window, Station backed out and drove away.

  Blake went inside, washed off the vegetables, and set them in neat rows on the Formica counter. Then he went back outside and stood for ten minutes. The air was heavy, hot, and hazy along the horizon, a single contrail dividing the sky. A flock of blackbirds landed in a nearby field, scattering onto the ground like a handful of tossed raisins. Somewhere down the road, a horn honked. He walked across the driveway into the side yard, pried the shed door open a little ways, and squirmed inside.

  The shed housed everything his father hadn’t yet talked himself into throwing away. As the stored objects waited to be used again, sold, or taken to the landfill, small mammals had made homes among them. Cobwebs and dust rounded off the sharp edges. The cramped space smelled of shed mold, sweet rot, and rodent urine. Gritty light struggled through a nearly opaque window, the sill dotted with dead insects. Four large cardboard boxes sagged into themselves, filled with kitchen utensils, truck parts, gardening tools, dried-up cans of turpentine, paint, car wax, and winter clothes. An old washer and dryer stood in the corner beside a ride-on lawnmower without a seat or mowing deck. Bicycles hung from the overheads, along with an old horse harness, pruning shears, a cross-cut saw, a clock, pole lamps, and an iron bed frame.

  Then he saw some heavy spokes beneath a canvas tarp and pile of scrap lu
mber. His father had kept his motorcycle. The smaller dirt bikes were gone—Nate had never liked him dirt racing—but for some reason he had kept the road bike. “Thank you,” Blake whispered.

  Clearing a path through the shed, he waded in and removed the lumber.

  The tarp was stiff and had to be lifted up like a lid. Beneath it, the motorcycle lay on its side. Mice had chewed off the gas lines, burrowed into the seat. A hole had been gnawed into the corner of the air box. The mufflers were rusted through, the headlamp was broken, and a grainy green chemical reaction foamed out of the battery compartment.

  With some effort, Blake pulled the motorcycle upright, brushed off the seat, and straddled it. The shocks squeaked. Reaching forward, he attempted to twist the throttle—the cable was rusted tight—and looked down at the dusty tank.

  This is pathetic, he thought, staring into the dirty gauges.

  And then something stirred inside him, vibrating out of a nameless silence.

  Over the years, the shed door had sunk into the grass, and to open it all the way he yanked up pieces of sod until he could force the opening, carving a dirt arc with the bottom of the door. He frantically cleared a path through the shed, throwing things out.

  By the time Nate backed his rig into the drive, the side yard was filled with items from his past, heavily stacked around the shed door, thinning toward the house. Nate noticed a two-by-six plank ramped up the front steps.

  The tractor and trailer came to rest in their accustomed place, the diesel turned off.

  From inside the house, Blake heard talking and laughter outside. His father had someone with him. He could hear her voice as they climbed out of the cab.

  Beulah and Nate came inside. They both wore baggy shorts and red T-shirts and were carrying groceries and bags of crushed ice, jostling against each other. Their chatter was soon silenced by the sight of the motorcycle in the middle of the living room, wrenches and disassembled parts spreading across the floor, on furniture, leaning against walls. Blake sat on the wood floor, without a shirt, scrubbing a piece of metal with a wire brush held over a can of oil.

  “Son,” said Nate, withering disappointment dripping from his words. “Why didn’t you at least put down some plastic, a tarp or something?”

  Blake looked around and at once recognized the problem, which he’d glimpsed before only indistinctly. Suddenly, all reasons for using the living room as a motorcycle emergency room that had seemed so compelling now seemed woefully inadequate.

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” he said, pulling on his shirt.

  “You just don’t think,” said Nate.

  “I know it. I’ll go out and get something.”

  “Better not. There’s a dark blue Mercury parked down the road and it’s after eight.”

  “Bastard,” growled Blake.

  His father’s face flinched. “Do you remember my cousin Bee?”

  They were both looking at him with such eager anticipation that it didn’t feel right to disappoint them. “Of course,” Blake said, even though he didn’t.

  Bee smiled and Blake felt a flurry of exploration flashing between the three of them. He regretted swearing, but her eyes forgave him. He’d never seen his father in shorts before. When had he started wearing them? Something about Bee seemed familiar. His father seemed different, almost cavalier. Bee had a dimple when she smiled, and when it appeared something seemed to change in Nate. She knew it and she smiled a lot. Bee glanced at the motorcycle. Nate set two bags of ice on the floor. Bee seemed unnaturally at home in her shorts and T-shirt, as if she’d grown up inside them. His father wanted Blake to like her. Bee liked his father, and wanted Blake to like her too. Nate felt similarly, and Blake did like Bee, at least initially. But for some reason they were also frightened of each other, embarrassed. Bee didn’t know what to think about Blake. She was glad he’d put on his shirt. Nate glanced out the window. Blake wasn’t sure he’d ever seen his father’s knees before. They looked tragically inadequate, especially when compared to Bee’s. There was something playful yet sturdy about her. It made Blake uneasy. The way she stood seemed more familial than Blake thought it should. Nate was still upset about the motorcycle in the living room, and he didn’t like the swearing. Bee was worried about Blake. Everything was happening too fast.

