The Last Blue

by Isla Morley

  “People will thank me.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  “Shut her up.” He orders Faro to shove a rag in her mouth.

  She shakes her head wildly, pleading with them to stop, when Faro fetches a gasoline can.

  Faro mimics her, “Blahrahrahamama,” as he dribbles gasoline on her shoes.

  Please, not this.

  Fumes burn her nose and eyes, and she tears off, but lopsided running doesn’t take her far. She topples over again, a beetle upended.

  Faro drags her back to the puddle of gasoline, and she kicks at him and works the rag out of her mouth and screams again for help. Why doesn’t anyone come? Can’t anybody hear? She keeps screaming until Faro strikes the side of her head. Black and white spots appear. He shoves the rag back in her mouth. It takes every effort to make her eyes look in the same direction. Ten feet away, Ronny takes out a box of matches. He makes a big show of twirling a match between his fingers before lighting a cigarette.

  “Last words?” Faro suggests to Ronny, who blows out the match, and gestures for the rag to be pulled out of her mouth.

  “Help! Someone, help me! Help—”

  Faro plugs her mouth again.

  Ronny takes out another match. Nothing in all creation is as loud as the sound of a match striking tinder, not a tree toppling over or a mine collapsing. The earth could crack in two and it would not be nearly as loud as the roar of that one small flame.

  “Do it!” Faro says.

  “See you in hell, witch.” Ronny flicks the match.

  The ground seems to shrink away, but the tumbling match gains on it, and one small flare becomes a row of fiery fence rails headed her way. Stumbling backward, she tries stamping out the flames, and her shoes light up. The hem of her dress snags on a splinter of heat, and she reaches down to flick away the flames, then cover what the fire exposes.

  To her right, someone else is yelling, “Stop! Stop!”

  She turns. How could she have forgotten about this man even for a minute? Havens is sprinting toward her, bad foot and all, his face wrung with horror, and she wishes he didn’t have to see her like this. Better that he remember her after their loving, remember her leaning over his sprawled body and using her hair as a paint brush to draw hearts across his bare chest. Remember her in a state of being free.

  HAVENS

  Sweaty from fright and startled upright, Havens wakes again in Sylvia Fullhart’s guestroom to the smell of gasoline and singed hair and burned flesh, his ears ringing from gunshot. Two days have passed since he saw the flames engulf Jubilee’s boots, saw her hands pinned against her sides, saw her turn to him with that awful resignation, a look that broke him then and breaks him still. It must have been only seconds before he reached her, wrestled the tire off her head, and fell over her with his coat to smother the flames. Start to finish, the fiery ordeal must have lasted no more than a couple of minutes, but it might as well have gone on forever because one thing a fire burns away is all notion of time. In the smoldering replays, he flinches at the sound of gunfire, and watches as Faro catches a load of buckshot in the chest and crumples like a shabby load of laundry. A madwoman in a dirty nightgown advances, reloads, and aims her shotgun at the retreating shape of Ronny Gault, who drops to his knees. It’s only when the woman runs toward Havens and Jubilee that he recognizes her as Gladden Buford.

  Havens throws aside the covers, sits on the edge of the bed, and waits for his breathing to become more even and the room to settle back into its dimensions even as the loom of his memory keeps spinning those final moments.

  It was with a calm voice that he spoke to Jubilee, though he couldn’t be sure she heard or understood him. “You’re going to be okay, I’m here.” He lifted her, angry that there wasn’t even a scorch mark on the ground. In his arms, she seemed to be drifting far away. “Stay with me,” he insisted, noticing that Ronny was back on his feet again and staggering toward the bushes. It shames him, but just for a split second Havens considered putting Jubilee down and chasing after him. With Gladden Buford by Havens’s side, he carried Jubilee to the doctor’s office, terrified that if her attention was pulled away from him for even a fraction, he would lose her. Only once did he glance at her legs, but she didn’t ask him how bad and he didn’t have to lie. He paid no attention to the people clustered outside the clinic, their sympathy swinging too late in her favor, or the sheriff’s questions, or even the doctor tending her burns and requesting Havens wait behind the screen. He calculated how far Ronny might have gone with his injuries, concluding that if he raced back, he’d be able to catch him. “I’ll be right back,” Havens whispered in her ear. Closing her eyes, she said, “Please don’t leave me.” And what could he do but pledge to stay with her? He wanted so desperately to touch her, but he couldn’t think of anywhere his hand might light without hurting her, so he rested his forehead against hers.

