The Little Jar

Muscles and tendons strain under the weight of the half-filled buckets. She recalls the time, not so long ago, when she had carried them easily full up. Grunting, she trudges to the end of the lot and dumps the finished compost in two piles between the newly emerged cucumber plants. The sweat streams stinging into her eyes, which she brushes away with a dirty glove.

            The same dirty glove wraps around the rough handle of the rake and, after smoothing the buttery black loam between the plants, the tall woman drops the tool and straightens to place both gloves on the small of her back. After a moment, she picks up the buckets and muttering, slogs back to the compost pile.

            Beside the compost pile shines the newly purchased wheelbarrow, unmarred by weather and time and grit. The woman considers a moment this work-saving technology and then proceeds to spade the buckets, again, half-full. One more trek to the front and her job will be done; her lunch earned.

            Inside the farmhouse, the man, the partner, watches out of the wavy glass his wife's exertions. Crazy woman. Just yesterday, he'd bought her the most ergonomic tool invented by man and still she insists on the buckets. He places a large checkered cloth over the lunch tray and elbows out the ancient screen door. On the porch stands a small, battered wooden table and two mismatched chairs. He places the tray in the center of the table, then fingers the silverware, centering it cleanly on the napkins. He adjusts the posy trough so his wife will have the best view.

            Satisfied, he pours the lemonade into the tumblers, adding a fresh slice of lemon to each. Here she comes, hands wet from the pump, faded red hair haloing her flushed and freckled angel face. His heart accelerates as he flashes briefly on the moment, forty seven years before, when he'd seen his son rush out of her womb. She looks up at him and smiles. Her stomach growls loudly under the farmer bibs. She is happy.

            He returns the smile and pulls her chair out from under the his mother's linen tablecloth. She settles into the chair while he serves. Although her appetite exceeds the small portion, the woman leans onto the ladder-back and sighs with pleasure. Her eyes wander out, over the riotous blooming garden and back to her husband's weathered face so concentrated on gathering and piling dirty dishes.

            There are so few moments, so few perfect moments, to be had in this life; this is surely one of them. They surely deserve this moment. All the preceding dark, dangerous, devastating and disastrous moments are forgotten.

            At the sound of a creaking step, they turn their heads. Well, if it isn’t the grandson of their neighbor to the north mounting the porch! Pink scalp under parted hair and no smile to greet theirs, just dark and downcast eyes as the official process server skims his sunburned hand along the peeling paint of the railing. The husband looks out to the road and sees a brand new double cab pickup tucked behind the barberry bushes. Tricky bastard.

            The sun ducks behind a rain cloud. A hawk screeches; finally, the dreaded papers. Like a ghost, the youth disappears as quickly as he had materialized. With shaking hands, the documents unfold that will irrevocably change their lives. Should they stay and fight or fade off at the bank's decree?

            This is their place. Indeed as the sun comes up in the morning, this is their place. Here, they have nurtured their child and one another and this land. They are as rooted here as the bordering tall maples and oaks and pines planted with their own might.

            The two sit in silence for a long moment and then the woman reaches over to pat his age-spotted hand. She heaves herself from the chair and steps violently aside to vomit over the balustrade. When she is finished, he springs up to extend the checkered napkin.

***

            He wakes upon the same feather mattress on which he’d been born, his extended arm numb from the weight of her head. The rooster crows.  Another day. He’s lost the farm. He’s lost it. He would not weep here, in her presence, but the barn was another matter. He’d promised to protect her and now what, a high rise in the city? An errant tear slips down the craggy cheek. The city would kill her.

            She stirs, lifts her head and reaches up to move his sleeping arm. Under the breeze scented, warm blankets, her hand moves to his chest and lingers before trailing lower. He groans and turns to face his solace. No mouth kissing in the morning, but everything else. He forgets the farm and any sense of place. This woman. He rises to milk Bessie.

            She serves oatmeal downstairs, topped with sweet cream and strawberries. Her appetite is vigorous, yesterday’s upset forgotten. Yet, the papers lay on the sideboard and must soon be discussed. Haven’t they already discussed, over and over and over, all elements related? Haven’t they already researched every possibility? Didn't they sell off all but the house and outbuildings and two acres?

            The husband retreats to the barn to feed the few animals they have left and the wife cleans her sunny kitchen. Should she pack? She opens the cabinet to eye the tinctures and reaches to the back. It’s still there, yes, it is. The small, dark jar is again pushed back into its hiding place and instead she removes the tincture of valerian. Sighing, she measures a half eyedropper of the medicine into the back of her mouth and grimaces. She gently closes the cupboard.

