Jewelweed
Page 50
“I think there’s something you haven’t told me yet about that child of yours,” said Winnie.
“What makes you think so?” asked Lester, leaning away from her slightly.
“A friendship seems to be forming.”
“Is there a problem with that?” asked Lester.
“There may be. August tends to become very involved.”
“August never told me about that problem,” said Lester, staring up the hill. “He’s talked about a lot of things he’s concerned about, Reverend Helm, but never that. He’s worried about the future of bats, I know, and and the moral decline of this country. He’s talked about his concerns for his friend Ivan and the health of Kevin Roebuck, and at one time he was afraid demons were immigrating into the earth and turning it into a new level of hell.”
“I never heard that one,” said Winnie.
“After his bat came back he never mentioned it again. He’s also talked about his concerns for your own health and happiness, Reverend Helm, but he’s never once mentioned wanting to be less involved.”
“Call me Winnie, Lester.”
“That child in the hayfield has been visiting your house for over a year, watching August. They like each other.”
“I know, I know. But school is starting next week and I think it would be better for everyone concerned if, well, if August’s time were devoted elsewhere.”
“So you’d like for them to see less of each other?”
“I think that would be a good idea.”
“It won’t be nearly as easy as you think, Winnie.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, she’s a girl.”
“I knew it,” said Winnie, gripping the table with both hands and breathing carefully. “I knew it—or at least part of me knew it. It’s her laugh and the way she moves. I knew it. How old is she?”
“I don’t know for sure, maybe a year older than August.”
“You’ve made sure she looks like a boy—her hair and her clothes. You’ve encouraged people to think she’s a boy.”
“I hoped August would be less interested in her—that everyone would be less interested. I imagined that most people might tolerate a wild boy, but a wild girl, well, you know—”
“Just the idea of her would drive some folks over the edge,” said Winnie, methodically tearing off small irregular pieces of the wrapping paper that covered the tabletop.
“Right,” said Lester. “They’d never leave her alone.”
“And apparently she didn’t want to stay alone,” said Winnie, looking up the hill at the two young people in the alfalfa.
“I guess not,” said Lester.
Winnie put her elbows on the table and wrapped her face in her hands. “I wasn’t prepared for this.”
“I know,” said Lester. “Me neither.”
“She’s a lovely creature, though,” said Winnie, looking up the hill again. “I’ve always thought that, even when I believed she was a boy. You call her JW—what does it stand for?”
“A nickname. It stands for Jewelweed.”
Skeeter went over to his motorcycle and turned the radio to a music station. At first everyone just sat there listening, but after a short while Frieda got up from the table and began dancing, her limbs moving in an entirely uninhibited way. Dart set down the tray of watermelon wedges she was carrying from the house and joined her. Then Buck joined them, and the sight of someone so big trying to dance lowered the inhibitions of those still sitting. Soon most of the guests were dancing in the driveway, including Violet Brasso.
“I didn’t think this was going to be so much fun,” said Frieda to Dart.
“Why not?” asked Dart.
“I didn’t think I was in the right mood.”
“Are you now?”
“It’s the strawberry wine. Where did you get it? Is this your place?”
“In a way,” said Dart. “I married into the rent.”
“It’s shabby, but it has potential.”
“I know. Someday it’s going to be really nice.”
“Are you still working for Amy?”
“I’ll be working for Amy when she’s as old as her grandmother Flo.”
“Why?”
“That’s just the way it is.”
Blake went over to his father’s truck, found the same music station, and turned the volume up. The additional sound enlivened the dancers, and they were soon joined by several more from the tables. Ivan and Kevin came out of the house, looking for something to drink. August came down from the hayfield to get a plate of desserts. Bee walked over and poured punch into the boys’ glasses.
Blake climbed down from the cab and watched the people gathered in his farmyard, thinking how nice it would be if Spinoza could join them. Blake imagined him taking off his jacket, drinking a glass of wine with Nate, sharing a piece of pie with Wally, talking with Flo, and dancing with Violet, Frieda, and Dart. And as he imagined this impossible scene, Blake found himself inside a moment of clarity. Time collapsed and all of his anxieties about the future fell away. The margins of his private life expanded to include everyone in the farmyard, and he understood that everything he could ever hope to accomplish was already contained within them. They held the limits of his freedom as well as his freedom itself. Their peace was the only kind he would ever know, and it would be enough.
Jacob walked over and stood next to him. Together they leaned against the Kenworth.
“Buck says the addition to the shop can be completed before winter, and as soon as it’s done your father wants us to rebuild his diesel. Work is coming in faster than we can keep up with.”
“No kidding,” said Blake.
“Lester wants to hire August and Ivan to help him plant melons next spring, Jack Station wants us to put some solar panels on the roof of his new garage, and there are plans for a new prison a few miles from here.”
“I heard,” said Blake.
Jacob turned away. For a moment he seemed lost, wandering through the forest of some unbounded thought, staring at the piece of ground in front of the corncrib. A tiny cloud drifted aimlessly across the pale blue sky.
“Things are changing around here,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “And with Winifred giving up preaching, I’d just like to know what’s going to happen next.”
“Everything that can,” said Blake.
The gradual emergence of Jewelweed, from the bits and pieces of past events, imagined scenes, notes on the backs of envelopes, overheard conversations, dreams, and the shadow cast by fleeting premonitions, was greatly assisted by the help of many.
Edna, my wife, believed in the possibilities of a novel from the first glimmer of a story; her unflagging assurances and assistance, combined with her inspired understanding of the psychological layers behind scenes I was trying to depict, made the completion of the book possible. I am also deeply thankful for the generous encouragement and support from the John Guggenheim Foundation, whose fellowship created the much-needed space-time for the research and writing. My agent, Lois Wallace, offered welcome enthusiasm for the magical elements of the story, and Daniel Slager, my editor at Milkweed Editions, left his invaluable stamp on the text through intuitions into characters, pacing, and phrasing. Special thanks to my longtime friend James Noland, whose insights into the work of William Blake, Marcel Proust, and others led to the refinement and clarification of time-honored themes. I am also indebted to Edward Schultz for accompanying me on many difficult afternoon journeys through ideas too wide to go around and too tall to jump over.
Many others were instrumental in grounding the narrative within the real world, critiquing early drafts, offering information and recommendations, and sharing from the deep well of their own experience. Thank you, Mike Austin, Ben Barnhart, Andre Bernard, Calvin Clarke, Kate Fitzgerald, Joanne Greenberg, Darrel Hanold, Will Kilkeary, Charlie Knower, Jim and Leslie Kolkmeier, Kevin Larimer, Olive Anne Miller, Fred Milverstedt, Linda Murkin, Jan Netolicky, Paul and Karla Niederdecker, Emily Rhodes
, Luther Rhodes, Alexandra Rhodes-Stanton, Paul Schaefer, Zach Schaefer, Lindel Settle, Robert Smith, Ron Stoltz, Peggy Swan, Ron Troxel, and Jim Vriesacker.
As a young man, David Rhodes worked in fields, hospitals, and factories across Iowa. After receiving an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, he published three acclaimed novels: The Last Fair Deal Going Down (1972), The Easter House (1974), and Rock Island Line (1975). In 1976, a motorcycle accident left him partially paralyzed. In 2008, Rhodes returned to the literary scene with Driftless, a novel that was hailed as “the best work of fiction to come out of the Midwest in many years” (Alan Cheuse). Following the publication of Driftless, Rhodes was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship in 2010, to support the writing of Jewelweed. He lives with his wife, Edna, in Wisconsin.
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