Jewelweed (10 page)

“We're doing this—” August began, then paused. “Because making a dam is fun.”

“You're not telling me something,” Ivan said. He went over and stood next to the tree that Milton had disappeared into. “You never do anything just because it's fun, August. You've been in one of your moods ever since I got here. What is it? Don't forget, we've got a code between us. And I can tell you're breaking it.”

“I'm not in a mood,” replied August distantly.

“Yes you are.”

“I saw him again, Ivan—the Wild Boy.”

“The ghost boy?”

“I told you, he is not a ghost. Don't call him that.”

“But you are the only one who ever sees him.”

August's face turned white. “I know it, and I've seen him before too.”

“You told me, three times. You saw him twice sitting in the trees behind your house after dark, and once you saw him following you, jumping in and out of the bushes while you walked along Winding Ridge. But I've never seen him.”

“He was standing right over there,” August said, and pointed to the bank on the other side of the stream. “He was crouched down looking into the water, studying it, but when he saw me he leaped up and ran off.”

“What did he look like?”

“I couldn't see him very well, but I think he smiled before he took off.”

“What was he doing?”

“I told you, he was looking into the water, here where it's deeper. Maybe he likes looking into deep water. So I thought if we made the water even deeper he might come back. And then you could see him too, and maybe we could even talk to him.”

“When did you see him?”

“Last night after dark.”

“You came out here?”

“I woke up and had this feeling.”

“What feeling?”

“A feeling I get sometimes before I see him. It's a real sad feeling, like everything is far away.”

“So you came out here?”

“Yep, and I saw him looking into the water.”

“Did you tell your parents?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The Wild Boy has to be kept a secret. I've researched feral children on the Internet, and read a few books about them. Every time adults get involved it turns out bad.”

“What's ‘feral'?”

“It means wild. Feral children return to a more natural way of living. Some are raised by wolves, some by coyotes, others are just instinctively more primitive. When adults find them they always try to change them. But in most cases they never adjust to being away from nature, and they die young. So we have to keep him a secret.”

“Where do you think he sleeps?”

“Most likely in caves where he can still see the sky.”

“Do you think he sleeps during the day and then comes out at night?”

“Maybe,” said August. “He's probably like other wild animals and sleeps no more than an hour or two at a stretch—never very soundly, always partly awake.”

“So let me get this straight, August: you caught a look at this wild boy again. He was staring into the water, right here. And we're building a dam to make the water deeper, so that when he comes back we can see him and talk to him. Is that right?”

“Pretty much.”

“Then why are we just standing around? Let's get to work. We can have this finished before dark, and I guarantee you it's going to be really, really deep when we're done.”

“Perhaps we should have one of your candy bars first,” August suggested.

“Good idea.”

They split one, but before they were finished chewing, August's mom hollered. They couldn't understand her, but August said the way she hollered meant she wanted them to come back.

After they'd gone a little ways, August made a low whistle and Milton crawled out of the tree bark, flew over, and dove into his shirt pocket. He stayed in there a lot, Ivan knew, especially when grown-ups were around.

When they got back to the park Mrs. Helm and Ivan's mother were carrying a wooden chair through Shrubbery Jungle. Ivan's mother held the heavy end, and Mrs. Helm held on to the other.

Ivan was surprised and glad his mother hadn't left yet.

“What have you two been up to?” she asked, tugging down her baseball cap to just above her eyes. “You're all wet.”

“Nothing,” replied Ivan.

“Don't get smart with me. On God's green earth there isn't a living thing that has been doing nothing for the last hour. Now you boys go help Preacher Winifred's uncle carry the rest of the chairs and benches. And be right quick about it, Ivan, because he's an old man.”

They ran off and found Uncle Rusty at the back of his pickup, parked next to the house. He had a wrinkled look and moved slowly.

“These chairs are too heavy for you boys,” he explained. “I'll take 'em myself.”

“Not too heavy for us,” they said, and Ivan jumped into the back.

“Here, Uncle Rusty,” said August, leading the old man toward the house. “Mom's got something she wants you to look at inside.”

“What you got in there, boy?” Uncle Rusty asked gruffly, limping along like a cricket.

“The spring on the screen door doesn't close right.”

“I've got to carry those benches out, boy.”

“Ivan and I will carry them. We enjoy carrying heavy objects.”

“You still got those blasted bats in your house?” asked Uncle Rusty, walking inside.

“They're mostly gone now.”

“You let me know next time you see one. I'll come over and blast 'em. Does your dad still keep his tools in the middle drawer?”

“Yep, and mom says there's a sandwich for you in the refrigerator.”

“I didn't ask her to cook me nothin'.”

“I'm only reporting what she said.”

“She's got better things to do than cook for me.”

“I'll just leave it here on the table and be right back,” said August. Then he ran to help Ivan haul the furniture out to the park.

“He's really a grouch,” Ivan said.

“Mom says he's that way without actually meaning to be.”

“Maybe so, but that is the way of a grouch.”

After they moved all the chairs and benches, Ivan's mother and Mrs. Helm walked from one place to another, looking at the park from as many angles as they could. When they wanted a bench moved to another place, August and Ivan would carry it over.

“No, a little farther away.”

“Wait, not so far.”

“There, now bring the other one closer.”