            Is he crying again? His scarlet eyes belie is his acts of courage. If only. If only they hadn’t done the remodel. Or paid cash for John’s college. If only the frost hadn’t ruined the strawberry crop in 1993. If only they hadn’t had to bury their…She brings herself up and exhales. This serves no purpose. What is done is done, there’s no going back; time to go to the barn and interrupt.

            The pitchfork moves to and fro, fluttering the straw. He latches the pen and turns his attentions to the old cart. Another load for the pile. Another day. He senses her at his back and turns. This morning would they would gather the fruits of their labors and preserve them for the future? He pushes a escaped curl back under her kerchief and briefly touches her soft cheek. Maybe they should instead visit John.

            Hand in hand, they walk the shaded lane. How many years is it now? Since the War? Since John had fallen? How many steps to the grassy mound and back? The breeze catches her breath and valerian wafts. Well, whatever it takes. Would the doctor’s chemicals be better than the herbs she gathers? Together they have shunned the doctors and been the better for it. Why, hadn’t the gout disappeared under her ministrations?

            He stays out of the kitchen when she is brewing and mixing her various concoctions. Anyway, it is primarily her domain, as the barn is his. The pantry is a cool place off the kitchen; she keeps the door closed and the window open in cool weather. He’d installed the hooks from the ceiling so she could hang to dry her medicinal plants. Neighbors without health insurance frequently tap on the back door and soon leave with small Mason jars of mysterious powders and liquids. They frequently add small donations to the egg money.  

            Her hand tightens in his as they approach the gate. Roses lay heavy on their trellis, trailing their perfume for the calling meadowlark. The grasses wave softly. Here he is. No, not here, but Elsewhere. Here his body rests, a stopping-off place for them to visit when they need connection—a connection to him, to each other. The medals, the worthless medals lay rusting on the granite headstone, bleeding, pressing their murky stains earthward.

            The couple exhales their collective breath. The woman bends and pulls a wayward weed. They consider mutely the grandchildren they will never have. She remembers birth spasms, the tiny feet, the first day of school. He remembers the gazing, hopeful face as the ball leaves the bat and the same face in the photograph from Basic Training. What’s done is done. Another day--deprived. Another day. She ventures one last glance over her shoulder as they shuffle back to the house.

***

            The night is warm and a light breeze swirls the sweet bouquet of memories of springs past.  A full moon lights the yard. The yellow cat brushes his fur on their legs as they gently sway on the porch swing. The dishes washed, the coffee sipped, the bank papers discussed, the carefully worded note placed in the mailbox. Now, some time to reflect, to reminisce.

            They remember John, laughing, sailing on the bag swing right there, on that very oak. He loved to swing. He broke the garden gate with his gall darn swinging. They consider all the agonizing moments coaxing him down from high places and away from dangerous machinery.  All for what? So he could die forlorn in foreign mud?

            Not tonight. Tonight is for recalling the good parts. That baby lamb. Wasn’t it the cutest thing? A cute thing that grew into a monster sheep that butted her to the ground when on the way to feed the chickens! He loved that lamb. Fed it with a bottle and slept with it in the shed for weeks. Poncho Pepper Lambert was its name. Never went to market, that one. Died of old age. Like the dog, the collie, Blondie.

            They rock. A train whistles in the distance and an odd car passes by out on the road. He puts his arm around her sagging shoulders. It was good, wasn’t it? The best of times. The farmland rented out for good money; the utilities and taxes easily paid. He buries his nose in her hair. She reaches for his calloused hand. You ready? His affirmation lay in her hair. An owl hoots and the yellow cat jumps to his lap.

            She gets up. The screen door creaks open. A moment later she is there, holding the little jar, which he takes from her steady hand. The animals, will they be okay? Don't worry, the mailman will call the number. The man, the partner, the husband, unscrews the lid and drinks half the bitter liquid. He hands the jar to the woman, the wife, and she tips the jar to her lips.

THE END

             

           

           

           

           

           

Short Story

This is a picture of the herb wormwood, below is a short story for your reading pleasure.

Wormwood

 Revelation 8:11, “And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and a third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.”

When I open my eye slits, I see his bloodied
 sneakers tucked under the lawn chair. I concentrate on my breathing and decide I must set the pain aside and I must stay conscious. I’ve already decided I to live, too many depend on me. My gauzy vision follows the inseam of his filthy jeans up and up, to his skinny lap and the big knife lying upon it. I see the underside of his chin, so I raise my head a fraction to take the strain off moving my eyes. Pebbles stick to my bloody cheek from the garden path.

