The Last Days of Summer (10 page)

He nods.

She studies him for a long time before answering, her eyes searching his more deeply than his search hers. ‘What are you lookin' for, Jasper? What on earth are you hopin' for there?'

He smiles then. His big-brother smile. The one he gave her when she was crying after Daddy's belt had smacked her. Or that time when she'd been climbing up behind him on the apple tree out back and had fallen off the branch, tumbling down onto the lawn, arms and legs all over the place. He had smiled down at her from the branches. So kind. So understanding. But him up there. And her below. And he had only called down, ‘You OK?' and when she'd whimpered, ‘Yes,' he had not come down to comfort her. She'd scraped her knee. Skin peeled right off and underneath all bloody. But somehow his smile had warmed her. Made her feel brave enough not to cry. It's that smile he gives her now. That same big-brother smile that always gave her strength.

Softly, he says, ‘I ain't lookin' for God, Lizzie.'

‘What then?'

He stares out across the prairie. Burned grasses rustle in the breeze, composing their own symphony as dry stalks rub together. The roses around the house are shockingly red in contrast to the dried-out land. The sky above so vast. So ocean blue. There is anger in his eyes, and sadness too, and she's sorry for that.

‘I just aim to live again.' He turns from her then and walks down the porch steps out onto the lawn. Turns
back to her halfway across the garden. ‘I'll weed out the flowerbeds, if you like. Saw some dandelions startin' up near the primroses. You let 'em flower 'n' next you know whole garden'll be weeds.'

Once, she used to pick dandelions. Used to wish on them and blow their seeds out across the prairie. But that was long ago. She meets his eyes, and he nods once, then turns to walk round the back.

The dirt feels good against his hands. Cool. Like the sun hasn't had a chance to cook it and toast it and burn it, as it seems to have everything else, which he supposes it hasn't. Untouched. That's how it feels. Yes, he likes that. The earth feels ‘untouched'. Except he's touching it now, and he likes that too. He's feeling it roll cool over his hands. Get stuck, cool and sticky under his nails. Like mortar. He's the first one ever to touch it, this particular earth, in this particular way, and he likes that, too. He smiles at the thought. And he likes the way the smile feels stretched across his face. Not quite happy, not quite not, but it feels good all the same. Been a while since he smiled so much, and the muscles on his face still feel unaccustomed to the motion, feel at times like maybe they're stretched the wrong way round.

Jasper digs the trowel deep into the flowerbed, and scoops out another weed, sticky earth still clinging to its roots. Roots long and thin as a woman's hair. As tangled. And it makes him think of her for a moment, her hair all tangled and dirty, matted up in his dirty hands that last time, and the blood darkening her lips, and he drops the weed, surprised, his smile quickly falling. But it's just a
dandelion. He sees that again now. The roots, fair and thin and blonde. Her hair was midnight. Darker maybe. Thicker. Darker even than this earth. He shakes his head to clear it. It's the heat, he tells himself, it must be the heat fucking with my mind. And he picks up the trowel, metal handle hot in his hands. Roots another dandelion out.

He can smell the rich musky odour of the earth on his hands. Mud and manure and whatever else Lizzie's piled up beneath the roses to keep them growing so fresh in such a drought. Mama used to crack raw eggs over the rosebush roots. Used to say that gave them life. And she'd wink when she said it, the laugh lines around her eyes winking at him, too. He wonders if Lizzie does that now. The eggs. Wonders if that's her secret. Inside, he used to dream sometimes of digging out. They all did. Would all have paid good money back then for the rusty trowel gripped firmly in his hand. He smiles. Inhales the rich odour of the earth crumbling across his hands. Smells like freedom.

It strikes him as odd how much he's enjoying the feel of the cool earth against his hands. Back when Daddy was alive he couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand the smell. Growing things never came naturally to Jasper, and he can feel inside himself that that has not changed. Weeding, though, that's different. That's something useful he can do. And it feels right somehow, pulling out the dandelions like this – rough as they're pulled from the earth, but somehow a gentleness to the action, too, like he's releasing them. Feels good to end their lives.

When he was a boy, he plucked a whole bouquet of dandelions once. Not when they were pretty yellow
flowers, but aged already, white and feathery and ready to spread their seeds. Must have been a dozen clutched in his tiny scabby hand. And he had to be careful for the wind not to blow them and ruin them. Those were Lizzie's wishes. The wind couldn't be let steal them. And he made sure of that.

