Jewelweed (44 page)

“Oh, I believe that,” said Winnie, carrying tea for them both over to the sofa. “Or at least I'm trying to. That's one of the problems with time. It's hard to trust.”

“August is resilient,” said Jacob. “You're his mother, after all.”

“Nonsense,” said Winnie, and began to explain how all this was her fault. Jacob stopped her. He didn't like it when she talked that way. It upset him. So instead she offered, “He's strong in a weak way, Jacob. His pain has always been difficult to eradicate.”

“I know,” said Jacob, sipping from his tea. He wanted sex. It had been almost four days, which was a long time for him. Winnie was thankful for the diversion.

Later that night, after Jacob had fallen asleep and the only noises in the house other than his breathing came from insects and boards adjusting to changing moisture content, Winnie quietly climbed out of bed and crept down the hallway. The door to August's room was not quite closed, and she nudged it open a crack, just enough to look inside. There were no lights on, but light coming in through the window allowed her to see the outline of objects.

The bed was still made, flat across the top. August was sitting in a chair next to the open window, wearing his faded blue pants and a T-shirt with the words
There's Something Out There
stenciled on the front and back. His homemade bat detector rested on the sill, its white wire running up into his ear.

Winnie silently collapsed in the doorway.

August moved the detector, changing its angle, then moved it again. He leaned back in the chair and after a while looked as if he might fall asleep, a position Winnie had found him in several mornings ago. For some reason it comforted him to slip away while listening to the crackling sounds of bats flying through the night sky.

Bats, thought Winnie, I hate them. She leaned against the doorpost, pulled her robe more tightly around her, and thought about going to sleep herself.

Suddenly August rose to his feet and pressed the detector flat against the screen.

Winnie stood up, pushing the door open. August didn't notice. She could sense him trying to contain his excitement. He took the screen out of the window so he could point his detector directly up at the sky. She could feel his heart pounding inside her.

Then she heard the faint clicking of a bat in the room. Its dark shape appeared first in one place and then another, darting about frenetically,
swooping toward August again and again, fluttering around him like a butterfly around a butterfly weed.

August turned on the desk lamp and a reddish-purple bat landed on his shoulder. He took the creature in his hands, inspected it, and carefully removed something attached to one of its legs. Then he found the magnifying glass in his desk drawer and looked through it at a tiny piece of paper. Winnie felt the pure emotion burst open inside him as he turned in the direction of his parents' bedroom and cried, “Mom, Mom!”

Winnie rushed into the room and August placed the tiny piece of rolled-up paper in her hand. In minuscule print, it read: Milton + Dye = Our Secret.

“He's back,” said August. Then, choking on his words, he continued. “Mom, I'm currently experiencing a joy that is strangely too heavy to bear. Is it possible to be too fully alive?”

“No,” said Winnie. “It isn't.”

“I'm afraid I've been very wrong about some things.”

“Me too,” said Winnie, and they both began laughing and crying at the same time. When Jacob came into the room they handed the piece of paper to him. After reading it, he cried and laughed harder than both of them together. “Well, okay, then,” he said. “In that purple color I wouldn't have recognized him myself.”

T
he day after the return of August's bat, Winnie had several committee meetings to attend at the church, and in the evening she led Bible study. After everyone had gone home, she remained in the church for several minutes longer, sitting in a pew and praying. Then she turned out the lights and locked the door behind her when she left.

It took less than five minutes to drive over to July Montgomery's old farmhouse. Following the headlights of her little car up the long driveway, she parked next to the shed and climbed out.

The farmyard seemed unusually still, dark, and welcoming. She remembered the several times she'd been here since July's death. The feeling then had been decidedly different, empty and unwelcoming. Now she could smell honeysuckle growing somewhere nearby.

Apparently Blake had never installed a yard light. July never had one, either. He had always liked to see the night sky.

Winnie walked over to the empty corncrib and stood in front of it. This was where July had died, caught in his tractor's power takeoff while loading ear corn into a wagon. The experience of finding him had reoriented her life, forced her into deeper levels of engagement and higher planes of commitment. She took a deep breath and smelled the honeysuckle again. She remembered eating breakfast with July once. If she could relive that time now it would be different. She would treasure every morsel of biscuit, every movement of eye. She would prolong her departure, ask if there were any chores around the farm that she could help with, set aside her own agenda, and live completely in the moment.

Winnie followed the dirt path to the house, climbed up the steps, and knocked on the front door. As she waited, she looked around. The porch
and everything else seriously needed carpentry and paint. In fact, everything around looked rundown and shabby.

After knocking again, she tried the door. It was unlocked.

“Hello,” she called. “Blake?”

Nothing.

She opened the door. It was even darker inside.

“Blake? Blake? It's me, Winnie.”

She found a light switch, turned it on, and stepped into the kitchen.

The old-fashioned green linoleum was worn down in places to the black underlayment. The house smelled of mold, mildew, and dust from an earlier era. A good scrubbing was clearly needed here, but Winnie repressed her cleaning instincts and indulged a few moments longer in the complex set of smells, letting it open up memories. It had been almost fifteen years since July lived here. August hadn't even been born. In fact, she and Jacob were not together yet then. Her long hair, when combed out, had fallen below her waist.

“Blake?” she called again, feeling increasingly self-conscious about the naked sound of her voice in his home. The darkened doorway into the next room beckoned. She wondered what lay on the other side.

