Jewelweed (16 page)

“Careful with those fish!” shouted Wallace, just before losing his balance and falling sideways into the pond. Somehow he kept his head above the water until Buck plucked him out and carried him up to the dock at the bottom of the deck stairs. “Stay here, Dad,” he said. “Please stay here.” Mrs. Roebuck climbed down and sat with him while Buck hurried toward the trucks.

The men in the water were still throwing fish back into the pond while they fought off the birds and the flies. On the bank, two dogs fought over a fish. They tore it open and its insides fell out. Then other dogs came over and they all started fighting.

“Take me down there,” said Kevin. “Right now.”

Quiet Shoes sighed and said that perhaps going down to the water wasn't the very best thing for them to do. Kevin cut her off.

“You get paid to do what I want and I want to go down there.”

After another deep sigh, Quiet Shoes called down, “Excuse me, Mrs. Roebuck. Excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt, but Kevin says—”

“Yes, Grace. Of course he can. I'll come help. Wally, you stay here.”

Mrs. Roebuck climbed up. Wally poured water out of his rubber boots, put them on, and headed back toward the fish.

When Kevin, Quiet Shoes, and Mrs. Roebuck were halfway down the steps, Buck called for Mrs. Roebuck to come get Wally.

“I'll be right there,” she said and smiled her pained smile.

“Now!” shouted Buck.

“Hold on, I'm coming,” she said. “Ms. Workhouse, do you suppose you—”

Ivan's mother was already moving. “Call me Dart,” she said, and scrambled down the stairs as quick as spit.

“I'm coming too,” added Ivan.

“Oh no you're not,” snapped his mother, turning back and giving him a look. “You stay right where you are and I mean it.”

Then she hurried ahead, took Kevin's arm, and they continued along the edge of the pond, walking through the grass.

Florence and Ivan were the only ones left on the deck. Another fish was found with lampreys hanging all over it. The men threw it onto the bank right in front of his mother, Kevin, and Quiet Shoes. Ivan thought it looked from that distance like a picture in August's Greek mythology book—the head of Medusa with snakes growing out of it.

Kevin took one look at it and demanded to go back to his room. He whirled around so fast he almost got away from Dart. The tubing came out of his nose and Quiet Shoes jumped to bring the tank closer. In no time at all they were back on the deck and Quiet Shoes was breathing hard from lugging the tank up the stairs.

“Don't stop yet,” Kevin barked at Quiet Shoes. “I want to go back to my room.”

Dart opened the door and helped him inside. Ivan came too.

“What kind of name is Dart?” asked Kevin.

“The best kind,” she said, leading him down the hall.

“Two doors down,” said Quiet Shoes, sighing, and they veered off to the left.

Kevin sat down on his bed and rearranged the tubing. Ivan looked around at all the video games. A cabinet filled with DVDs ran across one wall. There were two separate television screens hanging down from the ceiling and several cabinets of medical supplies next to a recliner.

“Get me a Coke,” said Kevin to Dart while Quiet Shoes was feeling his pulse and staring down at the second hand on her watch. “With ice.”

Dart didn't say anything and Kevin repeated it. “Get me a Coke.”

When she understood that Kevin was talking to her, her eyes narrowed.

“Listen, Kevin,” she said. “Your attitude needs to change real quick. There are plenty of cute young girls out there just waiting for you to get yourself together, and I mean really cute ones—the kind with perfect, firm round fannies like mine. They're waiting for you to grow up, so no ordering me around, okay? I mean, some folks may be waiting for you to die, but you aren't dead yet.”

Kevin looked like he'd just been slapped for the first time in his life. Quiet Shoes opened her mouth and rushed out of the room to get Mrs. Roebuck.

Kevin just stared at Dart, looking hurt.

Ivan was afraid something like this would happen. Sometimes it only took a little heat to light his mother up.

Out the window, Ivan could see Quiet Shoes talking with Mrs. Roebuck. Then they both came hurrying back into the house.

“Come on, Mother,” Ivan said. “Let's get out of here.”

Dart hesitated, then the two of them rushed out of the room and down the hall. They ran out to the parking lot carrying their shoes.

The Bronco didn't start right away, so Dart was getting the other battery out of the back when Mrs. Roebuck came bursting out the front door.

“Dart, wait,” she said, catching up to them.

“Don't get your expensive panties in a twist,” said Dart. “I'm leaving.”

“This interview isn't over,” said Mrs. Roebuck in a stern manner. “I haven't shown you where you and Ivan would be staying if you decide to take the job.”

“Oh,” said Dart, setting the jumper cables down next to her sneakers. “I guess you didn't.”

“And I'm not wearing any underwear,” Mrs. Roebuck added. “I couldn't find a clean pair this morning. I can't keep up with all the work and I need your help.”

“Why me?”

“You clearly have something the others didn't,” she said and smiled.

Ivan could feel his mother getting ready to smile, but she held back. “Yes, well, I suppose we could see if your accommodations are suitable,” she said.

Suitable
wasn't the word to describe them.

Down from Kevin's room there was a furnished apartment on the
other side of the hall. The door swung open easily, leading into three separate rooms, not counting the bathroom. Each of these rooms was bigger than their whole apartment in Grange, with tall wide windows. There were comfy chairs, a sofa, beds, and closets big enough for cows or horses to stand in, along with doors with working springs in the knobs. The floors were level, the walls straight up and down. There were ceiling fans, a refrigerator, a sink, a stove, and counters. Clean water whooshed out of the faucets.

“Much of this could be moved out to make room for what you have,” said Mrs. Roebuck.

“I see,” said Dart, stepping into one of the closets.

Somehow Ivan knew she was going to refuse. He'd seen it before. And sure enough, when she came out of the closet her face had hardened.

