Flowers

by Scott Nicholson

  He dreamed of cities on fire, of office-workers stumbling from doorways like animated matchsticks, their hair aflame; of yellow cabs driving down buckling streets, smoke churning from open windows; of sidewalks writhing like ant-covered snakes; of glass melting in towering buildings, the warm spun taffy of slag running forty floors down; of satellite dishes withering like sunflowers in a drought; of hot gases pluming from broken water mains; of pedestrians swelling and dripping grease like plump wieners on a 4th of July grill.

  He dreamed of a blanket of black oily smog covering the ground, the sky filled with a billion particles of soot; pillars and mushrooms of gray clouds dancing in celebration, twisting like twinkle-toed tornadoes among the hot coals; dead fogs battling the firelight for shadowy dominance; blistering winds urging the flames to wicked heights.

  And as the embers died, as the immolating pyres consumed themselves, as the land lay charred and crisp and barren, he dreamed of spring rains, gentle drizzles that carried off the ash in quiet rivulets, water drops that dissipated and dissolved the thick smoke, the dark charcoal ruins swept away by the dust-broom wind. In his dreams, a new sun hovered, a cool and gentle gift-giver, a bringer of change, a rose-colored harbinger.

  This morning, as always, he awoke in a sweat, as if the fires and rains had been at work on the plain of his forehead. The real sun was stabbing through his bedroom window with an accusing eye, reprimanding him for sleeping late. He kicked off the blankets and stood up and stretched, his belly-button yawning between pajama halves. He knelt over and tugged up his socks, which had been flagging out beyond his stubby toes.

  "Billy, breakfast is ready," his mom called from downstairs. He rubbed his eyes.

  "Be down in a sec," he yelled back, then changed into his blue jeans and T-shirt. The sky outside his window was blue and cloudbare. It looked like it was going to be another scary summer day. He jogged downstairs.

  His mom kissed him on the top of his head. "Playing ball today?"

  "Some of the guys talked about it yesterday." Billy sat at the table and looked at his plate. Two strips of bacon, a circular sausage patty, and two eggs. Sunny side up.

  The eggs were like yellow eyes. "I don't think I'm hungry this morning, Mom."

  "Are you feeling okay, honey?" She pressed her wrist against his forehead. "I hope you're not getting another one of those fevers."

  "I'm fine."

  "You feel a little warm to me."

  That's because I dream of fire, he thought. And when I wake up, the fire is hiding behind everything like red shadows. It's there in the big oak tree out in the yard. The top where the leaves catch the sunlight is trying to be a torch.

  See that fire hydrant by the sidewalk, just outside the white picket fence? If firemen came by and turned the big plug with their wrenches, lava would spew out and burn the grass. And the driveway is a vein coal, waiting to be lit so it can smolder forever.

  "It's probably just because of July," Billy said.

  "Hmm. Well, you better take it easy today. Maybe you should stay inside in the air-conditioning."

  "Aw, can't I go down and play by the creek?"

  "I told you to stay away from that nasty water. I don't care if it is shady down there under the trees."

  "But, Mom—"

  "No 'buts' about it, young man. You can get your pajamas back on and get right back in bed."

  In bed, where the heat came to him from somewhere inside his head or heart. But he knew he couldn't argue with Mom.

  He poked at the egg yolks until they bled ochre. He forked off a small piece and put it in his mouth. He swallowed, hoping he wouldn't get burned. After the egg slid down his throat, he smiled at his mom. "Can I eat before I go up? I'm getting a little appetite now."

  "Sure, honey. You've got to keep your strength up. An eleven-year-old needs good nutrition."

  She crossed the kitchen, her high heels clacking on the floor tiles, and went to the bathroom, probably to check on her make-up before going off to work.

  Billy put his hand on his glass of orange juice, then drew back as if he had received an electric shock. The liquid was so—so very orange.

  He much preferred milk, the cool white silky smooth drink. White reminded him of the hospital, where he had spent most of the spring, back when the winter breezes had flickered and died and the last snow had melted away. The days had started getting longer and the sun glared like a baleful enemy. And the fevers had come.