“How about moving the table and chairs over there?” Ivan's mother asked Mrs. Helm.

“Excellent idea, Danielle.”

“No, not that far, Ivan. You listen to what I'm telling you, now. There, face it in toward the fountain a little. Wait, no, back this way.”

The boys were about to scream when Ivan's mother finally said, “There, stop, don't move it any farther. Right there. That's perfect.” Then the two women stepped back, tilted their heads to the side, and smiled in a sleepy way.

“Now, that's nice,” said Ivan's mother, taking off her baseball cap and putting it back on.

“You have a genius for this, Danielle,” said Mrs. Helm. “I'm so glad you were here to help.”

By this time Uncle Rusty had hobbled out. He sat down on one of the
benches next to the fountain, leaned forward, and splashed some water on his wrinkled leather face.

“Please don't drink that water, Uncle Russell,” said Mrs. Helm. “We haven't had it tested yet.”

“This all you're needing now?” he asked, water dripping off his chin.

“Yes, and just look at those beautiful chairs and benches. Thank you so much.”

“I'm going home.”

“You should stay for supper.”

“Maxine's got things she wants done at home,” he said, starting to get up.

“Here, Uncle Rusty, let me help,” said August, rushing over.

“Get away from me, boy,” he snapped, and hobbled off toward his pickup.

After he was gone, August looked hurt, and his mom said, “He doesn't mean it.”

“Oh, he means it,” said Ivan's mother. “You just can't let him get to you, August. My family is full of people like that—folks who wouldn't know something nice if it came up and bit them.”

“Russell's had a hard life, but he's certainly been good to me,” said August's mom.

“I shouldn't have stayed so long,” said Ivan's mother. “Thanks for lunch, Preacher.”

“Call me Winnie, you goose.”

“Someday Ivan and I are going to have something nice like this here,” she said, looking at the park one last time. Then she turned and told Ivan to do everything Mrs. Helm said or when he got home she'd get out the strap and take off some skin, and she walked away without looking back.

B
lake Bookchester watched the caged bulb in the ceiling grow dim, causing his cell to appear even smaller. But it did not go out. Lights in Lockbridge prison never went out. Darkness was a security breach.

He'd been lying on his bunk most of the day, reading Spinoza. As his eyes grew tired, individual words grew hair. Sentences floated off the page and tangled into semantic fur balls. Ideas jiggled against each other inside his brain. Spinoza believed that all attributes, qualities, and thoughts were of God. This belief stood in direct opposition to that of Moses Maimonides, who had announced centuries earlier that God had no attributes at all. Both men had been raised within similar Hebraic traditions, yet after thinking their whole lives about the same problems, they had reached opposite conclusions.

Closing the book, Blake sighed briefly, quietly expressing the momentary exhaustion of the ever-thinking mind. Faced with diametrically opposed conclusions, his reasoning faculty surrendered.

Chances of going to sleep seemed pretty good, and he turned toward the wind-up clock on the concrete slab jutting out from the cell wall. The impudent white face pointed to eleven thirty, its incessant ticking sharpened by the humidity. Blake got up, moved the clock a short distance on the shelf, and lay down again. Now the knob on top of the alarm lined up with the pipe running down to the metal sink. That's where it was
supposed
to be.

No one needed a clock in here. His father had brought it for him, and Blake couldn't tell him he didn't want it. In a place where every day un-raveled in exactly the same way, it was impossible not to know the time. Lights always dimmed at eleven thirty. And eleven thirty always sounded, looked, and smelled the same.

Two televisions jingled at the end of the corridor, adding to the rhythmic murmur of bodies sleeping on either side of the walls. The stale sigh of the air vent, cooler in the evening, exhaled with characteristic eleven-thirty candor.

There was no escaping time in prison. Gone were the days of getting lost within a temporal labyrinth, suddenly realizing, I have absolutely no idea what time it is.

None of that here. No absent moments. No forgetting about civilization's central method of control—scheduled awareness. Here on the front lines of the forced march of time, each measured step performed an existential insult, and with each insult another drip-drip-dripping away of life's precious energy.

Blake grimaced, hoping that outwardly condemning the current trend of his inner thoughts would be sufficient to change their direction.

But it didn't work, and his disquiet actually grew more determined, drawing strength from his efforts to derail it.

Then Blake thought of how absurd he must look to the guards on the viewing end of the security cameras—grimacing on his bed while his precious life dripped away from him. And the more he thought about this, the angrier he became.

Dog whistles blew in every corridor in his brain. Anger had to be controlled. Nothing posed a greater threat. Fear and anger had to be caged. They could feast too readily in here.

Calm down, Blake thought to himself, you're all right. Calm down. The concrete ceiling looked back at him, the familiar irregularities of the surface illuminated by the overhead light.

He got off the bunk and did seventy push-ups. Then he paced back and forth from the metal toilet to the steel door, rolling his shoulders to keep from stiffening up. Three steps one way, three steps back.

“Hey, Blake, you still awake?”—the forced whisper of the sixty-year-old across the hall, a lifer. He'd probably heard him pacing.

No, he didn't want to talk. Definitely not.

“Thanks, Jones,” he said in the same practiced whisper, a voice appropriate for use only after eleven thirty. ”I've got to get some sleep.”