Jewelweed (65 page)

“And mine,” added August.

“Well, I'm sure you had your reasons,” said Wally, driving quickly through town.

“Blake Bookchester is my father,” said Ivan. “We found out for sure.”

“That's the best news I've heard all year,” said Wally. “You okay, Kev?”

“I'm fine, but I'll be better when I get this smell washed off.”

They talked all the way back. August and Ivan explained what it was like to be in the bumpy dark for so long. Kevin, breathing through the oxygen tubing, talked about how he knew they were in trouble, and how when he saw the line of light at the top of the packing plant ramp, he knew he could get inside. And when Wally drove over the Mississippi River he told the boys about a time he and Buck had gone down the river as far as they could on a pontoon with an outboard motor.

“How far did you get, Grandpa?”

“Not very far. Neither of us knew anything about what we were doing.”

After two hours of driving in Wisconsin, Wally parked halfway down the drive so August's parents wouldn't hear him pull in. Ivan asked Wally and Kevin to wait in the truck a couple minutes, while he accompanied August to the campsite, just to make sure everything was all right.

“Thanks for coming with me,” said Ivan, as they reached the clearing in the woods.

“No problem,” said August.

“Are you going to stay out here or go into the house?”

“I think I'll stay out here for a while,” August said. “I want to think about what happened tonight.”

“I thought you would,” replied Ivan. “I'd better be getting back, though.”

Ivan, Kevin, and Wally arrived back at home just as the sun was coming up. Ivan thanked Kevin again for coming after him. Kevin went down the hall, threw his dirty clothes into the laundry room, took a shower, and went to bed. His nurse didn't wake up.

Wally said he could feel important dreams forming in his mind, and went upstairs.

Ivan heard his mother banging around in the big kitchen. When he walked in she was making biscuits, flour on her hands and arms. She looked up and said, “I thought you were over at August's. What's going on?”

“I need to talk to you about something, Mother,” said Ivan, taking the picture out of his pocket.

A
fter Dart talked to Ivan she carried Flo's breakfast up to the third floor. The two women ate oatmeal with brown sugar and cream, along with fruit jam and biscuits.

“What's the matter with you today?” asked Flo, setting her spoon down.

“Why?”

“You're different.”

“There's a grass fire burning in my life and I don't know how to put it out.”

“Do you want to?”

“Something is chasing me faster than I want to run.”

“Does that frighten you, Dart?”

“Yes.”

Florence took a drink of chamomile tea. “When my husband and I first moved out here—this was over seventy years ago, during the Depression—we had two big dogs. We thought we needed them for protection. One was a great dane, the other a German shepherd. They were magnificent creatures, but thunderstorms frightened them both. The dane would cower under the table in the dining room, shivering and whining. The shepherd would attack the rain, snarling and barking.”

“Which one did you like better?” asked Dart.

“I liked them both.”

“If it were me, I'd have no use for the shepherd.”

“Why?”

“I just wouldn't.”

Dart felt the blood pounding through her veins. She gathered their
bowls, plates, silverware, and cups, and placed them on the carrying tray. “Do you have everything you need for the rest of the morning?”

“Yes.”

Dart checked on Kevin and his nurse, and found them both still asleep. Then she drove to Red Plain and walked into the cement plant. A man and a woman were standing at the counter, talking to Bee about having a patio poured behind their house. The man thought they were too expensive and the woman wanted more choices in pattern-stamping. After they left, Dart stepped forward.

“Do you remember me?” she asked, her voice unsteady.

“Of course I do, Dart,” replied Bee, looking over the top of her reading glasses.

“I was hoping you'd be here today.”

“I just got back from a vacation in Slippery Slopes.” Bee yawned. “I'm afraid I'm still a little behind on my sleep.”

“I need your honest opinion about something.”

“Okay.”

Dart looked around the office, reinforcing her memories. “I was so young back then,” she observed, more to herself than to Bee. “I was dumb as a post and afraid of everything. I lied about my age when I started working here.”

“I know,” said Bee. “And you're still young in my book.”

“I'm almost thirty.”

“That's just getting started.”

“Is it true you're going out with Blake's father?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think Blake and I could ever . . . I mean, do you think his father could ever . . . I mean, if something terrible was built in the past, do you think the same people who built it could tear it apart? And do you think that after they'd torn it apart they'd still be able to look each other in the eye—”

“Yes,” said Bee.

“And do you think people can ever be forgiven for what they don't know about themselves, for paying too much attention to what frightens them and too little to what makes them happy? Do you think there is any future for people who have been so ignorant for so long about
everything? Do you think people can really start over? Do you think they can wake up one morning and—”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, then fine, I mean, that's what I wanted to know.”

Dart left the cement plant and drove to Blake's farmhouse. She turned down the long drive, parked her Bronco in the farmyard, and walked up to the house. After knocking several times, she pushed in the door.

“Hello,” she called, stepping into the kitchen. “Is anyone here?”

The house smelled musty, in need of cleaning. The windows were dirty. “Hello?”

The sound of her unanswered voice annoyed her. She walked through the kitchen and into what had once been a dining room, where Blake's heavy punching bag hung from the ceiling.

This doesn't belong in here, she thought, shoving the bag and letting it swing back and bump her in a not-altogether-unpleasant way. She thought about talking to the leather bag, practicing what she was going to say to Blake, but that seemed really stupid. She shoved the bag again and walked away before it pushed back.

At the repair shop in Words, three men were smoking cigarettes next to a red combine in the parking lot. She asked them where Blake was.