  “Yes, I think I do,” Blake added, and smiled to help make this seem true.

  “Look what we got here,” said his father. “We drove up to Uncle Bill’s old place. No one lives there now, but strawberries were still growing beyond the orchard. We picked them. Then we bought farm cream and eggs, and stopped at the station for ice. We’re going to make frozen custard if the ice cream machine is still in the basement, with lemon verbena and extra eggs.”

  “Sure, good idea,” said Blake.

  They disassembled the sacks in the kitchen. Bee explained to Nate with some enthusiasm what she remembered about the house from years ago. Nate inspected and then reordered the row of vegetables on the counter. Bee came over to look. Nate bumped into her, and once again Blake noticed how painfully cautious they were with each other, alarmed by the slightest closeness, as if both of them were charged full of static electricity that discharged through even the most casual physical contact.

  A tiny merriment leaped inside Blake before rushing back into hiding, a fondness seeking cover.

  Nate went into the basement to look for his ice cream machine.

  Bee rushed into the living room.

  “Tell me where I can find something to put under your bike before your dad comes back up.” Her voice was surprisingly sympathetic and it caught Blake off guard. She did not appear to be the least bit afraid of the stranger in him, and he cautiously allowed himself to continue to like her.

  “In the shed,” he said, studying her. “There’s a tarp, or tear apart one of the boxes.”

  Bee hurried outside, returning a short time later with a large, disorderly piece of cardboard. Working together, they cleared a space and pressed it flat against the wooden floor.

  Nate rummaged in the basement.

  Then Blake remembered her for sure.

  “You used to work for the cement company in Red Plain,” he said.

  “Still do,” she said. “Different owners now, though.”

  “You worked with Danielle Workhouse. She liked you.”

  “I liked her too. Still do.”

  “Is she still working there?”

  “No.”

  “Does she still live in Red Plain?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “She’s working for Buck and Amy Roebuck, out at their home.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Cooking, cleaning, everything.”

  “Do you still see her? Do you know how she is?”

  “I haven’t talked to her for a while. What do you mean?”

  “Is she with someone?”

  “Not that I know.”

  “We used to—”

  “I know,” said Bee. “I remember.”

  “She’s okay, though? She’s all right?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Is she still the same?”

  “Same as what?”

  “The same as she was?”

  Bee didn’t know how to answer. “I guess it depends on what that means to you.”

  Nate’s footsteps climbed the basement stairs.

  “Dad never liked her,” whispered Blake, backing the motorcycle onto the cardboard and setting the stand.

  “I know,” said Bee. “And I’m afraid he hasn’t changed on that.”

  “You probably shouldn’t tell him I asked about her.”

  Bee went back into the kitchen and Blake moved the tools and parts onto the cardboard.

  Carrying the ice cream maker, Nate glanced into the living room.

  The sugar dissolved into the milk and the lemon verbena, sweet cream, and crushed strawberries were added and poured into the metal cylinder. Nate lowered the covered cyli
nder into the wooden tub and poured ice along the sides. Bee moved the chips around with one hand while shaking salt over them with the other, until the space between the tub and the cylinder was full. Blake came in from the living room and said he’d crank. At intervals, more ice and salt were added.

  Nate made coffee. The smell of roasted beans overpowered the petroleum odor and soon subdued the air around them. Outside the kitchen window, the sun dove beneath the horizon, leaving behind a sheet of glowing light. The blue Mercury moved slowly down the road, around the corner.

  When the cranking grew difficult, Blake pried open the cylinder to see if the custard had hardened sufficiently.

  It had, and Bee got out spoons and bowls. Nate said they should wait an hour while the custard cured in the freezer, but he was silently overruled by a quick flurry of scooping and bowl-filling activity.

  “Let’s go out on the back porch,” said Nate, picking up a CD player from the countertop. Bee carried the custard. Blake took the coffee and cups.

  “I remember this porch,” said Bee fondly, bouncing up and down lightly as if her athletic feet needed exercise. “Uncle Bill and Aunt Ellen were out here one summer. Bill played his harmonica. It was the saddest sound I’d ever heard. There were watermelons—yellow and red. Grandma wore her dress with the wide blue collar. She told us about listening to geese when she was a little girl, thinking they carried horns. Do you remember, Natie? Uncle Joe tried to sing along with the harmonica. You and I were running through the wet grass, hiding from the others. No one could find us. We were laughing. There were cicadas and crickets. It was warm and dark. There was magic everywhere.”

  Bee and Nate sat on the leather truck seat, watching the evening light falling asleep in the backyard. They listened to a 1950s radio drama. Every few minutes a phrase harmonized with memories from their childhood, and their postures relaxed slightly, or they made short, whispered comments. Lulled by strawberries, long shadows, and mnemonic effervescence into a heightened state of position-shifting, they cautiously leaned into each other, then immediately separated.