Words of Stone (6 page)

The next year he wanted to do it by himself. For her. It was something he had to do. It was very important to him. He begged Glenn to let him try it. It was a small Ferris wheel, made for children, so Glenn said yes, bought him a ticket, and watched and waited again.

But Blaze needed the help of a friend. So he made one up. Benny was his name. Blaze whispered to Benny while he moved closer and closer to the man taking tickets. That was the year of the fire. Of course, he didn't go through with it
that
year. So he buried Benny. And then came Ajax.

Good-bye, Benny.

The following year Blaze had to ask to go to the fairgrounds. “Are you sure you want to go?” Glenn asked. Blaze was sure. “We can just walk around,” said Glenn.

Blaze hadn't heard Glenn and Nova talk about insurance money and doctor bills for a long time. And Glenn told Blaze that a different company was running the fair now. The big wooden soldiers were gone, but there was still a Ferris wheel. It looked enough like the one he had ridden with Reena to count. It was small, with wire cages that spun gently as the wheel rotated.

“I want to try it,” Blaze said.

“Okay,” said Glenn. “Let's do it.”

“I want to try it alone,” said Blaze.

Glenn let him try.

But it was more difficult than he thought it would be. He worried about the Ferris wheel itself. He remembered the cords that had caught on fire. He thought about his mother. He couldn't do it. Ajax didn't help. “I changed my mind,” he told Glenn. “Can we get something to eat?”

Good-bye, Ajax.

He tries every year. He doesn't want to be afraid.

Good-bye, Ken.

He stands in line, but turns away at the last minute. He goes on other rides.

Good-bye, Harold.

Now that he's old enough to go to the fairgrounds with some of his classmates, he sneaks off alone to the Ferris wheel. Unsuccessful every time. Or if his classmates want to ride the Ferris wheel, he says, “I have to go to the bathroom—do it without me.” Or “I'm going back to the games for a while. Meet me there.”

Good-bye, Ortman.

Every year that he can't ride the Ferris wheel, he buries his old friend and gets a new one.

Every year he tells no one.

Every year he digs another hole.

B
laze had a dream that didn't frighten him, but time and place and all other particulars escaped him. He stared listlessly at a spot on the ceiling in his bedroom, trying to make the dream come back. But he could only remember a foggy, pleasant feeling, and he tried to hold on to it, grabbing his chest as if the feeling were touchable and could be hugged like a pillow.

After looking out the window and checking the hill (no new words of stone), Blaze dressed and went down to the kitchen for breakfast. Nova made pancakes for him. She served them with butter, blueberries, and powdered sugar. Blaze played with the blueberries, forming a letter
C
with them on the top of his stack of pancakes.

“Do you like her?” Nova asked.

“Who?” Blaze said. He spread some of the blueberries to the edge of his plate.

“Claire, of course,” Nova replied. “Who else would I mean?” She smiled at Blaze and her cheeks became a farmer's field of wrinkles.

“I'm not sure,” Blaze answered, raising his fork, a blueberry speared on each tine. “But I think Dad's in love.” The word sounded funny to Blaze:
love.
He wrinkled his nose.

“Love's not such a bad thing.”

“I know, I know,” Blaze said, tossing his head from side to side. He smiled at Nova. “You really wouldn't care if he got married again?”

“I'd love it, and I mean it, and you know it. We've talked about that before.”

“Would you still live with us?”

Nova shook her head yes. “But don't you think you're jumping the gun? Slow down a bit. Eat your breakfast.”

He ate and he thought. He thought that Nova was the most calm person he knew. And the smartest. And the nicest. He thought about going to rummage sales that afternoon with Glenn and Claire; Claire was looking for old furniture to fix up for her apartment. He thought about being short and wondered how tall he would be when he was fully grown. And he thought that he wanted to eat another pancake. And he did.

After finishing breakfast and helping Nova with the dishes, Blaze walked up the hill to the black locust tree. He seemed drawn there as if by a magnet. It would be a hot day. Earlier there had been a milky haze on the hill that burned off, but the air was still heavy. Dew glittered on the tips of the grass. As he approached the crest of the hill, Blaze swung his arms back and forth, pretending to cut through the heat. When he reached the top, he stopped suddenly.