  It takes this entire replay before Havens can put aside bitter thoughts of vengeance and anger, shake the lameness from his muscles, and set about fulfilling his promise, and still he gets up from the bed a divided man. One part of him would like to rush into offices and pound desks and insist on a better search party, and part of him would like to comb the woods himself for Ronny, but his most urgent desire is to be with her.

  Havens has never much given consideration to his appearance before, and though he could cut short his grooming in order to hasten to her side, he takes care so as to present his best possible self. For her, he shaves meticulously, trims his fingernails, and combs his hair. He uses Sylvia Fullhart’s polish to shine his shoes, and he puts on the clean damp shirt he laundered last night. He sets out for the holler a purposeful man.

  In the saddle, Buford is about to ride off his property when Havens arrives. Though he’s consented to it, Buford can’t find it easy to put up with these daily visits from Havens. He pulls up beside Havens, who dismounts and ties the horse to the porch rail.

  “That Tuttle’s mare?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re not wore out yet, trekking up and down this holler?”

  “No, sir.” Though he is grateful for the use of the horse, he’d crawl on his hands and knees if it came to it.

  “Word is Combs is taking you on at the post office.”

  Havens confirms his employment, adding that it will only be part-time initially. “I’ll still be able to come up here every day.”

  “So, you aim to stay.”

  “I love Jubilee. I understand that you can’t trust that, but I’m going to see to it that Jubilee never doubts it.”

  Buford repositions his hat. “You didn’t strike me as a man who could set his mind to something and see it through, but maybe I was wrong.”

  “You and I both know that if we subtract all my faults, I still won’t add up to the man Jubilee deserves.”

  Either Buford is sucking on that sore molar again or he’s stifling a smile. “Sheriff was up here yesterday after you left.”

  “Did Jubilee talk to him?” As far as Havens knows, Jubilee has yet to talk to anyone, even him.

  “Wouldn’t say a word. Socall thinks it’s shock and Gladden thinks it’s the syrup that the doctor’s given her for the pain, but I think it’s because Ronny’s still out there somewhere and she’s afraid her words will somehow get back to him.”

  Havens asks if Jubilee’s doing any better.

  “About the same as yesterday. Shaking’s not as bad, maybe.”

  Though he is anxious to go inside and see her, Havens asks whether it’s true that charges won’t be brought against Gladden, and Buford nods.

  “But I don’t expect she’ll ever be the old Gladden again. I tell myself just to enjoy those times she’s clear-headed.”

  Despite their differences, both men have come to understand that love does not insist on its own way. Love goes at the pace of the one most wounded.

  In a voice almost too low to be heard, Buford says, “I should’ve been the one to return the baby. I don�
��t know what I’ll do if Jubilee—”

  “Jubilee’s going to pull through this, you’ll see.”

  Sending a trail of tiny yellow leaves through the air is a frigid westerly, and on its heels a light drizzle. Havens offers to pick up supplies from Chance and spare Buford a trip, but the farmer says he’s not going to town.

  “If Ronny’s still alive, he better pray someone finds him before I do.”

  * * *

  Before entering her room, Havens watches her from the doorway. What seems like years ago he was the one ailing in bed. Buford has taken his advice and moved her bed beside the window so she can enjoy the view, as she is doing now with such longing, it seems, that it could shatter the pane. Havens marvels at the beauty before him, marks how the sunlight drapes over her shoulder. The buckled floor, the dilapidated walls, the cracked ceiling, all serve to highlight the perfection of one who can soften shadows and make corners curl in on themselves. Even the light cannot hold still around her. Her hair has fallen from its knot and obscures part of her face and neck.