“I don't want this job,” she said.

“Why not?” asked Mrs. Roebuck.

“Mother,” began Ivan, but she stopped him with an angry look.

“I wish you'd reconsider,” said Mrs. Roebuck.

Dart was quiet for a moment, and then she told Mrs. Roebuck that she had something to say. “To everyone.”

“All right,” said Mrs. Roebuck. “You and Ivan go down to the kitchen and we'll all meet you there in a couple minutes.”

Ivan and his mother went down to the kitchen and waited. It wasn't long before Mrs. Roebuck came in with Florence and Wally, followed by Kevin and Quiet Shoes. The five of them sat at the table. Several minutes later Buck came in. He walked over to the refrigerator, opened the door, and took out a can of grape soda. It looked like a Dixie cup in his hand. “We didn't find the turtle,” he said.

Just like Kevin said, thought Ivan.

“You want one of these, Ivan?” he asked.

Ivan's mother frowned and he shook his head.

“Anyone else?” asked Buck.

There were no takers so he closed the refrigerator, then drained the can in one swig.

“So, what's the deal?” he asked, sitting carefully on one of the stools by the counter and looking over at Dart.

“I've got something to say,” she said.

“Okay, let's hear it,” said Buck.

“I'll work here and I'll work hard, but no one is ever going to hurt my son. Ivan's going to amount to something and nothing is ever going to happen that would make him feel cheap or unclean. No one is going to touch him, ever. And that goes for you too, big guy. If any of you ever harm him in any way, I promise you'll be sorry. I'll make you wish you were never born.”

She stood there with her eyes blazing, hands pressed to her sides, shoulders hunched forward, and elbows cocked out. Ivan sighed. It was hopeless. Once again his mother had ruined everything.

Buck looked over at his wife. Mrs. Roebuck looked at him, and Florence smiled at Ivan. Buck stepped away from the stool. “Sounds fair to me,” he said. “Is that okay with the rest of you?”

Five heads nodded around the table.

“Good, then we have a deal. When can you start?”

“Today,” said Ivan.

“We can be here within a week,” said his mother, and relaxed her arms.

“Is that okay with you, Amy?” asked Buck.

“The sooner the better,” said Mrs. Roebuck.

“Are we done here?” asked Buck. “The permit came through and they want us back at the job site in Red Plain.”

“I'm going upstairs to think about my dream some more,” said Wally, filling a cup of coffee.

Mrs. Roebuck stood up from the table. “Buck, wait. Dart's car won't start.”

“The battery's shot,” added Ivan.

Buck walked over to the phone on the wall, picked up the receiver, dialed a number, and talked into it. “Carl, there's a Bronco out front. Put a battery in it. If it doesn't start, fix it.”

O
utside the Words Repair Shop, Winnie nosed her little car between a piece of unidentifiable farm machinery and a heap of twisted metal. Her husband's work generated an astonishing amount of refuse, and she often thought of the little shop as a cement-block creature feeding on oil and electricity and eliminating ferrous waste through its windows and doors. She climbed out of the car and smoothed her clothes over her body, flattening a few wrinkles.

Inside, the shop was furnished with a haphazard arrangement of chain saws, lawnmowers, garden tractors, pumps, generators, tillers, three- and four-wheelers, and farm implements needing repair. Surrounded by his well-worn shop manuals, machines, tools, testing equipment, grease guns, and other things that Winnie could not readily identify, Jacob stood on the other side of the building, hunched over the howling bench grinder. He hadn't heard her come in. A bright stream of yellow sparks erupted from the piece of metal he was pressing against the abrasion wheel. Directly above the workbench, grayish-white clumps of smoke clung to the ceiling. The shop smelled like a shorted-out toaster. Choosing her path carefully, Winnie slowly made her way over to him.

Jacob turned off the grinder and removed his goggles. “Winifred! What a surprise.” His face, neck, forearms, and hands were black except where the goggles had been, and his smile seemed unusually white. Fragments of burned metal were embedded in his forehead. He put down the bar of steel he'd been grinding.

“Hello, Jacob,” she said.

Eye contact made them real to each other again. Animal warmth hurried out of him, attached to her, and woke up their shared history of
unrehearsed movements, unplanned utterances, natural smells, and comforting connubial habits. She smiled and Jacob came closer. More layers of their public selves peeled away, replaced by the latent excitement that normally characterized their nearness to each other.

Winnie cherished Jacob's need for passion from her, and sometimes imagined that his consciousness consisted primarily of an awareness of his own sexual instinct—his only gateway to rapture. Thankfully God had created this vital opportunity for bliss, yet Winnie remained convinced there were many more avenues that could be followed to divine pleasure. People could become hyperconscious in countless ways. It was possible. The sight of a hummingbird—along with the sound of its thrumming wings—once revealed to her how she had long ago lived with tiny black feet and a nectar-searching tongue. Her shoulders remembered the thrilled rhythms. On another occasion, the taste of a strawberry related its entire history of self-propelled spirit into matter. All human sensations could, she believed, provide paths to the same state of ecstatic worship.

The principalities of civilization had hidden most of these gateways to heightened awareness, however, and for most people now, the only way back to the blessed original state involved a spectacular sexual event. And while Winnie rejoiced as much as anyone else in extraordinary sexual events, she sometimes feared that keeping the species alive had nearly replaced being alive, as if the entire galaxy of spontaneous felt-unity threatened to become perversely focused on one narrow impulse.

But as soon as she entertained this thought, Jacob picked up an orange oil rag and began wiping his thick hands in a vigorous and methodical manner. The simple gesture was artfully performed, and it implied a level of satisfaction with his work. Perhaps he knew of many other avenues to heightened awareness as well. The thought greatly amused her.