by David Rhodes
“Yes,” said Bee.
“And do you think people can ever be forgiven for what they don’t know about themselves, for paying too much attention to what frightens them and too little to what makes them happy? Do you think there is any future for people who have been so ignorant for so long about everything? Do you think people can really start over? Do you think they can wake up one morning and—”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, then fine, I mean, that’s what I wanted to know.”
Dart left the cement plant and drove to Blake’s farmhouse. She turned down the long drive, parked her Bronco in the farmyard, and walked up to the house. After knocking several times, she pushed in the door.
“Hello,” she called, stepping into the kitchen. “Is anyone here?”
The house smelled musty, in need of cleaning. The windows were dirty. “Hello?”
The sound of her unanswered voice annoyed her. She walked through the kitchen and into what had once been a dining room, where Blake’s heavy punching bag hung from the ceiling.
This doesn’t belong in here, she thought, shoving the bag and letting it swing back and bump her in a not-altogether-unpleasant way. She thought about talking to the leather bag, practicing what she was going to say to Blake, but that seemed really stupid. She shoved the bag again and walked away before it pushed back.
At the repair shop in Words, three men were smoking cigarettes next to a red combine in the parking lot. She asked them where Blake was.
“He didn’t come in today,” one of them said.
“Is Jacob here?”
“His wife came over and they left together.”
“They went over to Nate’s,” said another one, and added, “Nate is Blake’s father.”
“I know who Nate is,” replied Dart. “But why did they go over there?”
“They didn’t say why, but they were in a hurry.”
Dart drove the fifteen miles over to Nate’s house. From the road she could see a pickup next to the shed. Winnie’s yellow car was parked next to it. Farther away from the house, a man climbed stiffly out of a blue Mercury. Nate, Winnie, and Jacob walked out of the house and met him in the yard. The four of them stood close together, talking.
Dart pulled into the drive, parked, got out, and stood beside the Bronco, watching. After several minutes Blake’s father walked away from the others and leaned against the pickup. As Dart studied him, the genealogy of their mutual disapproval loomed up between them—the residue left over from forgotten words, jabbing looks, mocking tones, and nuanced silences. She could feel her hackles rising and she tried to retract them, but they were too well trained, determined to protect her even if against her wishes.
Winnie walked over to Nate and touched his shoulder. He turned away and put his head in his hands. Then Winnie saw Dart, said something to Jacob, and motioned for Dart to come ahead while she crossed over toward the man Dart didn’t know.
Dart walked over. The man moved away and stood next to the blue Mercury.
“Is Blake here?” asked Dart.
“No,” said Winnie, her face stiff.
“What’s going on?” asked Dart, exchanging furtive glances with Nate.
“That’s Jack Station,” said Winnie, talking loud enough to be heard by everyone. “He’s Blake’s release officer. Blake apparently took his father’s semi into Iowa without permission, or at least that’s what Station thinks. Patrol cars are waiting to arrest him when he crosses the state line from Dubuque. If he left the state he has violated the conditions of his release.”
“Call him on the CB,” whispered Dart, looking over at the man leaning against the Mercury. “Tell him to ditch the rig and find another way home. They can’t prove anything.”
“Nate tried that. Apparently the CB is turned off.”
Winnie said Blake had called the shop from a truck stop outside Wormwood, where he’d just had a new alternator put in.
“Is he still in Wormwood?” asked Dart.
“No,” said Winnie. “He left a while ago. We think he’s probably about an hour from Dubuque, on Highway 151.”
Dart walked over to Nate, and they stood facing each other without looking up.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”
“There’s nothing anyone can do,” said Nate. “He should have called me. I gave him the number. He should have called. He didn’t have to drive down there. I could have come back. It was my responsibility. Two hours of road between here and Dubuque and he has the CB turned off.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” said Dart. “Blake does everything without thinking. He always has. He’s as dumb as a box of rocks.”
“I know,” said Nate. “And he’s stubborn too.”
Dart looked up and into Nate’s eyes, and for the first time she could remember, she didn’t look away. “This isn’t going to happen, Nate, not now, not this way. The government cheated us out of him once, and it isn’t going to happen again.”
“There’s nothing anyone can do,” said Nate.
Dart walked past Jack Station, across the yard, and kicked her Bronco, denting in the door. Then she paced around the yard, running her hands through her black hair in frustration.
“We’ll hire a lawyer,” said Winnie.
“Won’t help,” said Station, lighting a cigarette. “After he’s caught it’s a simple matter of sending him back.”
Dart walked behind the house, out beyond the beehives. She looked across the pasture to the rock outcroppings and the trees growing out of the sandstone. A child stood at the edge of the forest, looking back at her.
So that’s the Wild Boy, she thought, remembering the many conversations she’d overheard between August and Ivan, Ivan and Kevin, the three of them together. They worshipped that child, and she smiled as she recognized now that there was nothing wild about him. The child looking back at her clearly was afraid of other people, yet also yearning to belong. Someone was obviously taking care of him, keeping him clean, feeding him, making it possible for him to stand on that outcropping with his hands in his pockets, wanting to be seen. Wild my eye, she thought.