Within the border of the grave site were more messages. This time the words were formed with small stones and pebbles, each letter only a few inches tall at most. The stones spelled
YOU'RE ON FIRE
and
FIRE!
The words were written in an arc near the trunk of the black locust tree. The exclamation point that ended it was long and wiggly like a worm.

“Come on,” Glenn coaxed, slapping the upholstery beside him. “We're running late.”

“I'm not going with you,” Blaze said slowly, his eyes narrow because of the sun.

“What's up?” Glenn asked. He had been waiting in the car for Blaze, the motor idling. He was ready to pick up Claire and had been signaling Blaze by honking the horn.

Blaze shrugged. He didn't feel like talking. He knew the words would catch in his throat, possibly making him cry. He also knew that he never wanted to see Claire
Becker again. Now there was no doubt in his mind who was responsible for the words of stone. Claire Becker. A swift internal pull convinced him this was the truth. He had told Claire about the fire, and she had used the information for a cruel joke.

Glenn turned off the ignition. “Are you okay?”

“I think I ate too much for breakfast,” Blaze said, holding his stomach. “It's not a big deal, but I think I should stay home.”

“Would you rather I stayed home, too? I can call Claire.”

“No,” Blaze said. “You should go.”

“Okay,” Glenn said, almost like a question. “I hope you feel better.” He started the car again. “See you later,” he called.

Blaze waved. He had figured out who had written the words of stone. But what would he do now?

J
oselle was examining a scab on her knee when the phone rang. She jumped up to get it, but since the only phone in the house sat on the end table beside the rocking chair where Floy happened to be planted, her chances of answering it were next to none. After a pleasant hello, Floy's voice took on an icy edge. Joselle knew instantly that The Beautiful Vicki was on the line. Floy's face seemed to deflate and her lips pursed. Nearly everything about her became tight, and yet she cradled the phone against her shoulder and continued to work on her needlepoint. Her fingers moved like dancers, pushing and pulling, bringing a garden to life with thread. Lilacs, tulips, and daffodils bloomed between her hands. Her silver needle glinted and Joselle thought of sparks. Even when Floy sighed heavily or rolled her eyes, her fingers continued to flow at the same rhythmic pace.

Joselle picked her scab while she listened. Then she drew her knee up to her mouth and bit off the scab. She swallowed hard and licked her wound.

“How can you afford that?” Floy asked. “What about your job at the restaurant?”

Joselle could feel her heartbeat quicken. She began playing “The Star-Spangled Banner” loudly on her teeth.

“Don't worry about Joselle,” Floy said. “Good
heavens,
of course you should talk to her. Just a minute.”

Floy handed the receiver to Joselle.

“Joselle?” Vicki said.

“Hi,” Joselle answered reluctantly, flexing her toes inside her shoes.

“Sorry I didn't send you a postcard or call sooner. . . .” There was an awkward pause. “Uh, Rick and I decided we'd like to see the ocean—the Pacific Ocean. So we're going to be gone longer than we thought. It's a far way from Wisconsin, you know. But anyway, your grandmother's glad to have you there. And—don't worry—I checked it out with the restaurant. They'll give me my job back when I get home.”

“Why can't I come with you?”

“Come on, Joselle. We're already on the road. And Rick doesn't want this to be a kid's vacation. We need a break.
I
need a break from
you.
You know how we get when we're together too long. This is good for you, too.”

Joselle didn't want to pay attention any more. She tried to twirl the phone like a baton, but dropped it on the floor. She picked it up, hesitated a moment, then spoke into the receiver very clearly. “I might have blood poisoning,” she said, curling her lip. “But if anything happens I'm sure someone will be able to locate you.” Without waiting for a response, she gently hung up the phone.

Joselle and Floy looked at each other.

“I don't want to talk about it,” Joselle said, turning her eyes away.

“Me neither,” said Floy, placing her needlepoint on the end table and standing. She grabbed her sweater from the back of the chair and draped it over her shoulders. “The mall's open late tonight. Let's go shopping.”

