Vera Violet

by Melissa Anne Peterson

  She had a barn filled with home-brewed wine. Plum, dandelion, all the berries. The barn was where we kept our ammunition. The plan was always to meet here together when bad things happened. Her yard was an overwhelming regiment of pansies, sunflowers, and marigolds. We used her fresh thyme, parsley, basil, and rosemary to grill salmon. Pickled her peppers. Dried her lavender in bunches to use for tea and medicine. Made preserves out of her strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, salmonberries, and blackcaps. Dug up her potatoes to keep in the cellar under the barn. In the fall, we made pies from her pumpkins, froze and sautéed her yellow squash to eat with elk steak.

  She planted the vegetables alongside herbs and flowers in a fragrant mishmash. Every plant was spotless, lush, and happy—planted in clusters. Corn, beans, and squash grew close together. The bean vines crawled up the tall corn stalks. The squash inched along the ground. Strong-smelling onions were planted around healthy carrots and cucumbers. There were spiders in the mounds of herbs. Marigolds grew unchecked. Cosmos, bee balm, and nasturtiums attracted swarms of happy bees in the springtime. Chives popped up everywhere. The butterflies pecked and fussed over the butterfly bush like little fairy nymphs.

  Timothy was staying with her until Sunday. She liked to take him to town with her. She carried him proudly in her strong, bony arms. People couldn’t walk by him without taking a second look and smiling—his face scrunched into one bright smile after another. His fat hands waved and reached. Nadine had helped at the birthing. Lupita had insisted.

  Jimmy James and Lupita had a short affair: She was a nice girl. Her dress was periwinkle blue. She went with Jimmy James to the river. She bent her knees into the water—it rushed around her—she floated. The dress turned royal. She told him her mama felt better. That she was done being sick. The sundress was homemade—the ruffles hand sewn. Her hair was braided, and he was glad. The sun turned the river golden. The sun turned her hair red. She smiled like she had known him. She smiled as if they’d already made love. She was fourteen. Jimmy James a year older.

  She attempted suicide after she gave birth. Ran Nadine’s car off the road into a telephone pole even as her episiotomy stitches healed. She was examined by a psychiatrist—found to be an unfit mother. Jimmy James and I both knew—awful things had happened to her. Caused her young spirit to crumble. We couldn’t blame her, really. She was so young. And Lupita had no legal guardian in the US after her mama died. And Timothy could not go back to El Salvador all alone. And Jimmy James held the screaming infant wrapped in a cheap, blue blanket to his chest. He could not say no. He was bound in an instant. Timothy grew darker as he got older. He didn’t match us on the outside. His body curled between us as he slept. And fit perfectly.

  Lupita went inside the brown trailer to wake Jimmy James’s brothers. They pulled on blue jeans. They rubbed their eyes. They ribbed me good-naturedly about waking them at noon. They poured cups of cheap, hot coffee from the pot. They drank it black. They shared a cigarette. They would help. They were sixteen-year-old twins. They followed me in Nadine’s brown Buick after putting a bag of new potatoes in our truck. They fought about who would drive. The sun broke through the fog. We found Jimmy James easily. The blood already dried on his boots. I gathered my chanterelles. I carried the elk heart in a plastic bag. I walked behind the boys the five miles back to the truck. We heaved the body onto the bed. His brothers followed us. They hung the carcass from a hook in Nadine’s backyard. The blood drained. Jimmy James was in a good mood. He fried bear sausage and potatoes for him and his brothers. Lupita and I ate toast and orange juice. Nadine stayed outside with Timothy. The brothers roughhoused. The twins fought against their elder. Jimmy James put them both in headlocks. He made them promise they would help process the meat the next day. No matter what, he told them, and released them from his grip. He glared and waited. Lupita stood halfway out of sight—behind the door. She nodded. The twins agreed, raised eyebrows at each other, and tried to be men about it. They sensed there were things they did not understand. They left to go fishing. Lupita curled up with Timothy on the hammock. She sang to him in a voice that was pure, and sad, and happy: “Someday I’ll be good enough to ta-ake you home.”

  She was wearing a red dress. We went back to our apartment in town to shower and sleep.