Dart raised her hand and waved.
The boy returned the wave, then stepped back into the trees and disappeared.
Dart walked toward the house, thinking about how she’d always thought of love as something that would come to her, seek her out. But now she knew this was wrong. Just as the empty places inside Blake had aroused in her the very things that attracted him, so her own empty places had reached out and excited in Blake the qualities that drew her to him. They were complicit in planting the things they wanted to find in each other. She remembered how she and Blake would ride all night through the Driftless Region, stopping for gas in sleepy little towns, sitting on curbs along deserted streets, owning the world.
Winnie, Nate, Jack Station, and Jacob turned toward the sound of Blake’s bike behind the house. Spitting a stream of sod from the wide back tire, Dart sped across the side yard, climbed the ditch onto the road, opened the throttle, and disappeared in a vanishing blur of blue-and-white noise.
“That young woman is going to kill herself,” said Winnie.
“Or someone else,” said Nate.
“She can’t possibly get there in time,” said Jacob.
“She might,” said Station, staring into his watch. “When I was younger, I could have.”
Rooting Trees
Along Highway 151, approaching Dubuque, Iowa folds into the Mississippi River Valley in a long, gradual descent. Entering town, the decline sharpens and houses begin to appear, tucked into crevices in the sloping terrain like keepsakes in open-shelved cabinets. The buildings grow thicker as one descends, and at the bottom the muddy brown river runs deep, swift, and wide, with railroad tracks along each side, flood walls, barge lanes, and two bridges—the first of them leading into Illinois, the second into Wisconsin.
Blake was driving downhill, occasionally engine-br
aking, and thinking about Ivan. He knew little about him, far less than his consuming concern for the boy’s future would seem to imply. But what Ivan was becoming was of more immediate consequence than what he already was, in any case. And why did he have to repeat fifth grade, anyway? Blake decided that before school started in the fall, he would go talk to Ivan’s teachers. Maybe there was some other way. And even if there wasn’t, he would be sure they knew who he was.
This train of thought surprised him. Normally too uncomfortable with himself even to go into the public library in Grange and check out a book, Blake was now contemplating going into school to talk with public officials, perhaps even some of the teachers who had once taught him. It seemed out of character, and yet he could feel almost all of himself wanting to do it. Even his interior choir of dissidents, who consistently demonstrated a principled disrespect for anything outside his established traditions, seemed in favor of going. Once again, he was beginning to sense the possibility of a new life already begun.
The road began to descend more rapidly, and every so often he touched the truck’s brakes, keeping under the speed limit. He was hungry, and he thought about stopping to get something to eat at the brick restaurant under the viaduct. Eleven years ago, he and Dart had gone there after competing in Dickeyville hill climbs. They ordered full-dress cheeseburgers, sat inside a red booth, and Dart complained that the ground beef had come from round instead of chuck, the cheddar was too gooey sweet, the lettuce wilted, and the tomato slice was without any taste at all. He fondly remembered the sound of her voice, and the way her eyes looked when she was annoyed by something she considered truly blameworthy. But before he could adequately savor this affection he was assaulted by the deathless grief that surrounded all his memories of her. He pushed the recollection aside.
He saw a sign for a farmers’ market in the city square and decided to go there instead. That way he could also look for something to take back to his father.
Without the trailer it was easy to find a place to park the Kenworth, and when he arrived at the square in front of city hall, he was glad he had come. There were fifteen or twenty booths, each displaying colorful vegetables and fruit, local meat in coolers, honey, homemade breads, cookies, and a wide variety of chutneys and relishes in polished glass jars with pieces of ruffled cloth screwed tight between the sealed lid and screw top. Shoppers with bags of produce went from booth to booth, and standing among them, Blake closed his eyes and imagined his father’s face, felt his love for such scenes. Then he opened his eyes and began searching for the right foods to bring home, talking to vendors as if they were old friends, delighting in the colors, sounds, and smells.
One booth offered boxes of assorted caramels made by a Trappist order of sisters called Our Lady of the Mississippi Abbey. Blake bit into a sample and exclaimed, “This is fantastic. How do you get that chewy, smooth richness? And the buttery flavor? I’ve never tasted anything like it. How do you do it?”
The sister behind the table confessed she didn’t know. She was not part of the team that made the candy, and it was only yesterday that she had volunteered to work the booth. Blake bought a box for Ivan, and then asked on a whim if she’d ever heard of Spinoza.
“Of course,” she said. “Spinoza was the first modern philosopher.”
Blake was overjoyed. It seemed so improbable to meet someone familiar with Spinoza. The size of the universe shrank to walking distances in all directions.
“Look at this,” he said, turning around and showing the knife hole in the back of his leather jacket. “I did that in honor of Spinoza.”
“Very clever,” said the sister.
“Spinoza wanted to remind himself how dangerous new ideas were,” said Blake.
“And did you know he gave away his family fortune?” asked the sister.