  An endless round of doctors had poked and prodded him, put the cold discs of their tongue depressors in his mouth. But the fevers went away when he was tucked in the windowless room where the only light came from the weak fluorescent tubes. The greenish light made everybody look sick, even the nurses in their sterile uniforms and flat hair.

  After a week, after the needle-marks in his arms were like red constellations from the blood tests, the doctors had shrugged their shoulders and scratched their beards and adjusted their eyeglasses. They sent him home, telling his parents that he needed rest and a good diet, and to let them know if the symptoms recurred. His father held his hand as they walked out the hospital's glass doors.

  His father's hand felt like a volcanic mitten. Billy's palm began sweating. And the sun was out that day, high and bright and harmful. He raised his forearm against the light, trying to shield his eyes.

  "You'll get used to it," Dad said, smiling down with wide lips. Sometimes Billy saw red specks in his father's pupils, as if ethereal fires were burning inside. But that day, Dad had been wearing sunglasses, and Billy saw only his own pale face staring back.

  Mom drove them home, sitting behind the wheel of their Nissan, her brow wrinkled in concern. She looked over at Billy in the passenger seat.

  "You're looking a little better, honey," she said, but Billy saw the lie sitting on her tongue between the even rows of her teeth. He nodded weakly when she glanced in the rear-view mirror.

  "He'll live. We always have," Dad said.

  They brought him home and took him to his bedroom and laid him under the cool sheets. And he sweated away April and May, surrounded by those blue walls. His mother brought his meals on a vinyl tray. His father worked nights and slept most of the day, but always came up to read Billy bedtime stories before leaving for his job. His father would close the book just before the sun dipped below the horizon and the beautiful velvet curtain of night fell over the earth outside the window.

  His father would wish him goodnight, wipe his brow, and kiss Billy's forehead, then close the door and leave Billy to his thoughts. And Billy would twist the sheets, curl the pillow against his belly, and fight the heaviness in his lids. He would stare at the ceiling he couldn't see and count the dolphins leaping out of glittering bays, or imagine a waterfall pouring down the walls and battering him with silver-blue drops.

  But sleep always won, and the conflagrations roared across his dreams. He was afraid to tell his parents about the dreams. He didn't want to disappoint them. And his mother wouldn't let him play outside if he complained. So the night-fires raged on and Billy suffered in silence and awoke each day with pajamas that were damp with perspiration.

  Billy pretended that he was fine, and talked about going to school in the fall. Now he was eating downstairs and sometimes his mother would let him watch television. She was working again and felt that Billy was well enough to stay home with his sleeping father. Billy kept busy all day drinking large tumblers of ice water, wiping the cool dew from the glass against his face and sucking on the ice cubes. But now he had orange juice, and it looked like heat to him.

  He picked up his napkin and wrapped it around the glass, then ran to the sink and poured the offending liquid down the drain. Then he snuck back to the table, his socks sliding on the floor. He was just settling back in his chair when his mother returned.

  "You've got a big-boy thirst today," she said, fussing with an earring. The tiny ruby in it caught some light coming through the kitchen window and glowed fervidly. Billy winced against the pain
and looked across the room until his eyes came to rest on a shadowy corner. When he turned back to his mother, the fire was out and she was walking towards the door.

  "I'll be back at noon. Get yourself to bed, now," she called over her shoulder. Billy went up the stairs and listened until he heard his mom's car head down the street. Then he went to his closet and got out his bike helmet with its blue-green visor. He pushed his feet into his sneakers and slid on a pair of black biking gloves. He went downstairs, through the kitchen, and into the adjoining garage.

  His Huffy ten-speed was leaning against the wall beneath the tool rack that held Dad's shovel, rake, and hedge trimmers. He rolled the Huffy to the end of the garage and pressed the button that raised the door, hoping the noise wouldn't wake his father. Sunlight poured in like scalding water. He staggered against the light, then regained his balance and mounted the bike, and in a moment he was down the driveway, pumping his legs and hunching over the curved handlebars.

