Flowers (5 page)

Sally tried every night, tried to be sad, tried to weep. She sniffed onions and thought of sick puppies and broken toys and funerals and other sorrowful things. Once she even poked herself in the eye. Still the fields lay dry and aching.

She saw Jason every day at school, and they walked holding hands every afternoon, kissing by the creek when the other children weren't around. The creek was thinner now, weak between the smooth stones, quieter and less merry. The sky was cloudless.

The autumn makers rolled out golden rugs, applied their red and orange brushstrokes, underpinned the landscape with brown. The trees thirsted and gave up their leaves too soon. The ground cracked and sighed. Still no rain.

October came, on dried batwings.

The Halloween dance was coming up at school. Sally sat at her desk, excited by the chaff in the air and that sweet melancholy aroma the grass gave off just before the winter women put it to sleep. Sally cut her paper pumpkins and bundled her corn by its bleached husks. She wanted a drink of water, but the school principal had shut off the fountain because of the water shortage.

Sally didn't feel guilty. So what if the pumpkins were shrunken and scarecrows withered at their posts? She had tried to rain. It wasn't her fault that all those stupid people shook their fists at the sky and sent up airplanes with silver iodide and cast their hopeful doomed eyes at each occasional cloud. She hadn't asked to be a rain girl, anyway.

Classes were dismissed early for the holiday, but Sally stayed to finish the decorations that would hang in the gym on twisted orange and black streamers. She stood to stretch her legs. Her fingers were sore from scissoring. But she didn't mind. Tonight she would be dancing with Jason.

She walked down the hall on the pillows of daydreams. She had a new dress to wear, one her mother had made as Sally sat at the table each evening and tried to drum some rain. Mom had worked the needle and kept looking up at Sally, her eyes red and dry and hollow. Dad had cursed, but only managed to summon some heat lightning.

Sally opened the school door. Even the sunshine didn't bother her. She thought of the dress that was waiting at home. It was blue, the color of a mean sky, and she couldn't wait to wear it. Even Melanie never had a dress like it.

Four steps across crisp grass.

Shapes over by the swing set.

Somewhere, the wind people gasped.

Jason was kissing Melanie.

Sally stared, disbelieving.

The shapes blurred, shimmered in her damp eyes.

"Sally, wait," Jason called. Melanie laughed.

Sally ran toward home without looking back.

The sky opened its throat, empty of clouds but spewing a silent silver grief. Her heart was as leaden as the air. Her drenched clothes clung to her like a second skin.

She found home and bed and Mom, but still the ache tore at her heart.

"What's wrong, honey?" Mom said, sitting on the bed. Beneath the concern in Mom's voice, Sally heard elation and relief. Rain pounded on the shingles, steady and untiring and passionate. Puddles stretched themselves outward and rivers swelled with Sally's hurt. Shriveled apples were knocked from their branches and umbrellas collapsed like tissues.

Ordinary people watched from their windows as the sudden rain fell. Minutes before, not a cloud had dotted the sky. But in the people's happiness they forgot all about the oddness of it, too joyful that the dry spell was broken. They stuck out their tongues and quenched themselves.

The rain kept on into the night and throughout the next day, soaking all the kids who went to the Halloween dance. Then two more days without pause, the ground saturated and the ditches swollen, brown water churning over sewer grates, all pulled by the gravity girl toward the far gulf. The creeks bloated, and the creek minders wrung their hands, flustered by the loss of control.

On the fourth day, when the rivers leapt their banks and people evacuated their front porches in rowboats, when everyone huddled in yellow slickers and no dry socks remained, then, then, they started worrying.

Young hearts are slow in healing.

Sally drowned November.

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WHEN YOU WEAR THESE SHOES

When you wear these shoes, you go places.

Oxford shoes, these are. Sure, that may sound fancy, but take a look. Just plain shoes, really.