            This is my fault; I was warned to carry the pistol at all times, even to the privy. I have grown careless. Maybe this time, trust will have been fully beaten out of my soul. Somehow I doubt that. My swelling head throbs. I divert my attention to my perfectly fine bare feet. I cautiously test their capabilities. I’m grateful they’ve not been stomped.

            My mind is clearing a bit when he moves. I close my eyes.

            “I have booze,” I say quietly.

            “What?”

            “I have alcohol.”

            He leans down, tipping forward the rickety lawn chair. With one hand he grabs my gray hair, jerking back my battered head so he can better see my expression and the effect of the knife pressed to my throat.

            He licks his cracked bottom lip. “You better not lie, you bitch!”

            I nod.

            “Where is it?”

            When I don’t speak, he sheathes the knife, rises and heaves me up by my armpits to stand me in front of him. I sway. I am calm, I repeat to myself. What’s the worst that can happen? My head clears. Instead of the blur he appeared as during the attack, he is now coming into moonlit focus; a loose, lanky frame, greasy brown hair, fair complexion dotted with acne, studded ears and a patchy blonde beard. There’s some kind of a necklace with a feather pendant. I hope he’ll let go and pull back his foul breath. He wrenches my nightgown, buttons pop. I look deeply into his watery green eyes.

            “Stop looking at me, you bitch.”

            “Let’s have a drink.”

            He laughs, bitter and hoarse. “What do you think this is?”

            “I don’t know. But it’d be better with a drink.” I hold his eyes.

            “Tell me where it is.”

            “I will take you to it.”

            “Tell me, bitch!”

            “My name is Clair.”

            His rough hand probes inside my bodice. “Not much here,” he says.

“Does size matter?”

“You really are a cunt, aren’t you?”

“So some say. You ready for that drink?”

He casually shakes my detached hair from his fist and picks up his jacket from the chair as I resist the urge to jump and claw the knife from its leather case on his belt. I can get that belt off. I can get him vulnerable. There are very few women left and some of these neo-men really prefer a woman, even if she’s old and dried up. I have lots of options, I just have to stay calm and find the best one.

He follows me up the porch steps and into the boarded up farmhouse, poking his finger into my back, which I imagine I’m supposed to believe is his knife. This guy may be cunning, but he’s not that bright. Still, he’s a survivor for a reason, and I must respect that.

He watches as I light the kerosene lamp, gradually illuminating what used to be my mudroom. All the rooms are mudrooms now, dark and gritty.

“Get on with it,” he orders at the back of my neck. He seems unconcerned that a protective man may be waiting in the murky shadows. He’s been watching--watching long enough to know I’m alone here at night. 

That I am a fool has been long known. I go my own way, I always have. Sometimes I refuse to accept that the world is constantly spinning. There are small communes of sorts, safety in numbers and all that. What I can’t stomach is the infighting and backbiting and the constant push and pull between leaders and their hopeful sycophants. I’ve taken more than one beating for this resistance. Yet, here they come every day for lessons, and here I remain as instructor and as example, the latter having more weight in the long run, as this youth little remember the concept of parents. Some days it seems so hopeless.

 “Please, have a seat.”

“Fuck you. Give me the booze.”

“Not until you sit. Humor me.”

 “Just remember who’s got the knife.” He throws himself into the old blue recliner and I pause beside the dirty, ancient breakfront, suddenly remembering its odd assortment of contents.

“You’ll never find all the goodies I have stashed if you kill me too soon.”

He ignores this almost cheerful comment as I produce two etched aperitif glasses from a lower cabinet along with a bottle filled with a greenish liquid. I set them on the ledge.

“You gonna give me that little glass?”

“This is strong stuff, a few little sips are all you need for a high.”

Choosing his own fate, as we all do, he quickly stands and grabs up the lamp, whisking it around the perimeter of the room. I have glancing glimpses of the stained sunflower wallpaper and the old oil painting of sailboats over the scarred mantle. He hesitates when the light reveals a tall china cabinet, hazy glass inexplicably intact, just like the breakfront. He yanks at the door.

“You have to turn the key.”

“Jesus, what’s the point of this?”

“It’s fun. It’s a relic. It promotes the idea there’s something valuable inside.”