  The Man from Angel Road sat at the kitchen table with his chin on his fists—his elbows on the table. He looked younger—scared almost. His hands were rarely idle. The scar tissue in his knuckles throbbed. His stillness was a strange holiday. The sun shined in through the window. He’d missed me in the early morning—his body had searched for me in our bed and found nothing. He looked unabashedly into my face and read what was there. His eyebrows were like exclamation points. He leaned over the table and put his face close to mine. He didn’t bat an eyelash. He put his hand on my arm. His palm pressed down. He pulled my chair close to him. I crawled into his lap and shivered. He put his arms around me, lifted my shirt, and pushed his forehead against my breasts.

  I felt him all the way through, and it scared me. I held on. Nothing made noise for a while. Then we heard the train whistle blowing, and he carried me to our bed. We made sad love. I fell asleep in the early afternoon. He held me and waited.

  27

  PREACHER’S SLOUGH ROAD

  Brady Robbins drove home from work. His body was tired but his heart floated elatedly.

  He was thinking of Annie—knowing he’d probably stay up with her. He smiled anyway. He knew he’d been right to wait for her. He had a feeling this time it would be different. He stopped somewhere on his way home—spent his entire paycheck at the jewelry store. But the little black box held such promise. He would have to work more overtime. But now he would not worry about Annie. She would breathe next to him. He would sleep well. He drove with foggy eyes and smiled. His tires weaved lazily. He crossed the center line. No big deal. Hot Rod Brady Robbins. The name came to him—it sounded funny. He rolled the window down. He screamed “Hallelujah!” just for fun. An old lady getting yesterday’s mail jumped at the sound of his voice.

  He chuckled. He turned right on Preacher’s Slough Road. He drove for three miles. He pulled into his driveway. He jiggled his keys in his pocket. Nobody was perfect. He loved her anyway. He took three steps before his life would never be the same. The porch. The stairs. They jumped out strangely at him. He took three more steps before the bounce was gone from him forever. There. On the black rocks. Her brown hair down—wet and oddly alive-looking: Annie.

  He sat down.

  Annie.

  He threw up.

  Annie.

  He decided it couldn’t be real. He’d been working too hard. It was his awful mind playing awful tricks. He crumpled to the ground. He rested his cheek on the black rocks. There was an odd film over them. He stood. Then gave up and stumbled. He crawled. He grabbed Annie to him like he’d wanted to do for so long. He curled up on the ground with her. On the bloodstained black rocks. She did not respond to him. He stayed there. For as long as he could. His body numb. “No no no,” he whispered foolishly. His brain was not working right. “No no no.” Small protests. Massive breaths. The light rain let up.

  Later, they took her away. They put her in a jaded, flashing vehicle. After physically removing him from her body. They tried to ask him questions. But he was not under arrest. He pushed through the crowd. Said fuck off—it was the only thing he could think of.

  He stumbled blindly into his waiting Galaxie 500. The tires skidded across his yard. He drove, and he drove. Vague thoughts of going to Bremerton to find Annie assaulted him. The sun was rose red—it soon washed the streets in crimson. He turned left onto Binns Swiger Loop Road. He punched his dashboard and pressed down hard on the gas. Arcadia Avenue flew. His thoughts spun wildly. He was on the highway for only a moment. Then the dotted white line hypnotized him. The world spun stupidly. The sun stopped shining.

  28

  NAZI

  That night they handcuffed Jimmy James before they kicked out
his front teeth.

  I sat up straight when I heard them outside. They’d been so quiet when they surrounded the apartment. Jimmy James opened the front door when he first heard them. He rushed out alone to the parking lot while I slept.

  I was dreaming of Granny’s property in the swamp. How the sun tried to burn off the fog in winter. How the sun always failed. When I woke, the dream fled from my reality—it didn’t want to be part of it.

  I was alone in bed. The door to the apartment was open. I got up and followed the sound of voices. The hallway was dark. There was no moon. Only the glow from the flickering streetlights lit my way.

