Jewelweed (29 page)

Blake sat on the steps and sipped his coffee. The antique radio drama limped along in such a primitive manner that his attention drifted away from it. The scene behind him on the truck seat, however, was interesting. There was something new in the tone of his father's voice, something
playful and intelligent. But because it seemed impolite to actually hear what they were saying, he just listened to the sounds their voices made, which led him into an oddly pleasant reverie—the most peace he'd experienced in a long time. His thoughts wandered through the backyard and beyond. He pictured his father running in the dark grass, chasing his older cousin through a much simpler time, hiding behind the shed, along the grapevines. The image of the two children darting from shadow to shadow was so clear, so astonishingly tranquil, that Blake discovered he was smiling. Danielle was still in the area. He took another sip of coffee and wondered how to be appropriately thankful for this rescued joy. Then he simply closed his eyes and gave himself over to a sense of gratitude.

Blake vaguely remembered reading about Jean-Paul Sartre's notion that there was a God-shaped hole in the human psyche longing to be filled. He wondered about his own empty shape. How much of it would remain if his mother suddenly reappeared? Where was she now? Was she still alive? It had taken his father some thirty years to overcome her departure. How long would it take for Blake to stop wondering about her?

When his father was chasing Bee around in the dark grass, his mother had been somewhere too, existing in that same simpler time. And right now she could be anywhere, possibly even listening to a faint sound that reminded her of years ago as well. In remembering, Blake wondered, does she think of me? Does she have any unfilled shapes? Would she recognize me if we were to walk by each other on the street?

When the radio mystery ended, Blake decided to go back inside. He wanted to read Spinoza and think about Danielle.

“Thanks for the ice cream and coffee,” he said, standing up. “Nice to see you again, Bee.”

“I can make more coffee,” said his father. “I have some beans from a guy who roasts his own in Doe Run, Missouri.”

“No thanks. By the way, I forgot to mention that the dispatcher called. They want you back on the road tomorrow morning.”

“Surely not,” said Nate.

“The message is still on the answering machine.”

“They're pushing too hard,” said Nate.

“I know it,” said Blake. “And on top of that they want you to take a load to Wormwood.”

“That's really bad.”

“I know it. You always hated going there.”

“Oh well,” said Nate. “I guess I don't have a choice. Did you bring in the mail?”

“It's on top of the refrigerator.”

“Thanks for mowing the yard.”

“No problem. Good night.”

“I enjoyed sharing the evening with you,” said Bee, flashing her dimple. “And don't forget that you owe me a ride on your motorcycle.”

Blake went into the living room and tried to make the motorcycle a little less noticeable by putting couch pillows on the tank and handlebars. Then he went into his bedroom and found the place where he'd left off in Spinoza.

Several minutes later, Nate drove Bee back home.

T
oward evening, Buck walked through the muddy construction site in Red Plain, up the teetering metal steps, and into the trailer. His foreman wasn't there. He shut the window, closed a file cabinet, sat on the desk, and called his engineer. No answer. An avalanche of papers and envelopes spilled onto the floor next to the copy machine. On the wall, the calendar had been written on so many times with different pens that it no longer resembled a calendar.

There were several other people he needed to phone, but the impulse to get out of the trailer as quickly as possible seemed more urgent. Last week, Kevin had come down with pneumonia. After five days in the hospital—three on a respirator—he came home attached to intravenous electrolytes, six-carbon monosaccharide, and three recently synthesized antibiotics. Since then, Buck's mood had been erratic. His son's misery festered in his heart, and inside the cramped trailer the worry worked its way into his thoughts about deadlines, meetings with the city administrator, back-orders, bills, permits, taxes, stalled equipment, substandard lumber, cost estimates, plumb lines, loans, insurance adjusters, and bank accounts.

Stepping outside, Buck took a deep breath, locked the trailer door, and cautiously leaned against the metal railing on the makeshift landing. He wanted a cigarette—an unfiltered one, ideally—and the resurrection of this long-buried urge felt strangely welcome. He hadn't smoked since Amy became pregnant, over fifteen years ago, and the desire transported him briefly back to that less encumbered time. But he resisted giving himself over to the recollection.

For some reason Buck's memories often seemed to feature someone slightly other than himself, someone related but not identical to him,
whose inner life was only half lit by the same psychic flame. He assumed this phenomenon resembled what happened when Amy's grandmother Flo remembered things in her childhood, but could not recall if they had happened to her or to someone else in her family.

A hundred yards away, four construction workers climbed into Dylan Johnson's brown Ford. The vehicle didn't move for several minutes. Then it emitted a short puff of exhaust and inched north across the site, around the Caterpillar, and onto the highway, spraying mud.

A half dozen cliff swallows were catching gnats above a shallow pool of collected rainwater, flying low, turning, and coming back around. Just beyond the new foundation and scaffolding, an old dog lay on a piece of plywood, thinking about the weedy field that had been there a month ago.

Behind him, Buck heard the sound of a vehicle moving across the grocery store lot, along the street, and into the construction site. A gray Explorer parked beside the trailer. His father climbed out, adjusted the waistline of his trousers, found the right place for his red suspenders over the black T-shirt, and walked up beside him.

“Hey, Dad,” said Buck.

“Thought I'd check on everything,” said Wally.

“Thanks for coming,” said Buck. “I don't get to see enough of you.”

“Couple hours of daylight left,” said Wally, looking from the sky to his watch. “Where's the crew?”

“Men won't work the way they used to. Women neither.”

