Jewelweed

by David Rhodes

  As he stared into the misty dawn and thought about the commanding reality of renewal, Blake realized he had absolutely no idea what time it was. He was free, or rather had been free in the previous moment before he realized it. The coffee in his cup was cold. He set it on the step and went down to his motorcycle. Brushing beads of moisture from the seat, he climbed on, fired up the engine, and rode down the drive to the road.

  His efforts in rebuilding the motor had been well spent, it seemed, and a shadow of his former confidence moved through him. On County Highway Q he followed the winding valley to the four-way stop on 41, turned east, spooled up into fourth gear, sped around a tractor and a honey-wagon, a pickup and an Amish buggy, then climbed onto the next ridge and followed it until the road plunged into another valley and continued for miles and miles downhill into Red Plain.

  The temperature inside the combustion chambers had risen to optimum levels for igniting petroleum vapor and the motor ran smooth and strong. Blake found second gear and glided quietly through town as shopkeepers opened, people in terrycloth robes snatched newspapers from yards and front porches, and folks on their way to work pumped gas into pickups and vans while eating sweet rolls and balancing insulated coffee mugs on the tops of their vehicles. A couple of men who preferred to be drunk for as much of the day as possible headed for the taverns, followed by several others who simply wanted company.

  He avoided the street he used to live on, unprepared for the sight of the old rooming house where he and Danielle Workhouse had once lived together.

  In the cement plant’s lot, he set the stand and walked into the office.

  “Hey, Blake,” said Bee from behind the counter. She was wearing a bright orange blouse with a huge white collar.

  “Hey,” he replied, looking around. The room had changed little in the years since he’d come here looking for Danielle.

  Blake put a red wallet on the counter. It bulged inelegantly with pictures, credit cards, coupons, expired lottery tickets, keys, movie stubs, car wash tokens, stamps, safety pins, and change. “You left this the other night,” he said. “Dad’s on the road again today. He asked me to run it over before you missed it.”

  “What a ninny,” said Bee, hanging her head in an exaggerated theatrical way. “Thank you. Have you had any coffee yet? I’ve got some in back.”

  “No thanks.”

  “It’s the stuff your father gets from the guy who roasts his own.”

  “I know—had some already.”

  An expectant silence opened up between them, and was broken by Bee.

  “So, did you go over and talk to Danielle yet?”

  “Why, did you see her? Did she say something?”

  “No, I just wondered if you’d gone over to talk to her.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “No reason, I guess. I don’t really think about her much.”

  Blake could see Bee’s eyes laughing behind her reading glasses.

  He quickly left the office, climbed on the bike, and rode out of town. To clear his head, he accelerated enough to bring the front tire off the road between gears, and leaned into a tight corner.

  On the summit overlooking the descent of the rustic road into the valley, Blake came to a full stop and closed his eyes. This was the time. He summoned memories of the ride that lay ahead of him from the countless nights he’d imagined it in prison. Then he pulled the clutch, notched into first gear, opened his eyes, and started down.

  For the most part, traffic was nonexistent. Few people lived along the steep-sided valley, and even fewer took this twenty-mile-long road between Red Plain and Luster, because of the neglected surface, the abrupt curves, and the poorly banked corners.

  The ride was mostly as Blake had remembered it. A couple of new vinyl-sided homes had been put up, and several of the old houses had fallen into disrepair or been abandoned. Others had been taken over by the Amish, who built on additions and painted them white, added hitching posts and outhouses, and left their buggies and horses in plain sight. The hilly terrain did not allow for much agriculture, but there were a few foraging goats, small plots of corn and soybeans, calf hutches, wooden beehives, and chickens hunting for insects.

  As Blake rode, his whole body remembered what traveling along this road had felt like at the age of eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and twenty-one. Moisture welled up in his eyes as he realized for the first time that prison hadn’t stolen all his youth. Though he had been damaged, he still had access to the unwounded delight that lived beneath all the damage. He pulled over on the narrow shoulder and climbed off the bike. A crowd of wobbly, small white and yellow butterflies flew up around him and scattered. His tears fell onto the faded blacktop and he did not attempt to stop them. The memories of lying sleepless on his cell bunk receded. They were out of step with his surroundings.

  With his motorcycle beneath him again, he finished the ride to Luster. He briefly explored the little town, then checked the clock in front of the bank. When an old woman with a walker scowled at him, apparently finding his sudden presence beside the crosswalk an unwanted intrusion into her day, Blake returned to the same road and headed back to Red Plain.

  Though he wasn’t late for work, he wanted to cover the same territory in less time. Leaning into the corners and accelerating briskly along straight stretches released an old and welcome exhilaration. As he became more acquainted with the limits imposed by the surface of the road, and the responsiveness and maneuverability of the bike, he began testing them.