  As I took the steps in twos, I remembered Jimmy James telling me it was worse to fight a man who was scared than to fight a man who was bigger than you. A man who was scared was apt to do anything. Crazy things. If he was afraid, then adrenaline took over—the fight mode. He might bite and scratch and use scissors to stab you. Kick you in the groin. Stick your own switchblade in your back while you’re doubled over. “It’s better if he’s not panicked,” he’d said. “You’re safer that way.”

  Outside the building, I saw how Jimmy James could be wrong. The police officers were not scared—they were cold and tunnel-visioned. They didn’t do anything crazy. Jimmy James’s young body jumped and rolled on the ground from the force of their blows. His eyes stared coldly ahead. He didn’t shut them against the pain. He was watching for me through their legs—waiting. I listened to the dull thuds. They vibrated through the space of pavement that separated us. I ran, and my limbs felt stiff and sluggish. His eyes caught sight of me. A look of pure terror crossed his face. He had tried to avoid this.

  I remembered how Jimmy James had also said, “The man in the fight who will surely lose is the one with the most at stake. If the girl he loves is there, it’s over.” He’d said it so many times. Now he told me to get into our truck. They kept kicking him. Their feet dove eagerly toward his ribs, his stomach, and the back of his head. One of them turned and saw me. He recognized my face.

  “How you like your Nazi boyfriend now?” he asked. It stopped, and the cops watched me. They were teaching me a lesson. But I didn’t learn. I had a dumb look on my face. Mouth open. Hands itching. There were too many things they did not understand. Their faces leered from across bare earth and black pavement. There were four of them.

  I had a bloody, trampled feeling. Frustration brought angry tears. I knew the rifle was in the hall closet. I knew the rifle was not an option. The Man from Angel Road had eyes that pleaded. There was nothing I could do. The uniforms of the police officers were clean. The parking lot was littered with trash. The dark sky glared. The empty space around me mourned.

  Jimmy James writhed on the pavement. He told me again to lock myself in the truck. He said it through a bubbly mouth filled with blood. Bright red lung blood. He said it quietly. Forcefully. Coughed it: “Get in the fucking truck.” His words were exhausted and abstract—absent of emotion. His bottom teeth resembled broken bones poking out through the gaping, gigantic wound of his mouth. The lights on the squad cars were strangely dark. I tried to think of the colors they usually were: Red. Blue. I saw the blood dripping down the front of his black Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. It turned the cotton burgundy—the color of dried blood on black rocks.

  “Don’t let them hurt you,” he slurred so reasonably—pleaded with me. I couldn’t resist his voice. The same voice that told me secrets—that talked so gently—assured Timothy it was okay when he scraped his knee. He sounded strained and tired. He kept all our memories away from him even as his blood turned black on the pavement.

  The town cop smiled. He had short spiky hair and feet that sagged inward. He took a step toward me. I put my hand on the door handle of our truck. It was between them and me—unlocked. The other three watched him—breathing heavily. The town cop swelled with adrenaline. His eyes were bright with violence and entitlement. I quickly pulled the door open, climbed inside, and locked the doors. The cowardly movement plagued my nightmares for the rest of my life: I left him there. On the cold pavement. His blood pooled on old, gray tar.

  I sat on the bench seat in shock. The cops went back to their business. I couldn’t close my eyes at first. They were too dry. My face was haggard. I knew I would have been next. But mine would have been worse. It would have killed Jimmy James in a way that would never heal. They would have done it in front of him—in our apartment—with the pictures of our families watching—on the rug we picked out together—with our leftovers on the stove. My weak body would have failed me, and it would have killed him. He would rather feel the physical pain.

  Because their blows were only temporary. The blood would dry and harden.

  I wrenched my head away from the scene. Because later I wouldn’t have been able to look him in the eye. He would have seen the pain hidden inside of me. The deep scar of me watching him. To see his body like a rag doll at their mercy. I rocked back and forth like a crazy person. I put my arms over my ears and squeezed my head. I shut my eyes. I put both feet on the horn of the old Ford. I pressed down hard. One long blast. Because I couldn’t scream yet. Because I would keep my feet there until someone came.

