Jewelweed

by David Rhodes

  “Those flames near the faces. I don’t like them.”

  “They’re just flames,” Ivan said, and put his arm around August.

  Ivan could see what he meant though. The heads burned with different colors, and from time to time a flame sprang up a foot or more away from the main body of fire, into the open air, as if something were coming quickly to life and then disappearing.

  “Those flames are called strangers,” whispered August. “I’ve read about them.”

  As the faces of the figures burned, their expressions changed. The screaming guy suddenly took on a heroic face; the warrior’s look became terrified and pleading.

  “August, I’ve never seen anything like this,” said Ivan. “August?”

  “He’s gone,” said August, looking around for the Wild Boy.

  “That’s bad,” said Ivan. He’d wanted to watch the boy climb back up the wall, but he hadn’t been able to look away from the burning figures.

  The boys watched until the fire had burned the statues down to a couple of charcoal stumps.

  When Ivan put his hand in his pants pocket, he felt something that hadn’t been there before: a smooth stone about the diameter of a quarter.

  “How did this get in my pocket?”

  “The Wild Boy,” said August. “He came over while we were watching the fire.”

  “Right here?”

  “Directly behind us.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? He put this in my pocket?”

  “I didn’t know he was there either, but look, he put one in my pocket too.”

  The hermit walked around the burning chars several times, then sat down. “It’s over, boys.”

  August and Ivan thought they should leave, and after thanking the hermit for inviting them, they climbed up the side of the ceremonial pit and started walking away.

  “You have to admit it,” Ivan said to August. “That was a great fire.”

  But August just kept walking.

  When they heard something behind them, they walked back to the stone bowl and looked down. The hermit was sitting on the stone floor next the two charcoal stumps, hunched over and shaking, still wrapped in the sheets.

  “What’s he doing?” asked Ivan.

  “Weeping,” said August.

  Beside him squatted the Wild Boy, watching the sobbing hermit.

  The New Dress

  Danielle Workhouse had never owned a dress like the one she had now, and the unfamiliarity heightened the experience. Inside it, she never stopped noticing the merriment of silk against her skin, the soft brush of the hem against her leg, the tug on her shoulder, the affectionate fabric hug around the waist. And she was equally unfamiliar with how delightful her feet appeared in the right shoes. An alarming gaiety leaped into her each time she looked down.

  Because the mirror in her apartment failed to provide an adequate view of her new outfit, on several occasions she carried the heels down the hardwood hall, slipped them on, and stole a couple treasured glances in the larger mirror in the entryway. She looked good, and she wanted to look good in a way she couldn’t remember ever wanting before.

  When Danielle was growing up, her father and later her stepfather had ruled their decrepit home with such holy, tyrannical fear that she and her younger sister tried to the very best of their abilities never to attract notice. Dart and Esther crept from room to room with the trained vigilance of mice. They were never encouraged to look good, only to be invisible. During those times when domestic life threatened most ominously—when a hulking embodiment of irrational maliciousness lumbered nearby, drunkenly lecturing inanimate objects, boasting of former and future deeds, proclaiming the inalienable right to alienable freedoms—they hid in closets, cupboards, and clothes hampers. As they grew older, their skills of concealment grew proportionately.

  Ridicule, badgering, and beatings were common, though never routine, when Dart was growing up. In fact, nothing could ever be predicted. Signs read from a parent’s expression at the breakfast table at seven thirty could be rendered meaningless by nine o’clock. Everything was uncertain. It was best to always remain on guard, even when it seemed reasonable to feel safe for a short time.

  Dart learned how to detect the slightest changes in human posture, voice, breathing, skin color, even smell—revealing a new disposition coming to the fore, or deviation from normal thought patterns. She also learned to trust even the slightest impressions informing her of intentions on the part of others. Her sister, Esther, took this cautionary principle a step further, completely banishing from her mind all the empathetic susceptibilities that made benign assessments possible; she didn’t just dismiss favorable judgments of other people, she never made them. Esther simply assumed that everyone wanted to harm her, regardless of what they might say or do. The consequences of not being prepared far outweighed whatever vagrant peace she might enjoy by assuming the coast was clear.

  Soon after their father was returned to prison for beating their mother (never for beating them, of course), Dart and Esther’s mother met the man who would later become their stepfather. With him came a new form of tyranny, in addition to the old demands for rigid compliance with all drunken proclamations. This stepfather became virulently religious following his extended bouts of alcohol- and drug-addled depravity, and at those times God’s commandments, righteousness, and humble submission became the orders of the day. Dart and Esther were constantly accused—from the ages of ten and eleven—of putting on airs, flaunting ungodly values, and exciting lust in others. Hiding in closets progressed to hiding in clothes.

  Esther never managed to escape from the nightmare prescribed by their childhood, and Dart still thought of her sister often. Each time she remembered, Dart curled up inside, and the warming comfort of her grief often seemed to want more than she could give. And when she couldn’t give herself over to it completely, the grief lurked on the edge of her awareness, sulking, waiting. Dart wondered if this was what people meant by never getting over something. In order to be free from the past, she reasoned, surely you would need to forget about it altogether, because how could you still remember those earlier times and not come under their influence?

