Jewelweed (49 page)

“We work on everything here. What do you need?”

“Are you Blake Bookchester?”

Blake nodded.

“That your Gixxer out front?”

“That's it,” said Blake.

“You've been riding that stretch of road between Red Plain and Luster.”

Blake waited.

The man continued. “Skeeter Skelton noticed. You know who Skeeter Skelton is?”

“I did at one time,” said Blake.

“He says to tell you welcome back.”

Blake waited.

“Skeeter will be waiting outside Red Plain Thursday night, at ten o'clock.”

“That's three nights from now,” said the man with a shaved head.

“I know when it is,” said Blake.

“He'll be at the top of the hill, waiting.”

“I'm not sure I can make it,” said Blake.

“Then don't,” the man replied, brushing his hair out of his face again. All four walked back outside.

Blake followed them. “Nice bikes,” he said.

“Thanks,” said one of the younger men. They climbed onto their
Harleys—a Super Glide, an old Shovelhead, a Fat Boy, and a Softail—and roared out of town.

“Who are those guys?” asked August.

“People who used to have good jobs and now don't know what to do without them,” said Blake, watching the motorcycles turn the last visible corner. The sound continued.

“What's going to happen to this country, Blake?”

“Hard to say. The folks who stole all the money are trying to figure out if they can get along without the rest of us. Don't worry, August. Everything comes around in the end.”

“Why do some people seem so dead?” asked August.

“You mean those guys who were just here?”

“Yes, the ones who weren't talking. Their eyes were dull. Why?”

“Does that bother you, August? That dull, drugged, stupid look?”

“It bothers me a lot.”

“That's the face of ignorance.”

“Those men frightened me,” said August.

“Good. There's nothing more dangerous than ignorance—nothing.”

“Why is Skeeter Skelton going to wait for you outside Red Plain?”

“He's just an old friend, August. Hand me that wrench and see if you can find the can of penetrating oil.”

August began searching. “If you meet Skeeter Skelton you'll be breaking your release conditions,” he said.

“With only a couple weeks before the DOC relaxes some of my restrictions, that would be really stupid, wouldn't it?”

“Yes,” said August.

“Tell me about your friend Ivan.”

“There's nobody like Ivan. When we first became friends I felt like I finally belonged. Most people think I'm really weird.”

“What most people think isn't worth thinking about.”

“Even if you don't think about it you can still feel it,” said August. He followed the row of shelves to the workbench, looking for the penetrating oil.

August was fond of his father's shop. In addition to friendly oil-smells, each area had its own collection of machinery and dark wood. And a durable history of utility resided in every location. The workbench,
for example, was originally constructed out of new oak planking, blond, straight, and level, with visible wood grain and sharp edges and corners. What now remained of it resembled a miniature battlefield, with blackened and burned areas, gouges, valleys, foxholes, and no straight or sharp edges anywhere. The bench was a page from long ago, written on over and over again, one account on top of another, so thick with history that separate events could no longer be read, embedded as they were in a blackened mass of oil, grease, dirt, and wood scars. Soaked in layers of service—every hammer blow, hot torch laid down, leaking battery, file stroke, drop of blood, chiseled wedge, and slipped wrench—the bench absorbed all the light around it. Several inches of darkness hovered over everything placed on its surface, pulling them into its record of time.

The tools themselves were no different, made venerable by decades of constantly working hands. Each retained a record of hard, prolonged use. There were screwdrivers with bent shafts, rounded almost smooth by thousands of turns inside screw-slots that did not quite fit, prying open frozen crankcases, paint cans, gearboxes, and being driven between stuck-together iron plates. There were sockets beaten into dome shapes, burnished to a dull silver, cans with illegible labels, dents, and missing nozzles.

“Found it,” said August, handing Blake the penetrating oil.

“Good fellow.”

The telephone rang on the wall. Blake answered it. His father invited him to come over after work. Nate had found some local pork chops—butchered on the farm, two inches thick—and new red potatoes, hard as bricks. He also had second-ear white sweet corn with no dented kernels. Bee was bringing homemade butter, freshly ground basil, and an old family photo album. They were going to use the charcoal grill, and hickory chips soaked in apple vinegar.

“I'd like to, but better not,” replied Blake. “Thanks though.”

“Why?”

“I've got things to do.”

“We can bring supper over to your place,” said Nate. “We'll load up the grill. Did I mention the orange chutney to go with the chops?”

“No, you didn't mention that, Dad, but could we do it another night?”

“Tomorrow night? That's my last night before I'm back on the road.”

“Okay, I'll be there.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Things that need doing.”

“Are you out of coffee yet?”

“I've got plenty.”

“Grapes?”

“Still got some.”

“See you then.”

Blake and August finished with the rider and were almost done with the four-wheeler when Jacob returned. An hour later, Winnie came back, picked up August, and drove him to the library. A chain saw came in needing a new bar, sprocket, and tune-up. Then Harvey Mortimer drove his golf cart, which he used for everything except golfing, through the front doors. The clutch was slipping, the idle rough.

After work, Blake went straight home. He noticed that his lawn looked better for having been mowed a second time. There were plenty of thistles, chicory, and dandelions that a more conscientious person would dig out, but it still looked much better.

Inside, he ate a handful of grapes, drank a glass of water, and lifted weights for a half hour.