Scuffed all across the top of the toe box, heels about worn down to the tacks, tongues hanging out like a hound dog's on a hot August day. Insoles nearly worn through, meeting up with my skin where the holes in my socks are.

But my feet never blister, nosiree. Never had a corn or bunion one. And I've put many a mile on them. Tens of thousands, if you can believe it. But I see you don't.

I'm just getting these shoes broke in, in fact. You take a new shoe. It's hard and stiff as a brick and the leather smells like it's still got cow inside. You got to pry it on with a metal shoe horn, then squeak around with miserable toes for a few months. Strings are brittle, too, won't hardly stay tied. You end up doing more bending over than walking.

And walking's what it's really all about, ain't it? Racking up miles, one shoe in front of the other. That's what brings our kind out to these hiking trails. Ain't it funny how they have to set aside places where you can walk these days? You can't just up and hoof around any old place.

And in country like this, out in the middle of nowhere with the sun long gone, not many people would let a stranger even so much as speak to them. But I reckon a strapping young fellow like you don't scare easy.

I can tell you're a traveler, same as me. You with your backpack and two hundred dollar boots with cleats so deep you can walk on marbles. Them boots are designed by computer, I hear, what is it they call that brand? Oh, yeah, "a unique combination of comfort and durability." Them words add about eighty bucks to the cost, I'd imagine.

Now, don't look at me like that. I read things. I may not seem like much, just like these old shoes don't seem like much. But you ought not judge a book by its cover. Since you don't mind me sitting here and sharing your fire, I might just open up this old book. Meaning my story, that is. Or more rightly, the story of the shoes.

Ah, there we go. I still like to rest my feet a little now and then. Something to eat? Why, yes, thank you kindly, that would hit the spot. Tuna fish is good energy food. Only, don't mind me if I slip up and talk with my mouth full now and again.

I was about your age, more or less, when I walked into the little town of Seymour, Indiana. I worked the fields, a harvest hand, moving from crop to crop with the seasons. It was a good, carefree life for a young man back then. A lot of my old school chums went straight into business, bought vests with shiny black buttons and pairs of fancy Florsheims. But I never had that sort of ambition.

I wanted to poke about, see the world a little, sleep under the stars at night. Now, in all the miles I've walked, all the different places I've been, those stars are the same as the ones that are starting to wink on up there right now. It's comforting to me, lying down with the earth snug at my back and knowing those stars will be the same day after day and mile after mile.

It was in Seymour that I bought these shoes. I was flush, had a pocketful of green from a good corn haul, and it was burning a hole in my pocket. I wasn't the reckless sort, I never got much joy out of blowing two weeks of work on a night at the happy house. Now, I'm not against a drink now and then, or a little professional companionship, but I like to make my memories stretch out, same as my walking legs.

If I was careful, I could make a payday last me a few weeks, weeks I wouldn't have to sweat under the Midwestern sun with chaff cutting at the back of my neck. There was this little second-hand store in Seymour, the kind of place where you can pick up a few goods on the cheap. I found a couple of pairs of denim jeans, which wear out fast doing farm work, let me tell you. I suspect you've never done much farm work, have you?

Now, you can take that look off your face. If a man's smart enough to get out of bone-wearing work, I say more power to him.

Anyway, I got those jeans and a cotton shirt that had only one elbow patched, and I found a good wide-brimmed hat. I figured that was about all I could fit in my rucksack. I liked to travel light then, same as I do now. I was going up to the counter to pay when I saw the shoes.

I wasn't crazy about shoes back then. I thought one pair was pretty much like any other. And that black mud of Indiana found ways into any kind of shoe, let me tell you. If you didn't have a hole between the toes, it would work through the string-holes and down the tongue until it found skin to bother. If you had on boots, it would squish up and climb your leg, then sneak on down from there.

Anyway, I saw these shoes, sitting on the floor beside a pasteboard box full of rotted harness parts. They were kind of off by themselves, away from the rest of the footwear, almost like they got up and walked there. I stooped over and picked them up, and as soon as I ran my fingers over their dusty stitches, I knew I had to have them.