Her eyes lit up when she saw them. The dandelions. She was so tiny back then. So frail, it had seemed to him, a tiny thing to protect, though she'd always been a tomboy, too, had always been there behind him trying to keep up, begging him to let her tag along. It was after the first time Daddy smacked her, the dandelion bouquet. Jasper can't remember what it was she'd said or done. He's not sure he ever even rightfully knew at the time. But it was the first time Daddy's wrath had fallen down upon her – that was how small she was. And so Jasper went out among the tall prairie grasses and he plucked her that bouquet. Grasses chest high, that was how small he was. And then, inside, he found her under her covers hiding, sobbing into her pillow, cheek all pink and raw. And he gave her that bouquet. And whispered, ‘Hush now, I brought you somethin'.' And when she'd wiped her red eyes and finally turned to him, her whole little face glowed gold. That's how he remembers it. Gold. And he gave her each dandelion one by one instead of all together, and told her to make a wish, and blow it out, and there were dandelion seeds scattered all over her quilt, all across her room. That's how he likes to think of Lizzie. That's how, inside, he remembers her. Back before. Back when she still thought wishes came true. Back when he thought they just might, too.

Hands buried deep in the soil, Jasper tugs at another weed, fingers blindly entwining with its roots. The rich smell of the earth around him distracts, and it takes Jasper a while to realize he is being watched. Later, thinking back, he can't quite say what first alerted him. Maybe she moved. Or a twig snapped. Or a breath was slightly louder than the rest or a little out of place, out of pace with the others. Or maybe he just looked up. But when he did see Doe Eyes standing uncertainly by the edge of the porch, half masked by its shade, he was not surprised. Couldn't quite identify the feeling, but it was like a part of him knew she was watching. Felt her watching. Expected it all along.

The girl smiles when their eyes meet. Like that's what she's been waiting for. For him to look up. Simple as that. Too much understanding for a little girl's eyes. Bobby's eyes, as quick to judge, yet so much of Lizzie there too: the brown skin and thin limbs, and dirty blonde hair. For a second, squinting into the sun, Jasper thinks it is Lizzie, standing there, watching him. The Lizzie of his memories. Eyes refocusing, he sits back on his heels. Wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his dirt-streaked hand, leaving a small trail of soil where his knuckles rubbed.

‘I want to show you something.' She turns and hurries around further into the shady side of the house.

Slowly, Jasper rises. Knees stiff. Back stiff from bending over the flowerbeds so long. He glances at the house, tall and silent and weathered beside him. Lace curtains drawn, like no one's home, but windows opened wide. He drops the trowel onto the flowerbed, where it lands
with a soft thud, and, without thinking, wipes the earth from his hands onto his jeans. Realizes the stains caused only as his hands come up clean. But it's too late by then.

Doe Eyes' head peeks back around the corner of the house. ‘Come on!' Then disappears again.

He follows.

It's not far. Just out behind the house and round the other side of the chicken coop. He stops when she does. Not sure what he's supposed to be looking at, he waits for her to speak. Her eyes are glowing. So blue. So bright in the shade of the coop, and her dark blonde hair seems like prairie grass, burned some cross of caramel and brown, glowing golden toffee as it blows in the breeze. But she doesn't speak, just stands there, smiling. Then, impatient, ‘Don't you see it?'

He glances across the prairie again. Across the gold. Looks back to the house. At the coop, red paint peeling. At the girl. ‘See what?'

She stamps her foot. A childish gesture. Impatient and rash. And he feels better seeing it, seeing the child in her so clear. Still, it's been years since he was around a child. Or a woman. Still seems strange to keep their company. To keep anyone's company outside wrought-iron bars and tall electric fences.

‘There! Don't you see it?' Voice nearing a whine, Doe Eyes points to the back of the coop.

Once-red paint weathered nearly brown now peels off it in long, thick strips. Flakes off in tiny chips. Shady this side, the far side from the house, the house shadow stretched long and thin across the back lawn, like a finger reaching towards them. He can hear the hens inside the
coop, clucking. The soft ruffle of their feathers. Can smell their shit. Their soiled straw. His eyes glint, pupils dilate, as they adjust to the shadows of the light behind the shed. And then he sees it. There, attached to the back of the coop, rests the paper thin exoskeleton of a cicada, shed and discarded in its final moult. Now hollow and empty. Ghostly in its frame.