  About halfway to Red Plain, a deer jumped into the middle of the road ahead of him and held its position with a straight-on startled stare. At the speed Blake was moving, stopping was not an option. He could only guess which way the buck would go. Blake’s intuition told him left and so he focused on the opposite space in the road, a width of less than four feet. He leaned into this committed course with little conviction that he would make it through, but the deer bolted in the direction Blake hoped he might, and the motorcycle passed through the narrow space without obstruction. With an ever-widening distance between them, a shiver of relief passed through both sentient beings. Blake felt endorsed by fate. His good fortune seemed to suggest that perhaps Spinoza’s god didn’t want to kill him, after all. He twisted the throttle and thundered on faster.

  Each morning and night he returned to the twenty-mile stretch between Red Plain and Luster, learning the curves, grades, and straightaways more intimately, going faster and faster. The present moment, it seemed, was slowly embracing him anew.

  At the end of the week, Jacob invited Blake home for supper with his family. Blake washed, shaved, and changed clothes in the shop’s bathroom. They pulled down the front doors and drove out of Words.

  At the log home, Blake parked his bike off to the side and they went in together. Cooking smells filled the house, and Blake tried to identify them as his eyes wandered through the well-lit rooms. “Sit down anywhere,” said Jacob. “I’ll try to find Winifred and get us something to drink.”

  Blake had often tried to imagine what Winnie and Jacob’s home looked like, and finding himself inside it gave him a satisfying sense of closure. Welcome details emerged from everywhere he looked, grounding his sense of Jacob and Winnie in a domestic opulence that his imagination never could have conjured up. There were pictures, pieces of furniture, colors, lamps, telephones, magazines, growing plants, utensils, marred wooden floors, and curtains unremarkable in every way except that they remarkably belonged to Winnie and Jacob.

  The kitchen area opened into a combination dining and living room, dominated by a wood-burning stove in the middle. Off to one side was a small study with walls apparently made of books, a small desk with leaning towers of more books, and a cloth-covered overstuffed chair with more books stacked to the sides and balanced in several places on the oversize arms. Blake could easily imagine Winnie reading there, and he wanted to go in and explore the titles.

  Then the door closed behind him and
Winnie walked in from outside, her face ashen. Jacob went to her, gently taking hold of her upper arms. “Winifred, what’s wrong?”

  She brushed him aside, straightened her posture, and composed her face. “We have a serious problem,” she said. “Something happened earlier today. When August and Ivan get back here we’re going to have to get to the bottom of it.”

  “What happened?” asked Jacob.

  “There’s been some trouble,” she said.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Before she could answer, a blue sedan pulled up behind Jacob’s old jeep. August and a boy Blake had never seen before got out of the back door. The driver waved but did not get out, and after the boys closed the door he backed up, narrowly missing Blake’s motorcycle, and drove back down the drive.

  Winnie waited in the open door for the boys to come in.

  They slipped past her, their eyes glued to the floor after first shooting dismissive glances across the room, where Blake stood beside the stove. He was clearly outside the area of their concern.

  “Go over there and sit down,” said Winnie, pointing to the sofa.

  They crossed the room and sat together on the edge of the cushions. August’s face was marked in several places, and one eye was swollen. His white shirt was ripped and soiled with dirt, grass stains, and blood. The smaller boy looked mostly intact.

  “Now,” said Winnie, walking over and standing in front of them, “tell me everything.”

  They remained silent.

  Jacob had not followed Winnie into the living room. He closed the door and remained standing not far from it. The take-charge manner he demonstrated at the shop clearly did not extend to his home.

  “August, tell me,” said Winnie, her voice soft but demanding.

  “There was a slight problem,” said August, without looking up.

  “What happened?”

  “It was complicated,” he said.

  “Did you give your talk on White Nose Syndrome?”

  “Yes,” said August.

  “And then what happened?”

  “After my presentation concluded, I answered several questions as well as I could.”

  “I want to know what happened,” said Winnie.

  “Well, I gathered my notes and supporting material together, left the building, and began walking through the parking lot.”

  He stopped again, but Winnie was insistant. “Yes?”

  “Several boys walked over and questioned some of the conclusions I had drawn in my talk.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I’m not sure I remember exactly.”

  “Try as best as you can.”

  “They saw no benefit in the survival of bats—any kind of bats—and they had a vulgar way of expressing this.”

  “Did you say something to antagonize them, August?”

  “No.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I suggested that if they studied the existing literature they might naturally wish to reconsider their position.”

  “What happened next?”

  “One of them pushed me.”

  “And is that when you struck them, August?”

  “I never struck them,” said August, looking at his mother. “I promise, Mom, I never did.”

  “What happened?”

  “I explained to them that by resorting to physical intimidation they were essentially admitting that their position lacked merit.”

  “What happened then?”

  “One of them hit me.”

  “Then what?”

  “After I adjusted to the impact, I attempted to offer a few more words in defense of bats and the many beneficial services they provide. That’s when both of them jumped me, knocked me down, and began hitting and kicking me.”

  “August, is that when you attacked them?”

  “I never did,” he said, hanging his head.

  “Well, someone did,” said Winnie. “Those boys’ parents are threatening to bring charges. That’s what the sheriff said. They were beaten up pretty badly. I saw them. Tell me how that happened.”