  As he turned onto the street and gained speed, the rushing wind cooled his body. The sunlight chased him, but he was moving so swiftly that the beams scarcely had time to settle on his skin. He turned south at the corner and was shaded by a row of old oaks that lined the sidewalks like sentries. He stopped at the next intersection, straddling the bike on his tiptoes as he braced himself for the worst part of his trip.

  Before him was a sun-splashed strip of highway, open and cruel and carless, with not a phone-pole's worth of shade. The heat would rip through his body in needles and nails of fiery pain. Even the visor wouldn't fully soften the glare that would prick his eyes. He was sweating now, but it was the sweat of exertion, not the sweat of fevers and dreams. On the other side of the street, the woods beckoned.

  Only a child from the urban outskirts would call this patch of scraggly underbrush and jackpine a forest. Honeysuckle vines laced through the scrub locust and kudzu had gained a healthy foothold in the end that bordered the weedy lot of an unsold house. The crooked branches of the pines stretched out and interlaced to form a canopy. The only beauty of the place was in its daylight dark, the wonderful unbroken shadow that stretched under the foliage.

  Billy took a deep breath and leaned his weight forward and he was off in a flash. The sun shot ions and light-arrows at him, but most were off the mark. He dodged and weaved, a haggard veteran in the game of survival. Then he was across the swollen river of sunshine, his front tire bumping up at the curb, and he was embraced by the shade of the woods.

  He rolled his bike down a small slope and leaned it against a tree. He hung his helmet from the handlebars and walked deeper into the woods, his arms held up to sweep low branches from his face. His feet made no noise on the carpet of pine needles and he could hear a finch chattering somewhere above him. Then he was at the creek and he kneeled down and put his face near the cold water.

  A round concrete pipe stuck out of the slope, spilling water from its black mouth. The water gurgled into a pool, splattering off round stones and sending drops of spray arcing into the air. Billy let some of the drops roll down his face like joyful tears. He lay on his stomach and looked into the pool. Water spiders skittered across its surface, leaving pockmarks of tracks that faded in an eyeblink. The damp smell of muddy black leaves and moss filled his nostrils. He was safe. Here, no fire could burn.

  Billy rolled onto his back and looked up through the trees. He could see patches of blue sky in the cracks, calm and cloudless. The sun would be up there somewhere, boiling in anger at his escape. He closed his eyes and put sun and fire and red and orange out of his mind. Before he knew it, he was asleep.

  He dreamed that he was undersea. Somehow, he knew that he had drowned. He tried his limbs and found they still worked, though a bit awkwardly. The world moved in slow motion, graceful fish finning silently past his ears and sinuous eels winding across the sandy bottom. He looked up from the deep blue belly of death and saw the light high above. He was about to push off and make for it when he remembered the evil sun. Then he was struggling to keep himself from floating, fighting the peaceful drift of nothingness.

  He awoke with his back in the dirt and leaves. He looked out at the houses that surrounded the woods and saw by their long shadows that it was afternoon. His mom would be home soon. He ran up the bank to his ten-speed and wheeled it to the street. He hopped on the bike and winced against the daylight, then raced the sun back to the house.

  As he entered the kitchen through the garage, his dad's voice called to him.

  "Hi, Billy. Where have you been?"

  The words seemed to have come from the air, or out of the heating vents, or maybe down the chimney. There was no accusation in them, only curiosity. Billy whirled and saw his dad sitting in a dark corner of the living room.

  "Uh—I went for a bike ride."

  "Out in the sun?"

  "Yeah. Mom said it was okay, and that it would probably do me some good to get some fresh air."

  Billy could see his dad's eyes glimmering in the darkness, two bright but cool moons. He stepped into the living room toward his dad, his sneakers seeming to float on the carpet, he walked so softly. Dad rarely yelled at him, but he was afraid he'd be in trouble if his dad caught him in a lie.

  "Looks like a beautiful day outside." Dad said it as a query, a gambit. Did he know?

  "Yeah, but it's almost too hot."

  "Makes a guy want to find a cool place and hide from the sun."

  Billy nodded. He could make out the edge of his dad's body now, a darker silhouette among the shadows.

