Jewelweed (60 page)

When he heard a sound like a muffled cough, Blake turned off the penlight. The sound didn't return, so he breathed again, turned the light back on, and resumed searching.

Then he heard another sound, and before he had time to turn off
his penlight, a hooded reading lamp on a table across the room flipped on. A wrinkled old woman was seated on an upholstered chair beside it, dressed in a gray housecoat from an earlier time and puffy gray slippers. Her snowy hair glowed, and she seemed almost to be receding into herself. The effect of this aging concentrated her life within her bright blue eyes, which shone out of her face like lit shrines.

“So you came back,” she said. Her slow voice sounded dusted with flour, and as she spoke the many fine wrinkles in her face moved along with her small mouth.

Blake could not think of anything to say, and his mute alarm seemed to amuse the old woman. “So,” she asked, “did you get through my husband's first book on Spinoza?”

“Three times,” said Blake.

“What did you think?”

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I'm Florence,” she said, her hands busy with something in her lap.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm making a rosary. Would you like one?”

After a moment of hesitation, Blake replied. “Yes, I would.”

“So, what did you think of the book?”

“I'm not sure,” said Blake. “I couldn't understand it all. That's why I came back for the second one.”

“I'm afraid the next one is no clearer than his first,” said Flo. “My husband worshiped Baruch Spinoza, but I don't think he ever really understood him. My husband was too traditional, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” said Blake, turning off his penlight. “I'm having the same problem.”

“Come over here, young man, sit down,” said Flo, reaching for another bead and poking the dark string through it.

Blake sat on the wooden chair next to her.

“You're Blake Bookchester, aren't you?”

“How did you know?”

“Oh, don't worry, I know very little about you—just things I hear, and most of those are probably not true. People are never what other people think they are. So, what didn't you understand in the book?”

“Well, for one thing, your husband writes that Spinoza's god has no reasons for doing anything.”

“Oh, that's true,” said Flo, pushing the new bead down on top of others.

“How can that be?”

“If God acted out of a compelling reason, or toward a particular end, that would mean there was something beyond God to achieve. And Spinoza never could have accepted that. For Spinoza, God was everything, perfect and complete in every way.”

“Then God never acts, never does anything?”

“What could be acted on?”

“The world.”

“But God and the world are not separate.”

“Then God doesn't act?”

“Not the way we do. We're incomplete, in pieces, constantly needing to hold ourselves together, attach to something else, running this way and that. But God is already everything, and everything is in God. The divine doesn't do anything; it is simply here.”

“That's really hard to understand.”

“I know. Like I said, I'm not sure my husband ever completely understood it either. That's why his books are so opaque.”

“But you understand it.”

“Sometimes I do, but only for brief moments.”

“You just explained it to me.”

“I learned the words, but I rarely understand them.”

“Tell me more.”

“At my age it's best to just keep quiet about most things.”

“Please tell me.”

“You probably won't understand until you get older, but people need something to keep their mind busy—something repetitive, routine. For me, it's making rosaries. I set my mind to work making rosaries so it will leave the rest of me alone. Then I'm free to roam around, and occasionally I experience blissfully connected things, like how becoming can be in every moment, emergent yet unchanged. What seems like change could also be a futher manifestation.”

“Yes, emergent yet unchanged,” replied Blake. “That's what I want to understand. That's the key. Changing characters disguise the unchanging story. The shifting details always trip me up.”

Flo reached for another bead, then continued. “Sometime around the age of eighty-three it occurred to me that I'd already had all the thoughts
I was going to have, and for the rest of my time I was just going to rethink them. I understood I'd have to find a way to climb out of my mind so I could live my own life. That's why I make rosaries. For my granddaughter Amy, restoring this place to an earlier condition provides hundreds of repetitious chores. Having a mind is like having a child—you won't have any peace until you can keep it busy.”

“They've relaxed my curfew,” said Blake. “I can go where I want now.”

“Congratulations. You've done well.”

“Thank you.”

“You'd better leave now,” said Flo. “Wallace usually checks on me around this time of night. The dear boy wakes up because he has to pee. If I'm not in my room, well, you know.”

“You're right,” said Blake.

“Here, don't forget my husband's second book.” And with that she handed a slim volume to Blake, along with a glow-in-the-dark rosary taken from the pocket of her robe.

“I don't know how to thank you,” said Blake.

“It's not necessary. It's been nice talking to you. Now run along and be careful going down the side of the house. It would be a long way to fall.”

Blake put the book inside his jacket and the rosary in the pocket of his shirt. He put his boots back on, climbed out of the window onto the roof, and descended to the ground in the moonlight. When he got there, however, he was surrounded by August, Ivan, and Kevin.

“It's you,” said Ivan.

“What were you doing up there?” asked Kevin. When Blake didn't respond, he added, “If you don't answer I'll call my dad and he'll pull you apart like a roasted chicken.”

“I borrowed a book from your great-grandmother.”

“Let's see it.”

Blake held out the book, and August shined his flashlight on the cover.

“She knows you borrowed this?” asked Kevin.

“Of course,” said Blake. “I wouldn't just come into someone's house on my own. What kind of guy do you take me for?”