  These days, however, Dart had the strange impression that things might eventually be different. The last two months had been filled with many unexpected successes. Each day gave her more reason for optimism. She’d applied for a position that everyone knew would be difficult to obtain and was hired by a widely respected couple. They were decent folks with productive habits. They lived with purpose and order. They accomplished things, made things nice, got things done, cleaned up, and put away.

  She could talk with Amy and Buck—and for that matter, with Florence—and they listened. They almost always did what they said they would, and didn’t try to deceive anyone. They were predictable. Dart could disagree with them and they wouldn’t get angry. They never hit each other or even threatened to. Yes, they sometimes argued, shouted, and occasionally swore, but they didn’t lash out and they didn’t lie about money. And Buck never intimidated anyone physically—in spite of how big he was. Even on the nights when he came home and it was easy enough to tell what he wanted from the way he looked at Amy (and sometimes at Dart), Amy didn’t act any differently. She just went about what she was planning to do without changing anything. It was clear that Buck had no more authority over her than he would have if he were four feet tall.

  For the first two or three weeks she spent in the Roebuck home, Dart waited for Buck’s big blowout. She was convinced that when the right time came, he would do what he really wanted. He’d have his way. It simply didn’t make sense that someone dealt a trump card that high wouldn’t play it. But the blowout never came, and Buck continued getting up in the morning and going to work, coming home at night, watching ball games on television with Kevin, answering phone calls, sitting on the deck with his father, and then finally going to bed. Once he even bought a pack of cigarettes, smoked one, and gave the rest of the pack away.r />
  The same was true of Amy. With all the opportunities she had to demonstrate the natural law decreeing that Dart had to be Dart and Amy had to be Amy, she never did. In fact, from the very first day she seemed to view Dart as someone she could have been herself, if circumstances had been different. She found commonalities rather than differences between them. She even seemed to care about what Dart thought of her, and often thanked her for the work she did.

  Dart had little experience with people like this. And then her apartment was clean, and every single thing in it worked. Dart felt safe there. When she closed the door and set the lock at night, she never had the feeling that someone would try to get in. After a few weeks of staying there, Dart took the knife she kept between the mattress and box spring of her bed and returned it to the kitchen drawer.

  The work was long and sometimes hard, but she’d been given a raise already, and she overheard Amy telling Buck to go over to the cleaning agency and hire Dart away from them. “And don’t let them talk you out of it, Buck. Whatever hold they have over her, get your lawyer to break it. They shouldn’t be taking a third of her salary, not after this long.”

  Now she and Ivan had health insurance through the construction company. They’d both visited the dentist and had their eyes checked. The Bronco was paid for, and she’d been able to put in new wipers, tires, wires, and plugs. She could drive it anywhere, leave it on the street, and not worry that it wouldn’t start when she came back.

  And then it was also true that Amy was becoming more than an employer. Dart hadn’t told her anything personal yet, but the possibility was still there, the sense that they might someday talk about their real lives—what they were like before, what they were like now, and what they wanted to be like tomorrow.

  “Just look at that,” Amy said to Wally as they noticed Dart rushing back to her apartment in her new dress, carrying her new shoes. “Do you remember how it used to feel to be all dressed to go out somewhere?”

  “Sure do,” said Wally.

  Later, however, Wally drove over to the construction site. He found his son hoisting floor joists from inside the crane cab, peeling the bundles from the flatbed. When the load had been transferred to the men on the top of the scaffolding, Wally went over to him. “It’s no good, Buck. No good at all.”

  “What’s no good?”

  “That new gal you hired.”

  “Her name’s Danielle, Dad. What did she do?”

  “It’s not anything she did, at least not yet. It’s what’s going to happen. And it won’t be good.”

  “You’re not being too specific here.”

  “You’ll think I’m an old fool.”

  “Of course I won’t. Say it.”

  “She got this dress from Lucky, and that in itself is reason to worry. In fact, it’s reason to worry plenty. If Lucky gave me a dress I’d take it and stuff it up his—”

  “I get the point, Dad.”

  “Well, see, it’s not just that she got this dress from Lucky. Her hair’s all curly wild and smells like fruit. And she’s been putting that dress on and she looks like a million bucks in it. I’m not kidding.”

  “She’s cute, Dad. Even Kevin thinks so.”

  “Are you listening to me, Buck? We’re not talking cute here. Anyone can be cute. Hell, people even used to think I was cute. This is more than cute. Having her smile at you when she’s all decked out is like falling into the North Sea.”

  “We’re kind of busy here, Dad.”

  “I know. It’s just that I’ve been having these dreams, and nothing good can come from that new gal you hired looking as good as she does in that dress. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “There are good-looking women all over the world.”

  “Those don’t concern me. This one does. Did you know she was going to get to looking like this when you hired her?”

  “If I remember, we hired her together. It was Amy who really wanted her, but you were there too.”

  “I know I was, but she didn’t look like this then. She hardly looked up from the floor. Now she looks right at you. Something’s going to happen, Buck. Where does she think she’s going, looking like that?”

  “Lucky’s taking her to a party in Madison tomorrow night. I understand it’s at the governor’s mansion.”