She resisted the urge, turned out the light, and went back outside, closing the door behind her.

The farmyard seemed unusually quiet and welcoming. She sat down on the top step, and once again her store of memories opened for business. She browsed its narrow aisles, letting old feelings wash over her.

She felt at peace for the first time in many months, perhaps years, and while she dissolved pleasantly into this sensation she noticed a spot of light moving along the horizon. It advanced rapidly, flying low over the dark landscape. The single beam changed direction slightly, and then sped ahead again.

When the light reached the drive, it turned in and rushed down the lane. Once in the farmyard, she could hear the engine and the tires on the gravel and dirt.

The motorcycle moved across the grass and stopped at the foot of the steps. Blake climbed off.

“Mrs. Helm,” he said, walking up to her. “Is something wrong?”

She could smell his leather jacket and the fifty miles of night air clinging
to him. His dark hair bristled like a weedy hillside in the skylight. The motorcycle's engine sighed and snapped as it cooled.

“I wanted to thank you in person,” she said.

“What for?”

“You know what. Don't fool with me about something like this.”

“Oh, Milton. August came into the shop today. He thanked me already.”

“I know he did, but I wanted to thank you myself. Where have you been?”

“Riding,” he said.

“You shouldn't be doing that,” said Winnie. “It's breaking the terms of your release.”

“I know, but sometimes the difference between doing something and not doing it is like the difference between living and not living. Let me take you for a ride.”

“No,” she said. But even as she declined, she heard in her voice something different. “I've never been on one of those things,” she added. Then she thought for a moment and spoke again. “We couldn't go very far.”

“Done,” said Blake. He hopped off the steps and started the engine. “Climb on.”

Winnie walked down and stood behind him. “Don't look,” she said, hiking her skirt up enough to allow her to climb onto the seat behind him. She hooked the heels of her loafers behind the foot pegs.

“Ready?” asked Blake, feeling her behind him, fitting around him.

“You know, this seat isn't very comfortable.”

“Sorry,” said Blake. “Passenger seats are a bit of an afterthought on bikes like these.”

They moved down the driveway, onto the road.

“Why is there a hole in the back of your jacket?” she asked.

“In memory of Spinoza, I poked a knife through it.”

“But Spinoza was attacked by someone else.”

“I know. But in my case I have no one else to blame for the time I spent in prison. It was a Blake-on-Blake crime. Is there anything else you want to say?”

“Not really. Why?”

“Because it's time to go fast.”

Blake turned the throttle and they shot ahead. Winnie's hair blew away from her head, and she felt as if she were being pulled into a vacuum
in the sky. What in the world was I thinking? she wondered, as the dark landscape peeled by. It was the most frightening thing she could ever remember experiencing. And yet on the very edge of her fear she began to detect a different version of herself. This new Winnie had no second thoughts about flying along winding roads at night with her hair in chaos, her skirt pulled up to her hips, and her red car coat flapping behind her like a libertarian flag. She laughed out loud at this realization.

Five miles later, back in the farmyard, Winnie climbed off and straightened her clothes and hair. Blake shut off the engine, set the stand, and stepped away from the bike. “Come in,” he said. “I'll make you a cup of coffee.”

“I can't drink coffee,” said Winnie. “My normal state is already too nervous.”

“I've got tea,” he said.

She followed him inside.

“In case you're wondering, Mrs. Helm, there were a lot of bats here when I moved in. It wasn't very hard to catch one. No one will ever know the difference, of course. The esteemed officers of the law got their pound of flesh, and we got Milton.”

He seated her at the kitchen table, went over to the refrigerator, and set a bowl of giant red grapes in front of her.

Winnie chewed one and swallowed. “These are excellent,” she said.

“I know it,” he said, putting on a pot of water. “My dad found them at a farmers' market somewhere in Ohio. Take a bag home with you. I don't really like grapes, but there's no way to refuse my dad when it comes to food. I'm sorry it took me so long to decide on the right dye to disguise Milton. In the end I just used Kool-Aid. It will wear off in a couple weeks, but by then it shouldn't matter. I also checked into licensing a wild bat, which isn't very hard. Your veterinarian can help you.”

“I'm leaving my church,” said Winnie, eating another grape.

“No, you're not,” said Blake.

“I am. I can't preach any longer.” She could still feel the imprint of the wind against her face, the tug at the roots of her hair.

Blake took off his jacket, threw it over the back of a chair, and sat down across from her. “This is serious, Mrs. Helm. You'll probably feel different tomorrow.”

“I won't. I know I won't.”

“You can't leave the faith, Mrs. Helm.”

“Call me Winnie.”

“Okay, but Winnie can't leave the faith, either.”

“Yes I can.”

“You can't be saying this. Religion isn't something you just walk away from. Where in the world would you go?”

“Others live without it.”

“That's fine for them, but not for you. It's part of who you are.”

“I'm afraid that's the point. As a preacher I've become someone I don't particularly like.”

“What difference does that make? Of course you don't like yourself. That's the first definition of being religious.”

“I think we're talking about two different things.”

“No we're not, and I should know. I've taken every course on the subject of self-loathing.”

Blake got up, poured them both a cup of tea, and set Winnie's in front of her, along with a paper napkin and a spoon. A wind rattled the window in the door as he sat back down across from her. While they drank the steaming liquid, they looked at each other.