Skeeter Skelton must be getting old by now, Blake thought, his heart galloping in his chest. When he was finished with the weights, he went to the practice bag he'd hung in the living room. He put on padded gloves and began punching, searching for a satisfactory rhythm. The truth was, Skeeter had seemed old years ago—vigorous, but old. He wore his age well, though; the countless times he'd gone down—on roads, circle tracks, motocross courses, and hill climbs—shone like victory flags from his face, arms, and legs. Skeeter had nerve, always ready to turn his throttle a little farther than the next guy, lean deeper into the corners, take the risk, seize the prize. He also had uncanny instincts, and had somehow managed to make a little money from them. And ever since Blake could remember, Skeeter had a group of road-runners following him around, hoping his charm would wear off on them.

Blake took off the gloves, drank another glass of water, showered, and changed into clean underwear and a T-shirt. He pulled the same sweatshirt and jeans over them, found his newly borrowed book on Spinoza, and
resumed reading at the place he'd left off the night before, in the upholstered chair next to the window.

The reading was difficult. The meaning of individual words seemed to shift, as if they were living organisms with unstable personalities. He looked out the window. Far above the tree line stretched a horizontal cirrus cloud. The long ribbon of mist changed shapes frequently. When part of it rose slightly higher in the fragile atmosphere, the condensed water vapor dissolved into clear blue invisibility; in other places the moisture collected out of the air, giving the impression of something passing into and out of existence.

After looking out the window for several minutes, Blake took a deep breath and returned to reading the book. Four hours later, he woke up, still in the chair. He had an odd, lingering sensation of having just seen something that should not be seen, heard, or thought—something forbidden. He found the light switch and checked the time: a little after midnight. Even though the house always seemed unusually still, tonight it felt subterranean.

At the kitchen table he sat in the dark and ate grapes to help his body wake up. Mice scratched beneath the floor, announcing a loneliness that spread outward, and soon the rest of the house filled with melancholy.

Suddenly Blake knew what he was going to do, and he stopped resisting it. The rest of his life spilled out before him, exposing his future in a rare moment of clarity. He was going back to prison. It was inevitable. He'd known it the first time he saw Bud Jenks in Luster—understood it the way a bee understands how to find its way back to the hive. He simply could not forget everything that had happened. The corridors of prison, the sound of steel doors closing, were still more real to him than anything else. He'd never get over it. Maybe if he hadn't seen Jenks—but it didn't matter now. He was going to find him and make someone pay for the civilized cruelty in the world. One of the thousand burning coals in the furnace of organized injustice was about to go out. A small part of what was wrong with the world would be set right. Blake would get even.

The melancholy grew calmer, more beautiful. His only conern was for his father, and he went to the phone and dialed his number. Nate deserved to know, to understand that everything had to be the way it was. He appreciated what his father had done for him, everything he wanted
for him, and Nate's steady, benevolent spirit would always burn in Blake's heart. But living on the outside wasn't going to work, not with Bud Jenks walking around in Luster. The world was the way it was and Blake was the way he was. Things would happen. They had to. He could feel the pieces of his own destiny falling into place.

The phone rang six times, tripping the answering machine.

Blake smiled. Nate was driving his cousin home. They still didn't have the courage to spend the night together. Such deferential caution was something that Blake both envied and didn't understand. He hung up without leaving a message.

He thought about calling Danielle Workhouse and telling her how much he loved her. But he didn't have the number, and it didn't matter anyway. His feelings for her had been hidden so long that exposing them might change their vital content. The wild longing he felt for her would have to remain within him for the rest of his life. He put on his boots and jacket.

On the ride to Luster, the stars burned brighter than usual, the air smelled sweeter, more welcoming.

The little town waited for him, its streetlights spreading dramatic shadows. A few windows were lit in otherwise-dark houses on empty streets. He turned onto Main and an owl silently launched from the top of the grain elevator, opened its white wings, and glided into the darkness. Somewhere a motor turned over several times and started. A cat ran down an alley.

Blake had come here three times before, looking for Jenks. He'd seen him each time, either inside the tavern or walking from the tavern to the house where he apparently lived, sometimes carrying food. Twice, he'd been walking with other people, an old woman once and a younger man. He'd argued with the old woman, though not in a serious way—like neighbors who had to see each other again no matter what.

The tavern lights were on, the beer sign glowing red and green. Three pickups and an old Honda wagon stood out front, a beat-up utility van farther down. The Honda had a broken window on the passenger's side. The other side—he noticed while parking his bike next to it—had been sideswiped. The mirror was gone.

Blake walked to the curb. Next to the street drain lay a length of pipe,
rusted but solid, threads on one end, about a foot long. Blake picked it up and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans. The sidewalk had been swept clean. Two Styrofoam cups had blown out of the alley and come to rest against the side of the building.

Blake hadn't been inside a tavern for a long time, and when he pushed the door open the yellowish light and smell of booze, beer, and bar food welcomed him inside. There were three people sitting on stools—two older men sipping from short glasses, and an old woman by herself, slumped over and maybe asleep, her head cradled in her arms, her left cheek flat against the bar top. Two couples sat talking in booths, mixed drinks and hot sandwiches before them. A pair of younger men sat at a table; between them, two tall glasses rose up, half-filled, between eight or nine empty beer cans. The man behind the bar had stooped shoulders, silver hair, and a trimmed beard. A country song played on the radio near him.

“One from the tap,” said Blake.

“Regular or light?”