“Yes,” said Blake, his excitement rising. “I knew that.” It felt as if the world had opened a small space in which he could be comfortable, where he could feel at home the way he was.
“He lived a life of voluntary poverty, just as I do,” said the sister.
“Excellent!” shouted Blake, taking the plastic rosary out of his pocket to give to her. But just then he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye a woman with no helmet and wild hair pull her motorcycle in front of the parked Kenworth, climb off, and dash across the street into the square, coming in his direction.
Something in her urgent manner ignited his attention. He excused himself from the conversation he was having with the sister and turned away from the booth.
Just as he turned, Dart stopped and they stared at each other across the square. Her face glowed from the wind and Blake held the box of caramels under his right arm. The plastic rosary dangled from his left hand. Then they ran toward each other, meeting in front of a pile of ripe muskmelons.
“They’re after you,” said Dart, breathing through her mouth and talking at the same time. “They’re looking for your truck. We’ll have to leave it here and find another way across the river. We need to call your father. He’s worried, and Winnie and Jacob are too. We’ll tell them where the truck is. They can come get it. How could you leave the state without telling your release agent? How could you risk it? Why would you do that to me? You brought August and Ivan down here with you, did you know that? They were in the back of the trailer, and they almost got killed at the packing plant. They were locked in, and it’s your fault. Are you crazy, Blake? You need to think and you never do. Your life belongs to other people now. How could you have left me and Ivan alone all those years? Didn’t you know I was pregnant? Didn’t you know how lonely I would be? Do you have any idea how hard it is to raise a child alone? Didn’t you ever think about that? None of this had to happen. All those years we could have been together. We could have had something nice. Ivan would have had a father. What were you thinking?”
Blake was still falling into her unexpected presence. Her mouth, her darting eyes, how the wind held her black hair away from her tight brown face—it was more than he could comprehend. She’d lived as a static treasure in his mind for so many years, and now that she was real he had a hard time making the adjustment.
“What?” he said.
“Aren’t you listening to me, Blake Bookchester? Aren’t you? Stop looking at me like that. Stop it. We don’t have time to look at each other like that. We’ve got to get out of here. The police are everywhere, like bugs on rotten fruit. They aren’t far behind. Is there anything you need in the truck?”
“I loved you the first time I saw you,” said Blake triumphantly, as if he were completing a sentence at the end of a marathon.
“That’s just dumb, Blake. The first time you saw me you didn’t know anything. We have to get out of here.”
“Can you smell those ripe muskmelons? Let’s get a couple to take home.”
“Are you crazy? We’ve got to get you back into Wisconsin. Your release officer is about to put you back in jail. I told you, stop looking at me like that.”
They ran to the motorcycle. Blake got on and started the engine. Dart climbed on behind, hugging him firmly between her thighs like a grasshopper on a blade of grass.
“This seat is terrible,” she said.
“I know,” he replied. “Would you rather drive?”
“No. My hands are still vibrating; I can hardly feel them. But you really need to do something about this seat.”
They sped away from the truck, looking for someone with a boat to take them across the river.
“Blake, how are we ever going to put all this behind us?” shouted Dart into his ear. “How are we ever going to get over all this?”
“We will!” shouted Blake.
“What?”
“We will!”
“I can’t trust you again, not with Ivan and not with me!” she shouted into a third-gear wind.
“What?”
“I can’t trust you again.”
“Yes you can.”
“What?”
“Yes you
can!”
“I’m no good at trusting people. I can’t help it.”
“That’s okay. Think whatever you want!” shouted Blake. “It won’t change anything. I’ll always be here.”
“People never really get over the bad things that happen to them.”
“We will!” shouted Blake. “We’ll rise together out of the past like two rooted trees.”
“Like what?” shouted Dart.
“Like two rooted trees!”
“That’s just stupid, Blake. Why would you say something like that? Are you trying to make me mad on purpose?”
“What?”
“God, this is an uncomfortable seat. If you don’t do a better job of missing those bumps in the road there won’t be anything left of my ass. And neither of us would be happy about that.”
“What?”
“Never mind!”
The Bargain
On Sunday, Dart made a late brunch of Belgian waffles, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, sausage, toast, and fruit jam. The entire Roebuck household enjoyed it. When they had finished, Wally carried his second cup of coffee down to the pond and sat on the bank looking into the water. Several minutes later, Kevin and his father joined him, followed by Ivan, Dart, Amy, Flo, and Kevin’s nurse.
Buck took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs, and waded in. He lifted the metal cage out of the pond and carried it onto the grassy bank.
Everyone stared at the enormous turtle inside. The turtle stared back, its eyes round, small, and bright. Ivan called August on Dart’s new cell phone and told him everything.
“Are you sure about this, Kev?” asked Buck.
“Yes,” said Kevin.
“Maybe you’d like to think on it a little longer,” said Wally.
“I don’t need to,” said Kevin. “I’ve made up my mind.”
“The DNR would be more than happy to take him south,” said Amy.
“No,” said Kevin. “He came here. This is his pond. It’s where he wants to be. If he decides to leave he can go on his own.”