He squats down next to the July fly so that it is eye level. Brown and flaky as an autumn leaf. As frail. He can see right through where its eye once was. ‘Well, I'll be …' His breath releases in a soft whistle as he bends closer.

‘Cool, isn't it?' Her eyes are glowing.

‘I reckon that's one word for it.'

They stare in silence at the discarded husk before them. She kneels on the grass beside him. A tiny crack along the spine where the July fly shed its skin and climbed free. He imagines the creature, all slimy and new. Wonders where it went. Where it is now. At length, Jasper turns to the girl beside him. ‘Do you want it?' he asks. But he does not wait for her answer. Rises quickly, crosses the lawn and snaps a small branch off of a shrub. Returns and kneels at Doe Eyes' side again, twig in hand. The girl watches his every movement. He can feel her eyes on him, prying into him, but he doesn't turn to meet her gaze. Ignores it. Bends over the July fly's shell instead. Intent.

The shade from the chicken coop across his face feels good, cool. Studying the task before him, Jasper whispers, ‘We've got to be real careful now,' and gently pries at the creature's legs with his tiny twig. Inside the coop, a chicken clucks as feathers rustle feathers, sound muted through the weathered boards.

‘You know,' Jasper continues softly, ‘it's a rare thing to find a July fly's husk like this. Takes thirteen years for 'em to shed their skins. Did you know that? Yep, thirteen years.' Gently he shakes one leg loose from its grip on the coop. Moves on to the next. Hand steady. ‘That's longer than you've been livin', ain't it?'

She giggles.

The second leg comes free. ‘I got to be real careful now, you see, so as I don't crack the shell. It's a frail thing, a July fly's skin. Like china.' He smiles. ‘See how you can nearly see right through it? Yep,' he murmurs, more to himself now than to the girl. ‘It sure is just 'bout paper thin.'

He can feel the girl's breath across his fingers, warm and sticky, as he slowly works the July fly free. He likes the feel of it. The catches in it as sometimes she holds a breath or skips one, afraid he'll crack the shell. He wants to be careful for her. Wants his hands to be steady enough, tender enough, not to ruin it. For her. But it's been a long time since he felt another's breath upon him.

‘Careful!' she gasps on her inhale, and he likes the breathless feel of it across his hands.
Yes, careful, Jasper, careful.
And he struggles to focus on the bug before him. Third leg pried free. Fourth. The husk rattles slightly in the breeze, barely holding the shed now. The hollow eye sockets stare out bleakly. Blindly. He thinks back to his first night back home, and wonders why Lizzie mentioned it then. That memory. Wonders why she brought up the July fly from all those years back that, when he was a boy, shed its skin on him. All those years back. ‘Mistook him for a tree.' That's what Mama'd said.
Mistook him for a tree …

‘Must feel good to hold onto someone and shed your skin like that.' That's what he'd told Lizzie that first night home. He repeats the words to himself now, as he struggles with the July fly's final legs.

Doe Eyes leans closer, watching him, breath trapped inside her as she holds it, suspends it, waiting. His hand falters. The final leg snaps. A sound softer than a twig broken underfoot, more the sound a leaf makes, falling. But crisper.

Jasper does not see the leg break off. He does not see where the limb lands. Though he hears its snap amplified, ringing in his skull. The exoskeleton falls free into his palm. Dry as a corn husk. Pebble smooth. And he has to struggle to control his hand not to fist around it. He stops himself just in time. Uncurls his fingers to reveal the shell cradled in his palm. Five-legged. Deformed. A face not even a mother could love. Grotesque and beautiful. Transfixed, he stares.

Doe Eyes' breath releases in a sudden gush, and she claps her hands and laughs. ‘You did it, Uncle Jasper! You got it!'

In his palm, it seems mummified. Shrunken. He looks up into her blue eyes. Child eyes. Woman eyes. Extends his hands out to her. ‘Do you want to touch it?'

She grins. Nods. A little girl's nod, filled with excitement. She reaches out her index finger and gently runs it along the side of the shell. Wrinkles her nose. ‘It feels funny.'