You ever had that kind of feeling? Like you suddenly want something you could live very well without, but it's almost like it's choosing you instead of the other way around? Then you have to have it, no matter the cost in money, pain, or pride? I expect a lot of bad marriages are made in just that fashion.

But this was just an old pair of shoes, and the price was right, or so I thought. The clod-hoppers I was wearing at the time were more hole than shoe anyway, so I went out and sat down on the old wooden porch of that store and took them off. I shucked my socks and let my toes see a little sunshine for a change. They were blanched white and kind of wrinkly, like they'd been in the water too long. But a breeze came down from Dakota-ways and perked them right up.

When my feet were feeling refreshed, I put on my other change of socks. Then I tossed them old clod-hoppers under the porch for the mice to nest in. I picked up that pair of shoes I had bought, kind of like you pick up a kitten, and held them up to the sun. They were solid, built to last, the way things were made back then.

I slipped on the right one first. It was like that shoe sucked my foot inside the way it went on so easy. You know how some shoes will squeeze your toes together so the toenail cuts into the toe beside it, all the way down the line? Well, these had plenty of wiggling room, and the shank curved up just right under my arch—now you're giving me that look again. Well, I've studied up on shoes, let me tell you. Call it a hobby of mine.

Then I tied the string, and it was almost like it tied itself, it looped together so easy. I put the other one on the same way. Another snug fit. I don't know if you know it or not, but a lot of people's feet are different sizes from each other. And a shoe don't always match up perfect with its mate. But these were lucky shoes.

As soon as I got them on and stood up, I felt like a teenager again. I mean, my feet felt young. I could have danced for a month of Sundays. Out of the blue, I got a notion to walk up and see Lake Erie. I had the money and, Lord knows, I had the time. I gathered up my things and balled them up in my rucksack and I was on my way.

I walked days, not stopping at all. At night, I'd lay down and sleep, take off my shoes so both them and my feet could air out a little. Food was easy to come by, it was the tail end of the harvest season, and back then practically everybody had a garden out back of the house. Who would notice if a cabbage head or acorn squash walked off in the night? And, of course, thanks to that other famous traveler, Johnny Appleseed, there was always apples.

Johnny Appleseed's a made-up story, you say? Well, I used to think so myself, only now I'm not so sure.

I made about forty miles a day. Yeah, that's a lot, but the miles roll on by when your feet keep working, when your shoes are putting one in front of the other right steady. As soon as the sun went down, I could rest, although I wasn't ever really tired for some reason. It was almost like the shoes had charged up my feet, given them fresh energy.

Well, I reached Erie in four days, and I looked out across that blue sparkly water while that fishy smell played around in my nose. You been there? Yeah, it's brownish now, kind of scummy-looking last time I saw it, but it was blue back then. Anyway, I thought I'd better find a little work there, maybe loading barges, to keep a little coin coming in. But I got the urge to walk on around the lake, up to the canals, then over to Niagara Falls. Now, there's a pretty place. I wish I could have stood there forever, watching that old water roaring down in a billion silver streaks and that cool mist settling on my skin.

But I didn't stay. I had to get to the Adirondacks, because the leaves were just starting to change over for autumn. Did you know Adirondack is a Mohawk word that means "they eat trees"? When you get around, you learn things. Well, I dogged around up in them old worn mountains that looked like they were covered with a quilt, there was so many patches of red, purple, and gold. I went down through the Catskills, then over to New York City to see the Statue of Liberty. That's one beautiful lady, that is. Symbol of freedom.

I like freedom and all the things that stand for it. So I went down to Philadelphia to see the Liberty Bell, and it really was cracked just like I'd heard. Then it was a hop, skip, and a jump over to D.C. with all its monuments and historic places. Walking days, sleeping nights, not working, but somehow never going hungry. Seems like food just kept coming my way. Like that tuna fish you gave me.