He scoffs as he turns the small key. The door pops open. Holding the lamp higher, he contemplates the dusty contents lined up on the shelves. I hope he doesn’t disturb the dancing frog I got for my fifth birthday. He selects a tall tumbler, a singular reminder of the sixties. Its color was called “avocado,” and it’s the last of the set my mother left me. I was saving it for a rainy day celebration. I guess that’s today.

“This is my glass, you use the tiny one.”

“Sure, whatever you want.”

He makes his way back through the gloom and plunks the glass on the narrow ledge. I consider briefly knocking the lamp from his hand. The thought of burning down this decrepit old house, even with him in it, is more than I can bear. And I’ve borne a lot.

I am the only elder in this little community; the only one who clearly remembers the Space Age, or even the Digital Age, for that matter. Standing between me and the next oldest is at least sixty years. The Baby Boomers, as near as I can tell, have all died off save me, along with the two generations in between. My children and my grandchildren, should I have had any, would be gone. These kids know nothing but chaos and confusion and misery. They will eat each other if necessary, and many do. I stopped asking ‘why me’ about the time I stopped feeling sorry for myself, maybe a decade ago.

“Fill ‘er up!”

As I pour, I remember the sunny summer day I picked the Artemisia preserved in this everclear, 90-Proof alcohol. It was before Nibiru swung past the Earth in its long elliptical orbit, before the oceans reared back and roared forward. It was before the planes fell from the skies and The Great Diaspora. It seems long, long ago, back in another--

“Give it here!” I twitch at his raspy voice in my ear.

As I hand the glass to him, I ask, “How old are you?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

I shrug, “Just making conversation.” He probably hasn’t a clue; maybe sixteen?

“Well stop it. I want to drink, not talk.” He takes a huge gulp, which he barely manages to swallow. He struggles for breath.

“What kind of crap is this?” he gasps, “it tastes like shit!”

“It’s absinthe.” Close, but still a lie.

“What’s that?”

“It’s what the famous artistes used to drink in the old days. They loved it.”

“It tastes like shit.”

“You said that.”

“You expect me to drink this?”

“Suit yourself.”

His grimy hand shoots up and lands on my neck. He squeezes. Try as I may, I can’t hate him. There’s some advantage to that.

“Would you like a cigarette?” The hand drops.

“Where’d you get tobacco?”

“Grew it.”

I see confusion overtake suspicion.

“It’s a plant, thus it can be grown. The leaves can be smoked.”

“I didn’t know tobacco was a plant.”

I briefly bite my already bitten tongue. “Most people don’t know. Now you do.”

“I thought it was just illegal substance.”

“Do you know what ‘illegal’ means?”

He takes another swig; he’s up to about four now. I sip. I’m not really sure, but I think it’s best if I get him back outside.

“I don’t give a shit what it means. It’s from the Old Days. None of that means squat now.” He throws his head. “Whew, this stuff is strong.”

“You know there used to be laws and cops and courts and stuff?”

“I heard that. Our side killed all the cops.” He lifts the glass once more. I watch his Adam’s apple bounce.

“How about we take this bottle to the picnic table? It’s stuffy in here.”

I open the upper door and bring out a scarred wooden box. “I’ll be able to see good enough to roll you a cig.”

            “This better not be a trick.”

            “Now why would I want to trick you? You have the knife.”

            “Let me see the box.” I hand it to him and watch as he fumbles with the catch.

            “I suppose this needs a key, too.”

            I reach over and flip the clasp sideways. He opens the box and holds it up under the light. Looking satisfied, he rises.

            I pick up the old wine bottle, cork it and slip two fingers under my glass. “Bring the lamp.”

            “Stop bossin’ me.”

            My few teeth clench as I wait.

            “Well, what are you waiting for? Git!”

            I quickly move to the back door and out onto the porch.

            The screen door slams. “Stop here. Put that down on this table.” He motions towards a small end table between the two much-painted rockers my father had crafted in better times. We sit and he holds out his glass for me to replenish. He hands me the box.

            “Roll me a cig.” I take the box on my lap, quickly depositing brown crumbles onto thin paper. I lick the edge and hand him the finished product. He drinks again.

            “How do I know this isn’t dope?” We waves the cigarette past my face.

            “Maybe it is.”

            “LOL,” he says as he seizes the worn matchbook I had placed in the lid. After he ruins two damp matches, I light it for him. He draws deeply. He knows nothing of email and cell phones and the actual meaning of LOL. He takes another profound drink from the special green glass and sits back.

            “This is pretty nice. Maybe you’re not such a bitch, after all.”