Wally sat carefully on the steps. “People don't do anything the way they used to. What is this, anyway—a retirement home?”

“Health resort.”

“I guess that sounds better. How many units?”

“Eighteen.”

“Whose is it?”

“Some investment group out of La Crosse. Bill Larch put it together.”

“Who's he?”

“You remember the guy who owned that equipment dealership?”

“In Luster?”

“That's him.”

“No kidding! There was a time when all Billy Larch could do was find his own house keys, and he couldn't even do that very often.”

“I know, but things change.”

“What's that smell?”

“Portable sewage collector under the trailer isn't as tight as it should be.”

“Good, I was afraid it was me. Say, let's drive over to the steak house and get something to eat.”

“Right now?”

“It's after seven.”

“There's probably something waiting for us at home.”

“No, there isn't. That new gal you hired is making vegetarian pizza.”

“Amy and Kevin should be happy about that.”

“I'm sure they are. So is Flo. She's getting goat cheese on hers, and except for her rosaries there's nothing she likes better than goat cheese.” Wally found a toothpick in his right hand and put it in his mouth. “Look at that old dog. I'll bet he knows a thing or two.”

Taking a small notebook and pen out of his pocket, Wally added “old dogs” to the list of things he was going to miss after he died.

“You never liked pizza, did you, Dad?”

“Never did, that's a fact,” he said.

“I don't remember Flo liking goat cheese before.”

“That's because she never did. But beginning today there is nothing she ever liked better. It's that new gal you hired.”

“I'm not dressed for a restaurant,” said Buck.

“Me either. We can ask them to give us a table in the dark.”

“I better call Amy and tell her.”

“No need. I already told her.”

“What was she doing?”

“She and Ivan are watching a movie with Kevin—in his room.”

“Is he any better today?”

“Not as far as I can tell. He never got out of bed.”

“What's Danielle doing?”

“I told you. She's making pizza.”

“Oh, right.”

“And Lucky's helping her. He came over. That's another reason I thought I better get out of the house. I never liked your brother-in-law much, and I want to avoid getting in an argument. It's not good policy at my age. It makes it harder to travel in the dreamworld, where it's best to be free of attachments and ready to move wherever you need to.”

“Lucky isn't that bad of a guy.”

“He isn't that good of one either. He's been coming over a lot lately, hanging around that new gal you hired.”

“Her name's Danielle, Dad.”

“She's still ‘that new gal' to me.”

“You ought to call her by her name.”

“She grew up tough, Buck. There's nothing that gal wouldn't do if she thought she had to. Can't you see that?”

“People don't get to choose how they grow up.”

“True enough. I like Ivan, though—like him a lot. We're going four-wheelin' next week.”

“Where?”

“Along the river.”

“Has he ever been on one before?”

“I don't know. He's got a knack for machines, though, sort of like you used to. He's a little rough around the edges, but he's a good kid. And he grows on you. Or at least he grows on me. We're going to make maple syrup together next winter.”

“Kevin can go with you too. He'd enjoy that.”

“No, he wouldn't, Buck. You know that. Poor kid lives inside himself. He knows more about hospital equipment and video games than he does about his front yard.”

“I know it. I wish he and Ivan got along a little better.”

“Kevin has all he can do just to stay with us. Your mother got like that too, before she left.”

“The doctors don't expect Kevin to live much longer,” said Buck, walking down the steps and over to the Explorer.

“I didn't know that,” said Wally.

“A year, maybe less. They don't say it right out, but you can tell.”

“It's not always what people say, it's the way they talk.”

“Right.”

“The kid never really had a chance,” said Wally, standing up. “Nothing anyone could do, Buck. And if there was anything, Amy and you already did it. Kevin's lived longer than anyone thought he would. If a blade of grass in a swamp in China would have helped him even a little, Amy would have found it. Nothing anyone could do, Buck.”

“Maybe so, but somehow that never seems to help.”

“I know it,” said Wally. “I know it.”

Along the horizon a cloud opened up, draining a shaft of light.

“What does Lucky know about making pizza anyway?” asked Buck.

“Quite a lot, according to him. Where's your truck?”

“Over on the other side.”

“We can swing back on the way home. Here, you drive.” Wally tossed Buck the keys. “I like to look out the windows.”

“If it's all right with you, I'm going to stop at the station and buy some cigarettes.”

“Fine with me,” said Wally.

L
ucky sat on a stool at the kitchen island, the heels of his polished shoes locked behind the leg rungs. His forearms—inside the ironed sleeves of a silver shirt—rested on the green-gray soapstone surface, his hands playing idly with his wristwatch. On the other side, Dart flattened a lump of whole-wheat dough onto a dusted board, transferring her weight down her arms and into her palms in a quick rhythmic plunging. Lucky studied her with both attraction and alarm. The front of her apron, upper arms, chin, and cheekbones were brushed with flour. The crust widened, releasing a thick yeasty smell.

“Now, you take Chicago,” said Lucky. “There you'll find world-class pizza. They've got deep dish supreme deluxe that twirls onto your fork like sticky silk, or, if you prefer, cracker-thin, wafer-delicate crusts, served on heated ceramic plates, premium cheeses, spices, and condiments, smoking hot from brick ovens. Fancy places too, with live jazz and blues, just down from the big hotels, where half the cars are limos and crossing the street feels like walking onstage. On hot summer nights like this one the moist lake air moves in and gives the streetlights a special glow, and there's a crackle of anticipation everywhere. You know what I mean?”