“He didn't come in today,” one of them said.

“Is Jacob here?”

“His wife came over and they left together.”

“They went over to Nate's,” said another one, and added, “Nate is Blake's father.”

“I know who Nate is,” replied Dart. “But why did they go over there?”

“They didn't say why, but they were in a hurry.”

Dart drove the fifteen miles over to Nate's house. From the road she could see a pickup next to the shed. Winnie's yellow car was parked next to it. Farther away from the house, a man climbed stiffly out of a blue Mercury. Nate, Winnie, and Jacob walked out of the house and met him in the yard. The four of them stood close together, talking.

Dart pulled into the drive, parked, got out, and stood beside the Bronco, watching. After several minutes Blake's father walked away from the others and leaned against the pickup. As Dart studied him, the genealogy of their mutual disapproval loomed up between them—the
residue left over from forgotten words, jabbing looks, mocking tones, and nuanced silences. She could feel her hackles rising and she tried to retract them, but they were too well trained, determined to protect her even if against her wishes.

Winnie walked over to Nate and touched his shoulder. He turned away and put his head in his hands. Then Winnie saw Dart, said something to Jacob, and motioned for Dart to come ahead while she crossed over toward the man Dart didn't know.

Dart walked over. The man moved away and stood next to the blue Mercury.

“Is Blake here?” asked Dart.

“No,” said Winnie, her face stiff.

“What's going on?” asked Dart, exchanging furtive glances with Nate.

“That's Jack Station,” said Winnie, talking loud enough to be heard by everyone. “He's Blake's release officer. Blake apparently took his father's semi into Iowa without permission, or at least that's what Station thinks. Patrol cars are waiting to arrest him when he crosses the state line from Dubuque. If he left the state he has violated the conditions of his release.”

“Call him on the CB,” whispered Dart, looking over at the man leaning against the Mercury. “Tell him to ditch the rig and find another way home. They can't prove anything.”

“Nate tried that. Apparently the CB is turned off.”

Winnie said Blake had called the shop from a truck stop outside Wormwood, where he'd just had a new alternator put in.

“Is he still in Wormwood?” asked Dart.

“No,” said Winnie. “He left a while ago. We think he's probably about an hour from Dubuque, on Highway 151.”

Dart walked over to Nate, and they stood facing each other without looking up.

“I can't believe this is happening,” she said. “I can't believe it.”

“There's nothing anyone can do,” said Nate. “He should have called me. I gave him the number. He should have called. He didn't have to drive down there. I could have come back. It was my responsibility. Two hours of road between here and Dubuque and he has the CB turned off.”

“Don't beat yourself up,” said Dart. “Blake does everything without thinking. He always has. He's as dumb as a box of rocks.”

“I know,” said Nate. “And he's stubborn too.”

Dart looked up and into Nate's eyes, and for the first time she could remember, she didn't look away. “This isn't going to happen, Nate, not now, not this way. The government cheated us out of him once, and it isn't going to happen again.”

“There's nothing anyone can do,” said Nate.

Dart walked past Jack Station, across the yard, and kicked her Bronco, denting in the door. Then she paced around the yard, running her hands through her black hair in frustration.

“We'll hire a lawyer,” said Winnie.

“Won't help,” said Station, lighting a cigarette. “After he's caught it's a simple matter of sending him back.”

Dart walked behind the house, out beyond the beehives. She looked across the pasture to the rock outcroppings and the trees growing out of the sandstone. A child stood at the edge of the forest, looking back at her.

So that's the Wild Boy, she thought, remembering the many conversations she'd overheard between August and Ivan, Ivan and Kevin, the three of them together. They worshipped that child, and she smiled as she recognized now that there was nothing wild about him. The child looking back at her clearly was afraid of other people, yet also yearning to belong. Someone was obviously taking care of him, keeping him clean, feeding him, making it possible for him to stand on that outcropping with his hands in his pockets, wanting to be seen. Wild my eye, she thought.

Dart raised her hand and waved.

The boy returned the wave, then stepped back into the trees and disappeared.

Dart walked toward the house, thinking about how she'd always thought of love as something that would come to her, seek her out. But now she knew this was wrong. Just as the empty places inside Blake had aroused in her the very things that attracted him, so her own empty places had reached out and excited in Blake the qualities that drew her to him. They were complicit in planting the things they wanted to find in each other. She remembered how she and Blake would ride all night through the Driftless Region, stopping for gas in sleepy little towns, sitting on curbs along deserted streets, owning the world.

Winnie, Nate, Jack Station, and Jacob turned toward the sound of
Blake's bike behind the house. Spitting a stream of sod from the wide back tire, Dart sped across the side yard, climbed the ditch onto the road, opened the throttle, and disappeared in a vanishing blur of blue-and-white noise.

“That young woman is going to kill herself,” said Winnie.

“Or someone else,” said Nate.

“She can't possibly get there in time,” said Jacob.

“She might,” said Station, staring into his watch. “When I was younger, I could have.”

A
long Highway 151, approaching Dubuque, Iowa folds into the Mississippi River Valley in a long, gradual descent. Entering town, the decline sharpens and houses begin to appear, tucked into crevices in the sloping terrain like keepsakes in open-shelved cabinets. The buildings grow thicker as one descends, and at the bottom the muddy brown river runs deep, swift, and wide, with railroad tracks along each side, flood walls, barge lanes, and two bridges—the first of them leading into Illinois, the second into Wisconsin.