  Aware of him now, she turns her face to the doorway and rewards him with a soft gaze.

  How he longs to touch even the scarred places. “Good morning, my lovely.”

  He hurries to her side, putting his copy of Audubon’s Birds of America on her lap. She runs her fingers across the cover, then leafs through the pages.

  “I marked which birds to watch for this time of year.” He points out the winter wren. “Tomorrow I’m going to hang a feeder out there so you’ll have a lot of company, and I’ve thought of bringing Thomas up for a visit.” He, Buford, and Socall take turns caring for her birds.

  Silently, she reads several entries before closing her eyes.

  He watches her sleep.

  A couple of times Gladden lingers in the doorway, once with plates for him and Jubilee, though he does little more than rearrange his food, and now with Willow-May, who has second thoughts about presenting Jubilee with her drawing of a rooster. Havens follows her outside and entices her into a game of tag, and while she is chasing him past the vegetable patch, Reverend Tuttle and Sarah pull up in the horse-drawn wagon. By the time Havens reaches the porch, the exchange between Gladden, the preacher, and his daughter has resulted in Sarah letting Gladden hold her baby before slipping into the house.

  “He’s gotten so heavy,” Gladden remarks.

  “All he does is eat,” says Reverend Tuttle. Neither of them takes their eyes off the child.

  Sarah is sitting on the bed beside Jubilee, and Havens explains about Jubilee’s silence.

  “When she’s ready, she’ll talk,” Sarah says.

  Everything Sarah describes about Lenny has Jubilee’s full attention, but as soon as the frightful ordeal is referenced, she turns her head. At the mention of her assailant’s name, the tremors start up again.

  “Let’s leave that subject for another time,” Havens suggests.

  “No, that’s why I’ve come.” Leaning close to Jubilee, she moves aside her hair. What she whispers makes Jubilee grow still and her eyes widen. She pulls the covers up over her mouth.

  Sarah, meanwhile, with heavy-lidded eyes, appears imperturbable. “Do you understand?”

  In reply, Jubilee places her bandaged hand on Sarah’s lap.

  Sarah promises Jubilee she’ll visit again in a few days, adding, “You’ve got yourself a good man here; let him take care of you.”

  Havens stops Sarah in the breezeway. “What was that about Ronny?”

  “I told her she doesn’t have to worry about him anymore, that’s all.”

  “How do you know? Has he been caught?” Havens thinks immediately of Buford, who has yet to return.

  Sarah sees her father beckon her to come, and without another word, she hurries to his side and waits for him to deliver the baby from Gladden’s arms to hers.

  * * *

  Today, when Havens arrives at the Bufords’, Jubilee is sitting on a chair beside the chestnut tree, her bandaged feet propped up on a stool. She is facing east, her head tipped to the weak morning sun, her hair loose and gleaming. Havens dismounts, ties up the horse, and keeps himself from breaking into a run. She turns her pale green eyes to him, and he is a book falling open to the savored verse.

  He holds out the canvas sack. “I brought you something.”

  “What is it?”

  In a gush of optimism, he wants to say, My darling, my beloved, how much I’ve missed hearing your voice, how lovely you are, how afraid I’ve been that you’d changed your mind about me, but he knows he must go slow. “See for yourself.”

  Her fingers graze his as she takes her gift. She peeks inside. “Bulbs.”

  “Hyacinth bulbs,” he specifies. “And they’re ready for planting.”

  She thanks him and sets the bag on her lap. “I’m afraid I’m not very good company.”

  Grateful, light-headed, every hope renewed, he says, “We needn’t talk. I could just sit beside you for a while.”

  Because she does not object, he hurries to retrieve a chair from the porch, where Buford is restringing Levi’s guitar.

  “Tuttle’s asked if we’d consider passing this on to the boy. Poor kid’s going to have lessons whether he likes it or not.” Nothing of yesterday’s vigilante mood is present today. Havens asks what he makes of the fact that Ronny is still at large, despite what Sarah implied, and all Buford will say on the matter is, “I expect he’ll turn up soon enough.”