  I reached a place inside that felt watery and womblike—La Llorona beckoned me to join her on the riverbanks—the tears of blood dripped from her eyes onto the front of her white dress. There was mist and sad singing. I was drawn away by the sound of loud thumping on the top of the truck. Like dirt clods hitting metal.

  Brady and Fitz were banging on the windshield and the ceiling of the cab. My feet flew off the horn. I knocked against Brady’s hard chest when I opened the door. It felt hollow as if his heart had fallen out.

  The detective pulled up in a black Crown Victoria. The cops stopped what they were doing. There was an uneasy feeling among them. He slammed his door and gestured toward them angrily. “Are ya’ll crazy?”

  The town cop with crooked feet glared and said, “He’s a fighter.”

  I watched my eighteen-year-old boyfriend stumbling like a drunk—his balanced, righteous walk turned into an old man’s bar stagger. He fell. The cop with crooked feet pulled him to the car by his handcuffs. Cold mud gathered on his skin from the bare spots in the apartment lawn. His boxer shorts ripped and slid down his body. His unlaced boots pulled off his feet. I couldn’t say the words that were boiling up inside of me. I choked instead.

  Brady’s face was the color of ash. His head was bandaged. His teeth were bloody. He’d left the hospital even as the nurses yelled at him to stay. He held me, and it felt strange. Because he needed me to support him. Because his arms circled and squeezed for dear life. He rested his head on the cold metal of the truck behind me. His Bronco was on the bare lawn—the Super Swampers dug into the mud. He was far away from everything. Suspended above the horrible scene.

  Fitz looked like a lost boy with his hands in his pockets. Guilt showed plainly on his face. He looked at me, shrugged, and said, “I didn’t know.” He’d walked home to the mess of the silent ambulance, the paramedics, and police officers. The detective wanted to search his red Honda—had questioned him for three hours. But Fitz couldn’t answer except to tell them, “I don’t know. I don’t know what happened.”

  Neither Brady nor Fitz could believe the words they told me: Annie’s dead. They stood next to each other beside the truck. I stared at their boots. I ran to gather the fourteen-eye oxbloods from the blacktop.

  The detective went back to his car. He wrote things down in a notepad. He gestured me to him. My body trembled under my thin T-shirt as I walked. He scratched his head and offered me his jacket. Finally he asked, “Were you with him last night?” And I couldn’t answer. There was no voice left in me. My thoughts drifted over the All Night Diner. The waitress and the soccer kids. I realized I’d left Jimmy James twice. Twice when it really mattered.

  The cops were laughing together for some reason. They watched me. The dull thud of the violence stayed in my brain. The reverberations left imprints. Th
e bones broke over and over. I would never be the same. The world was only one color: the color of life and death.

  “I know your boyfriend isn’t a white supremacist,” the detective was saying matter-of-factly. “But his political beliefs are a little extreme, aren’t they?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I suppose he hasn’t told you what he’s been doing at night lately?”

  I shook my head no. The detective nodded toward the cops. “Those Neanderthals don’t really get it. But they’re also sick of looking like assholes for not getting anything on him.”

  I wasn’t sure why he was telling me these things. I felt very tired. He slipped me his card. I felt my body lose its shape.

  “Can he afford a lawyer?” He looked at me.

  Again, I didn’t answer.

  He sighed. “Well, he’s been busy. Was he in Seattle yesterday?”

  I shrugged.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ve watched the news.”

  I smelled the detective’s aftershave on his jacket. He had brown hair and kind eyes—the vaguest hint of a Mississippi accent. I stuffed his card in my back pocket.

  He smiled sadly, and something clicked in my head. He spoke again lowly, “He’s not so happy about the prison being built, is he?”

  I looked at him, smiled bitterly, and thought, Good cop. I looked at the group of local police officers recounting their recent antics and thought, Bad cop. I gave the detective his jacket back. “Thanks.” I said, “Really.” I walked away.

  That morning, Jimmy James’s prints were lifted from the steering wheel of the Honda. The car held Annie’s bloody rag and the tissue paper from Kat’s pocket. The needle rolled back and forth on the floor. With Annie’s blood all over it. Traces were found on our throw rug under the window among broken glass. And Jimmy James’s own blood had dripped into the brown fiber.