“You're a felon,” said Ivan.

“Who ingeniously saved Milton from destruction,” added August.

“Give me a ride on your motorcycle and I won't tell anyone,” said Kevin.
“I know you have one, and you probably rode it over here. Everyone says what a hot shit you are on that bike. Give me a ride.”

“That's out of the question,” said Blake.

“Go ahead, give him a ride,” said Ivan.

Blake looked at Ivan. He felt something small and mute opening inside him. “Why should I give him a ride?”

“Because it's the right thing to do.”

“Come over here,” said Blake.

He and Ivan walked a couple of yards away, where they could talk without being heard by the others. Blake looked into Ivan's eyes, and with that look a wild ox began walking around inside him, making room for a new and terrible joy. Then the ox began to bellow, and Blake felt the spirit of the boy inside him. His hands shook and he realized that his new life had begun before he even knew it, and that he was already a good way downstream in it. There was no time to wonder if he was prepared, or if he could ever be as much to this boy as his father was to him. There was no time to think or know anything, only to keep up with what was already happening.

“Kevin doesn't get to do much,” said Ivan, “and he might never get another chance.”

“That kid doesn't look healthy,” whispered Blake. “What if something happens to him?”

“Like what?”

“Like passing out or having a spell or something.”

“Actually, he's been better lately. He usually lugs around an oxygen tank.”

“Okay, Ivan. If you want me to, I will.”

“We better hurry. If my mom wakes up she'll go off like a word bomb.”

At the bottom of the long drive, the boys were waiting for Blake.

“Jesus,” said Kevin, climbing onto the motorcycle behind Blake, “this seat is really uncomfortable.”

“Sorry,” said Blake. “Now put your arms around me and lock your hands together.”

“Go,” said Kevin.

Blake eased down the road, trying to keep his pipes quiet. Several corners later, he nudged the throttle. The tachometer needle rose and he
felt Kevin's thin arms tighten around him. The headlamp burrowed into a straight stretch of road, and Blake shouted, “Hold on!”

The dark foliage on either side of them shot past. He found third gear and smiled as Kevin gripped him even tighter. He could feel the boy's exhilarated fear.

Blake backed off and the bike slowed down.

“Are you all right?” he shouted.

“Oh yeah,” said Kevin.

Blake could feel the boy's heart beating.

They rode through the curving valley, the wind lifting their hair. Climbing onto the ridge road, another long straightaway stretched open before them. Because of the additional weight, the front end of the Gixxer rose up more easily than usual and remained above the road most of the way through second gear.

They took a corner and another stretch opened up. The tachometer needle leaped up, and at the end of second gear, Kevin shouted, “Faster!”

Blake jumped into third gear, but as the engine spooled up, he began to feel anxious. The weight of the boy made it harder to handle the bike. He was going about as fast as he felt comfortable with.

“Faster,” shouted Kevin.

They rode along the ridge, cruising the deserted blacktop, the remaining universe directly above them, dark valleys yawning open to either side, the distant light of houses and small towns dotting the blackness. Blake could feel Kevin moving his head, looking right, then left, and up at the stars.

“Go down there,” said Kevin, pointing into a welcoming valley.

Blake turned, opened the throttle a crack, and headed down. They took several corners and Blake accelerated again. And then with no warning they entered an aisle of dense fog. It was impossible to see anything. The road disappeared. He could feel Kevin pressing his face against his back, bracing himself for a collision that was certain to come.

And then suddenly they were released. The blacktop opened again in from of them, the sky star-filled with wonder.

Blake decelerated, pulled to the edge of the road, and stopped.

“Did you feel that?” he asked Kevin.

“Yes,” said Kevin.

“What did it feel like?”

“Giving up.”

“Exactly. You know what that means, don't you?”

“No.”

“The future wants you in it, Kevin.”

“You're right,” said Kevin. “It does feel like that.”

Riding slowly, they continued down into the valley. “Can you outrun Skeeter Skelton?” asked Kevin.

“No,” said Blake.

“Really?”

“Really. Say, have you ever heard of Baruch Spinoza?”

“Sure. He's the guy my great-grandfather wrote about. You have one of his books in your coat. What about him?”

“Did you know he gave away his family inheritance?”

“No. Why did he do that?”

“He thought he could never see the world clearly so long as he had the privileges of money. He wanted to work for a living. But that's only one of the reasons he could see things others couldn't see. He was also sick most of his life, and he died young.”

“Why was he sick?”

“Breathing glass dust, but that's not the point. The important thing is that people who are sick sometimes see the world the way it really is. Not always, but sometimes it happens. People who have things too easy can't do this. They're too easily influenced by the self-serving thoughts that march out of good fortune. Do you know what I mean?”

“Of course I do. I'm not stupid.”

“Good, because you have that same chance. You can see things the way they are. You could be like Spinoza, and he was one of the greatest men who ever lived.”

“Could you give me another ride someday?”

“Sure, if it's okay with your folks.”

“It won't be, but it would really mean a lot to me. This has been one of the best times ever, and I want to do it again—during the day. I'm missing too much in the dark.”