  "How are you feeling? Any fever?" Dad's voice was smoky and deep.

  "I feel good. I think I'm getting better now."

  "It's okay if you're not. You can't rush things. Just take it easy."

  "Sure, Dad." Billy really did feel better. His secret was still safe.

  Dad stood up, and it was as if the shadows fluttered around him, falling from his shoulders in black rags. He walked over to Billy and put his warm hand on his son's head. Billy was struck by a vivid image of the burning cities of his dreams, then they, too, flickered away, like woodsmoke carried away by the wind.

  "I'm going back to bed now. Just knock on the door if you need anything," his dad said. Billy watched the way Dad avoided the sunlight while walking across the living room, staying in the black island cast by the shadow of the couch, then lingering under the lampshade before entering the kitchen. Billy heard a soft squeaking on the stairs and a door closing.

  "We'll survive. We always have," Billy muttered to himself. What had his dad meant? He remembered back in the third grade when the class had to give speeches about what their parents did. Most of the children were the offspring of doctors, lawyers, accountants, and professors, the smattering of professionals that could afford to live in this upper-class district. One shame-faced girl admitted that her father was a fireman and her mother was a cocktail waitress. One boy's father was a pro baseball player, but he admitted that his father wasn't good enough yet to be on his own baseball card. It was as if he had confessed that his dad was a drug dealer, the way he shuffled back to his desk with his head hanging down.

  When it was Billy's turn, he stood in front of the class and looked out at the sea of sniffling faces. He glanced out the window at the sun-splashed playground, where kids were jumping rope and kicking soccer balls. The light didn't seem to bother them, because they were laughing and running and no one seemed worried about the big hot enemy in the sky. Billy cleared his throat and spoke.

  "My mom works at a bank, counting people's money," he said, then his voice fell away. "And my dad—"

  He looked at the crazy patterns in the ceiling tiles, then back down at the gray floor. He didn't quite know how to put it into words. He had stayed awake nights, thinking about it. Nights when he knew the fire would come in dreams, red and vengeful.

  "My dad puts out the sun."

  The class was silent, dull as cows.

  "He pushes it down in the sky and grabs the corners of night and pulls
the darkness up over the world like a blanket."

  Then the laughter started. It began as a birdish twitter somewhere in the back. Then a snicker burst out two aisles over. Next a guffaw, follow by a hoot. Then the whole class erupted, a choir of hilarity that disturbed classes up and down the hall. Even Miss McAllister had her hand over her mouth, trying to hide her smile.

  Billy felt his face burn in embarrassment. His cheeks and ears were tingling. He wanted to run, but his feet were as heavy as dictionaries. He closed his eyes tight, squeezing tears from their corners.

  Miss McAllister tried to settle the class down. She stood in front of her desk with her hands on her hips. Then she turned and tapped a ruler on the back of a chair. Slowly the laughter faded, like boiling water reduced to a simmer, an occasional bubble rippling but the surface calm.

  "That's some imagination you have, Billy," she said. She was still smiling, her pink lipstick glistening in the light. Billy looked at her and felt his eyes darken. He didn't know how he could feel such a thing, but he did. And he knew that if he looked in a mirror, there would be little specks of fire in his pupils, just like Dad's. He returned to his seat.

  He put his head and his desk and imagined his classmates with their skin dripping from their bones like hot wax running down a candle. He pictured Miss McAllister sinking into the sun, screaming as the thermonuclear furnace reduced her to vapor. He daydreamed a rain of molten orange ingots falling from the sky, piercing holes in the roof of the schoolhouse and sizzling the children out on the playground. In his mind, the fire swept across the schoolyard like a yellow tide, turning laughter to screams. And behind the tide came the clouds, a dark blank nothingness that would suffocate the ashes. He rode the bus home in a sweat.

  Even now, three years later, he still carried the memory of that day inside him, like a small ember kept alive in his chest. He had gained the reputation of being an oddball. The bullies had culled him from the herd like wolves culling a weak lamb from the flock. They called him the "Sundance Kid," and pushed him around while the girls stood by and laughed and dared each other to kiss him.