The air in the mall smelled stale—of popcorn, smoke, sweat, and perfume—but it was a hopeful smell; it carried with it the prospect of new things to take home. When Joselle shopped at malls with Vicki, they rarely bought anything. They purchased most of their clothes at resale shops. Vicki tried to convince Joselle that the clothes from Retro Fashions and Goldie's Oldies were more chic anyway, but Joselle knew that Vicki couldn't afford shopping at the other stores. And yet they went to them on a regular basis “just to look.” Joselle disliked the whole routine because she often saw things that she wanted badly, knowing full well that she couldn't have them. She'd pout all the way home, bewildered by the injustice of it all. She referred to this practice as “visiting clothes.” Last year for Mrs. Weynand's language arts class, Joselle wrote an essay about “visiting” a pair of tight, stone-washed jeans so many times that she became best friends with them. Mrs. Weynand said the essay showed a great deal of creativity but was lacking in other areas—namely grammar, spelling, and punctuation. She gave it a C-minus.

Joselle felt only slightly guilty that Floy was spending so much money on her. But Floy was the one pushing certain items, as though an extra pair of tights or some dangly rhinestone earrings could fill Joselle up until there was no room for unhappiness. When Joselle expressed an interest in a fuchsia tank top, Floy insisted that she have the black-and-white striped one, too. And Floy wouldn't take no for an answer when she saw the way Joselle's eyes widened as she stroked a peach cashmere sweater that had buttons like pearls.

“You'd look beautiful in that,” Floy said, scooping it up and holding it in front of Joselle.

“Grammy, I was just looking,” Joselle said, turning away. She had seen the price tag. She knew how expensive it was.

“It's got your name written all over it,” Floy said. “Just think how envious your classmates will be next school year.”

Joselle considered this and felt herself weakening. Even Sherry Gerke, who often made a point of criticizing Joselle's wardrobe in front of anyone who would listen in the girls' rest room, would have nothing but good things to say about
this
sweater. It was classy. Joselle cackled to herself.

“Okay, Grammy, you win,” Joselle said, throwing up her hands. “I'll take it.”

As they marched up to the checkout counter together, Joselle had to concentrate hard to keep her fingers from crawling onto Floy's arm and tugging the sweater away from her.

“Forget the bag,” Joselle told the clerk. “I'm wearing it!”

Floy nodded approval.

“Thanks, Grammy!” Joselle shrieked. “Now you're sure this is okay?” she added in a very serious voice.

“Yes,” Floy answered. “A good splurge every now and then does wonders.”

But Joselle repeated the question over and over because she had noticed the way the corner of Floy's mouth had twitched upward, forming a thick indented comma deep in her cheek as she wrote out the check to pay for the sweater.

“If you ask me one more time, I'll start calling you a broken record,” Floy finally said, swatting Joselle softly on her behind. “Come on, we need to find some nail polish before the stores close.”

On the drive home, the stars were brighter than Joselle had ever seen. And the evening smelled of grapes. Fireflies dotted either side of the highway as if there had been too many stars for the sky to hold and some had spilled downward. Joselle rubbed the buttons on her new sweater, pretending that they were tiny stars that had lost their light. And then, because she wanted the way she felt at that precise moment to last forever, she stuck her head out the window and gulped the air that rushed at her face, hoping that it would work some kind of magic inside her. Hoping that it would make her life perfect in every way.

J
oselle woke up with a headache, and there was a pinching sensation behind her eyes. She blinked her eyes quickly and steadily, hoping the feeling would stop, but all it did was intensify the dull pain and make her see double for a minute. Gary heard her stir and raised his head. He slept on the floor alongside the sofa every night now. Right by Joselle. He nudged her hand with his nose until she petted him. Simultaneously, he wagged his tail and yawned twice, like an echo. Joselle covered her face with her arm. “I feel bad, but you smell worse,” she told him.

Despite the heat, she had slept in her new sweater. It had transformed her ratty cotton nightgown into the elegant party dress of a princess. Joselle slid off the sofa and pirouetted to the kitchen, trying to work off the way she felt. Gary snapped playfully at the frayed edge of her nightgown as though her dance were a game created especially for him.