  “What party? What’s it for?”

  “Just a bunch of government people and others who hang around the capitol.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess they’re getting together to eat and drink and make themselves feel important.”

  “Lucky was invited?”

  “He runs in those circles. He thinks he’s going to get us a state contract and this is part of the process—that’s what he calls it, ‘the process.’”

  “For what?”

  “Storage units, barracks, holding tanks, and an office building—he’s mentioned all of ’em.”

  “Where?”

  “Mostly Fort McCoy. I don’t know where the office building is supposed to go.”

  “Who’s submitting the bids?”

  “He’s working with Raymond.”

  “So they’re having a party, these big shots?”

  “Look, Dad, I’m afraid I have to get back to work here.”

  “Sure, Buck.”

  “Where you going now?”

  “I’m thinking about driving over to that repair shop in Words. The guy who owns it has a garden behind his house with a pool and some exotic fish. Anyway, I was hoping I could see them.”

  “Who told you about them?”

  “Ivan.”

  “How does he know?”

  “He’s friends with the boy who lives there.”

  Dawn

  Blake’s first night in the brick farmhouse passed almost as slowly as a night in prison. Everything felt foreign to him. The previous occupant had never bothered to remodel, or even to repaint. And because all the original features of the house had been retained, the sparsely furnished rooms evoked a dimly lit earlier era. A musty pungency lurked throughout as well, proudly defying all association with the present.

  Blake felt uneasy about living this far away from everyone else. He’d never lived in open country before. There had always been other houses, slamming doors, lit windows, and occasional voices relatively nearby. In prison, of course, there were way too many other people nearby, but this farmhouse felt like the other extreme. Looking outdoors, the lonely vacancy of the farmyard and surrounding landscape seemed to be waiting to capture him inside an old photograph.

  The building itself seemed hostile to Blake’s presence as well. The staircase resented his inability to understand its narrow, steep design. The fieldstone basement mocked his failure to find anything quaint or charming about it. And after dark, every noise in the house seemed to be amplified to levels of urgency.

  And there were a lot of noises. Mice caravanned through the walls and under the floors. Carrying a small flashlight, Blake investigated clomping sounds in the attic, only to discover a full-grown raccoon. Before lumbering down the stairs and out the front door, the masked creature looked up at him as if to ask, “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  Later that first night, when Blake unsuspectingly turned on the kitchen light, a garden snake slithered across the cracked linoleum and into a hole in a cabinet baseboard.

  Twice he got out of bed to let swooping bats out of the house, and as he returned, spiders monitored his movements from inside gossamer fortresses. Half the animal kingdom, it seemed, had been making use of the residence he hoped now to claim.

  The morning, however, had an altogether different story to tell. After washing in cold water, dressing, making coffee, and carrying a steaming cup of it outside to drink, his surroundings unfolded before him in a way Blake had never experienced before. The preying vacancy of the night before had been replaced by the silent marvel of dew and plant life shaking off sleep, regrowing the world. A new sun rose in the east, and the beads of moisture hanging from the spoke
s of his motorcycle burned like blue diamonds. A chorus of wild fledglings sang about the significance of eating weed seeds, having feathers, and flying wherever they wanted. The air felt alive, and he participated in its vitality with every breath.

  Blake sat down and stared. This morning was like none other he could remember—something he imagined his father might experience, but never himself. If he weren’t living out here on his own, away from the architecture of his childhood, he might have mistaken the morning for one that didn’t belong to him, something loaned by others, handed down. But here he was. Only he could testify to its burgeoning wonder, and unlike the few other times in his life when he’d encountered something extraordinary, he did not ask, Is anyone else seeing this? His mind did not leap toward a need for verification, or a desire to share. The morning and he simply communicated. Blake felt authenticated, as if he was catching up.

  As far back as Blake could remember, he’d felt behind, born too late, an unneeded afterthought in a long march of human events that had already prescribed the nature of everything around him. Monuments to earlier events were everywhere. His father had a father who’d had a father, and there were stories of all of them doing things Blake could never hope to equal. Likewise, his mother had a mother, and so on. They acted out of habits passed down from generations before. The laws governing what couldn’t be done, the kinds of work people engaged in, the ruling order of traffic lights, convenience stores, row farming, drive-through windows—everything had been determined earlier. The streets were named for families who no longer lived along them. His father’s house was called the Old Sanders Place, after a family he’d never met. The schools he’d attended had dates chiseled into the cornerstones. Even the prisons he’d been locked inside had come ready-made, part and parcel of a time-honored penal practice that dated back hundreds of years and depended upon developed traditions, enacted laws, and evolved conventions of social and economic power that remained as far removed from questioning as they were from understanding.

  But now, as he sat on the sagging front step of his new residence, Blake participated in something the rabbit traps of civilization could never snare. The morning enlisted him in a secret but nonetheless universal rebellion. The past would not prevail. Everything important was not simply being mirrored forward through time. Though the past might always appear to be winning because of the despotic power of knowledge and familiarity, the old was being overthrown and Blake was a part of the insurrection. The inexhaustible emptiness of morning would eventually win. Nothing could stand against it.