  August stared down silently.

  “August, tell me. Who beat those boys?”

  August remained silent.

  “I’m afraid that would be me, Mrs. Helm,” said the boy sitting next to August.

  “Ivan, you?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You did all that damage?”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Don’t you know that violence is wrong, Ivan?”

  “Yes, I do, Mrs. Helm. I really do. But when I saw them kicking August, I mean, right then I didn’t know.”

  “But you’re smaller than August,” said Winnie. “Those boys were both bigger than August.”

  “They’re not that big,” said Ivan. “I used to be in their grade, before I was held back. They’re bullies. I’ve had run-ins with them before, when they said things about my mother.”

  “Violence is wrong, Ivan,” said Winnie. “Even retaliatory violence.”

  “I know,” said Ivan. “I know. But I couldn’t know it then. When I saw August being kicked, I knew they had to pay.”

  “What would your mother say about what you did?” asked Winnie. “I’m fairly convinced from what I know of her that Danielle would never approve of such rash behavior.”

  “Let’s just hope she doesn’t find out,” said Ivan.

  At the mention of Danielle, Blake sank into the chair next to the wood-burning stove. He stared forward like someone who had been woken by a loud noise in the middle of the night.

  “And apparently that’s not all,” said Winnie, turning her attention back to her son. “Is it, August?”

  He remained silent, staring at the floor.

  “You had your bat with you, didn’t you, August?”

  Silence.

  “You promised me you’d never take him into public areas. We talked about that many times and you promised.”

  Silence.

  “He bit those boys.”

  “He was in my pocket,” said August. “After they started kicking me he came out. He was hurt and frightened.”

  “And he bit them.”

  Silence.

  “August, look at me. Look at me. Do you know what this means? When a bat bites someone they have to test whether it has rabies or some other disease. It has to be done, it’s the law. I talked to the sheriff and Mr. Brandson, the city council lawyer. I also talked to Mrs. Williams, the township chair. I spent most of the last hour with them. When a bat or any other creature bites someone, they have to conduct tests.”

  August stared at the floor.

  “You promised me, August. You promised.”

  “I know I did. I’m sorry, Mom, but Milton doesn’t like me to leave him at home.”

  “If you hadn’t taken him, August, if you hadn’t taken him . . .” Winnie’s voice wandered off. Then she asked August where Milton was now.

  “In my pocket,” he said.

  “Give him to your father,” said Winnie.

  “No.”

  “Don’t you dare say no to me, August. Give him to your father. We have to make him available for testing immediately.”

  “No,” said August. “He didn’t do anything wrong. Biting is his only defense. It’s an instinct. It wasn’t his fault.”

  “He bit a human being,” said Winnie. “Give him to your father. Now.”

  “They’ll kill him,” said August. “I know about those tests. I’ve read about them. They’ll kill him and he didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “August, give that bat to your father. Right now.”

  With tears running in his eyes, August carefully took the bat out of his pocket, carried him across the room, and placed him in Jacob’s hands. Then he went down the hall and slammed the door to his room behind him.

  Winnie sat on the sofa next to Ivan and put her head in her hands.

  “Can I be excused now, Mrs. Helm?” asked Ivan. “August
needs me.”

  “Yes, Ivan, go on.”

  Ivan hurried through the living room and down the hall.

  Jacob walked over and sat next to Winnie on the sofa.

  Blake stayed where he was, staring at the floor.

  Then he stood up and walked over to them.

  “I’m sorry about this,” said Winnie, looking at Blake for the first time. “I’m sorry that . . .” and her voice wandered away again.

  “Forget it,” said Blake. “I’ve been honored just to be inside your home, Mrs. Helm. I’ll come back another time. I’m going to leave now.”

  He remained standing, however, and extended an open hand toward Jacob.

  “Give the bat to me,” he said. “I know all about those laws and the people who enforce them. They’ll kill him before they test him. It’s what they always do. Give him to me. I’ll take care of it. I hate bats.”

  Jacob handed Milton to Blake and put his arm around Winnie, who had begun to weep into her hands.

  Blake walked out the front door and rode away on his motorcycle.

  The Party

  On the drive into Madison, Lucky explained the rules to Dart.

  “Stick close to me for the first half hour,” he said. “I’ll point out the players. Smile a lot and keep everything simple.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Dart, watching the sun sink into the horizon.

  “Keep everything simple—a lot of motion, eye contact, laughing, smiling, and striking poses. Don’t talk about anything that takes longer than two seconds to explain. When you’re introduced say, ‘I’m Danielle with Roebuck Construction.’ By the end of the evening you should have said those exact words about two hundred times. ‘I’m Danielle with Roebuck Construction.’ ‘I’m Danielle with Roebuck Construction.’ You don’t need to tell them your last name. If someone asks for it, tell them, but nothing more than that about yourself. If asked what you do, say you’re a consultant and mention Roebuck Construction again, the leading contractor in southwestern Wisconsin. If asked where you live, say, ‘Not far from Roebuck Construction’s main offices.’”