            “I can be pretty good company. I can teach you to make this stuff, to distill alcohol, if you want.”

            “Why would I do that when I have you?” He has a point. He drains the glass quickly and swipes a dribble from his scraggly beard. The cigarette drops from his fingers and sparks on the porch floor. This is going much faster than I expected.

            “Ops, get that for me, willya?”

            I pick up the butt and place it back between his trembling fingers.

            “Fill this glass. Ain’t you gonna smoke?”

            “I’m too old for that. I did enough of it when I was your age.”

            “What was it like when you were my age?”

            His question takes me by surprise. “Why, I was a lot like you.”

            “How?”

            “Just young. The world was my oyster.”

            “What’s a oyster?”

            “You’ve never had an oyster?”

            “Naw, I don’ even know wha’ tha’ is.”

            “Never mind, it’s just a figure of speech.”

            “Wha’s a ‘figger of speech’?

            “Well, it’s when you say something that represents something else.”

            He tips and swallows. “I betcha you could teach me a lot.” He belches loudly.

“If you wanted to learn, yes.”

“Right now I jus’ wanna--” The cigarette drops again, but this time he seems unaware. I move my calloused heel carefully to squash the ember. The tumbler is balanced precariously on his lap, his fingers lax upon its sides. His eyes are closed.

If he survives this, maybe I’ll tell him about high school dances and Chevys drag racing on country roads and JFK; maybe I’ll explain keggers and skinny dipping and the excitement of blasting the Rolling Stones from transistor radios. Maybe I’ll tell him about college and disco and my friends killed in the wars and air travel and the rise and fall of the American Empire. If he survives this humbling--

 Suddenly, the tumbler rolls from his lap and crashes miraculously intact onto the porch floor. Maybe they called it a tumbler for a reason.

He moans and lurches forward off the rocker, projectile vomiting over the porch railing. The back of his jeans fill with brown liquid, propelling a disgusting odor and saturating the denim all the way to his beat up sneakers. He seems not to notice as I jump up and free the knife from its sheath, flinging it into the side bushes. His energetic exploits persist until he slips exhausted to the floor in an agonized heap. He moans. He wails.

“You bitch! Uggghhh—“

I slide my rocker upwind of the stench, to the other side of the porch, and return for the box. Before it held tobacco, this was a shipping box for medicine, received by Grandpa’s pharmacy and considered only trash fit for the heap. How it’s survived all these years is beyond my simple comprehension. Sometimes the years tumble, too, I guess. I arrange the small pillow and sit back and roll myself a smoke. The moon is setting over in the west and the stars fading as the sky lightens. I can make out the cottonwood trees down by the stream. I take a shallow but satisfying hit. The breeze shifts and I catch a whiff of my young house guest. They’re all young these days.

Back when I first started to teach, they didn’t know that eggs came from chickens, that potatoes grew under the ground and that plants had chemicals that could not only keep one alive, but actually cure illness. They didn’t know why the few babies they were able to birth were dying shortly thereafter. They marveled at the pictures in the books but could barely apply the knowledge I translated from the pages. It is better now, they’re better. As their bodies improve, so does their humanity.

I inhale the sweet tobacco perfume. He retches weakly. I should’ve asked him his name. Funny I didn’t think of that.

I have books--lots and lots of books, to teach me what I haven’t already committed to memory. I used to worry about the library being stolen and then I realized that most of them can’t read well enough to decipher even the most simple of instructions. They need me to teach them the plants; how to concoct the elixirs. I have become an important and integral part of their New Society. We are under such time constraints here. If I take the time to teach them to read, they might die of starvation. I must let someone else take that burden, although I know not whom. My job is food and the preservation thereof. My job is to live long enough to see healthy babies. My job is the reason I’m still on this planet.

Randy the rooster begins his morning serenade. They will be here soon, dragging their attitudes. They will free the cows from the barn and milk them. They’ll shovel the shit and turn the compost, and pick the strawberries and grind the grain and bake the bread.

They’ll pull buckets of water from the well and wash the porch and bury the dead.

Shuddering and quivering, the boy’s body continues to leak its contents in an orgy of putridity. I rise and step around the mess to cork the bottle. I rescue my mother’s glass and toss what’s left of the wormwood tincture into the bushes after his vomit. I watch as he convulses one last time. Soon, I will experience a much milder version of this boy’s encounter with wormwood and expel any worms that may have made their home in my gut. Like any herbal medicine, wormwood is best ingested in tiny increments.