  Havens returns to Jubilee’s side. In the quiet they sit. Where she looks, he looks. Twice she turns to him and he is quick to match her gaze, looking away only after she does. When the shadows begin to shorten, she finally speaks. “Willow-May started school today.”

  “That is such wonderful news. Was she nervous?”

  “The rest of us were, but she was raring to go before the sun even came up. Pa told her there was no need to show up at the schoolhouse an hour before the teacher, but he ended up taking her anyway.”

  He loves the sound of her voice. She could read him the Farmer’s Almanac and he would be rapt.

  She takes up with her own thoughts, and after a while, she asks, “Would you help me inside?”

  She is so light in his arms.

  “Your hand,” she says, referring to his burns.

  “Nothing about you brings me pain,” he replies.

  When he lays her on her bed, she says, “Goodbye, Havens.”

  He says, “See you tomorrow, Jubilee.”

  * * *

  So it goes for the rest of the week. Each day he comes to the house and they sit beside the tree, which donates the last of its leaves for a carpet for her feet. You can no more measure what exchanges between them in these long loose morning silences than you can weigh the notes of a symphony to determine its heft. To an outsider, the only observable difference is the distance between their chairs—each visit he places his a little closer to hers, until the day when their chairs touch. On that day, he reached out and took her hand, and she didn’t pull it away.

  She tells him about her bird sightings and Willow-May’s adventures in school, and he tells her about learning the ropes of the postal service. Not once does she revisit that fateful day and Havens never mentions Ronny or the investigation. But he is of two minds today. Before leaving the boarding house this morning, Havens had been summoned into the parlor to face another round of questions from Sheriff Suggins, even though he’d twice gone to the station, once to give a detailed statement of what he’d witnessed, and a second time to inquire about any developments in the case. Today, the sheriff had asked for an account of Havens’s whereabouts, from the time he’d last seen Ronny to the present time, which is how Havens knew something had changed.

  “Have I done something wrong?” he asked the sheriff.

  “That’s what I’d like you to tell me.” Sheriff Suggins explained that Ronny’s body had been found at dawn. “You knew the location of his hideout, I’m told.”

  Havens had to be reminded that Ron
ny’s hideout was where he and Chappy had found Jubilee and Levi tied up nearly five months ago. “You’re assuming I could find my way back there.” Surely others in town knew of its location, and as soon as he raised this point, the sheriff rebutted by saying, “Others in town don’t have the motive you did.”

  “To do what exactly?”

  “Track Ronny down and put a bullet in his neck.”

  Coming to Havens’s defense, Sylvia Fullhart said everyone in Chance had a gun and she could think of a number of people who could’ve pulled the trigger. “It’s just a shame that Gladden’s buckshot didn’t do the job in the first place.”

  What flashed through Havens’s mind were Sarah’s cryptic words of assurance, the strange expression on Reverend Tuttle’s face when she returned to his side, and Buford with a rifle tucked behind his saddle. And hadn’t Socall also led a search party of tenant farmers all eager to claim the bounty she’d put on Ronny’s head?

  “I don’t even own a gun,” Havens told the sheriff. Having no alibi for large chunks of his time was more damning, however, than having no weapon.

  If this were Dayton or Cincinnati or any other big city, a murder charge would have to be built on facts, evidence, eyewitnesses. Rewind policing and legal practices back a hundred or two hundred years, and what you have is a police force comprising one man with a tarnished badge who has a professed reliance on his hunches and a deep distrust of outsiders, what he termed as “men with no standing.”

  Were Havens to tell Jubilee he is the prime suspect in the murder of Ronny Gault, it would only cause her distress, so Havens instead asks if she’s ever given consideration to living somewhere else. As long as they are together, Havens could move out to where there’s nothing but saguaros, igloos, even.

  “Levi and I would sometimes lie under the trees and dream up places where we’d like to live. His places always had castles or buildings that touched the clouds or cities that floated out in the middle of the ocean, and my places always looked more or less like here. He’d get mad at me and tell me to think of something grand, so I’d think my hardest and come up with a stable for a hundred horses or a great big pond and no winter so the geese wouldn’t have to leave.”