The Pumpkin Tender had become indispensable.
And, perhaps, today would be the one day in the year he would be truly happy.
He thought it might be. The way the sun was rising, the cleanness of the atmosphere, the warm/cold snap in the air, gave him hope. It would have to be today, because he felt rain behind this weather, which meant that if tomorrow was the day he would lose it.
He stood up.
No, today was the day. He was sure.
He left the Army blanket in a heap and began the long, limping trek to the High Spot. He didn’t think about this. Like an animal drawn to a spawning ground, he took step after step toward his goal.
His leg began to ache after a half hour, but he ignored it. He passed Froelich’s farm stand, passing behind the building so he wouldn’t have to interact with the old man — but Froelich was in the back, unloading potato sacks from the back of his pickup truck.
“This the day, Aaron?” the old man said, stopping his work. He was overweight and already perspiring.
Aaron nodded curtly and limped on.
There was an understanding tone in Froelich’s voice. “Maybe I’ll join you up there later, after you’ve been alone with it awhile.”
The Pumpkin Tender made a sound in the back of his throat, and kept walking. Froelich had never joined him, and was just being polite.
The sun was higher now, and the sky was an achingly clear blue. The chill had dissipated. It would be even warmer than he thought — maybe up into the low 50s. Nothing like it had been in early October, but still nice for this time of year.
He brought his felt hat off his head with his left hand, mopped his sweaty face with it and pushed it back onto his head.
The ground was now steadily ascending.
Already if he turned around he would be above the valleys which surrounded Orangefield. Beyond those valleys were either softly rolling hills or a few higher spots, only one of which could be considered a mountain. It wasn’t tall enough to be named, but was high enough to afford a view of the entire area.
Halfway up the mountain, and by his reading of the sun just before noon, he stopped. His leg from the hip to his rebuilt ankle was on fire. He sat down in a hollow under a tree; the spot was filled with red and gold leaves and he was able to nest down into it and stretch his leg out.
He was thirsty and hungry, and had neither food nor water. There was a stream a little way on but he had been warned not to drink from it — the one time he had done so his stomach had been turned inside-out for three days.
The red and gold leaves reminded him of fire, as if his leg was burning in them.
Abruptly the leaves began to remind him of fire itself, of burning up his leg and the ripping sound of his own flesh being torn away, and he reached down and brushed all the leaves away from his legs.
He was facing away from the sun.
His leg began to feel better, a lessening of the fire, and he lay back and became comfortable in the warmth and the lessening of pain.
He closed his eyes, and soon fell asleep.
He dreamed, and for once the dream was almost a pleasant one to begin with, blue and white and he was in the clouds, flying above a flaming earth, none of the heat reaching him, it was cool and he was comfortable and floated with no effort or fear.
And then the world below him went suddenly dark and the fires went away without leaving smoke, and the clouds were gone and the sky around him became darker and darker, and he was surrounded by black and cold and was falling, trying to scream and nothing came out—
He awoke with a start, and called out from his ruined mouth. For a moment he was disoriented. He heard a crackling sound, and felt leaves behind his head, and saw his legs in the cleared-out spot.
He became very agitated — the light around him was deeper than it should be.
Alarmed, he stood up, feeling a fresh hot bolt of pain through his leg. He ignored it. He hobbled out of the hollow spot, onto the path again, and faced the sun.
It was past its height, and moving down in its arc toward the west in the late of day. And, in the west, clouds were already forming on the line of the horizon, rising like yeast to meet the approaching sun.
He had slept for hours.
He wanted to cry. He had missed the height of the sun.
Steeling himself, he turned to the upward path and limped onto it.
Perhaps it was not too late.
His leg quickly became a pure hot pain with each step. He gritted his teeth and ignored it. After a while he heard an anguished sound which fell into step with him — he realized the cries were his own loud grunts at the pace he’d set.
But he could now see the summit above him, growing closer with each burning step.
He came around a wind in the path, circumventing a stand of leafless trees, and saw the flat top of the mountain a matter of twenty yards ahead.
His leg folded under him, and he fell.
A sound like a strangled cry came from his mouth. His leg felt as if it had been dipped into acid.
He tried to get up, but fell back again.
The sun was descending toward the west, darkening with late autumn day — soon it would be twilight.
He tried again to rise, and failed.
He began to sob.
Suddenly there were hands beneath his armpits, pulling him up.
“Can’t have you missin’ your favorite day of the year, can we, Aaron?”
He was on his feet, and supported. He turned to see old Froelich’s face next to his own.
The old man looked suddenly embarrassed at the intimacy, and turned away. But his grip on Aaron was like iron. “Don’t worry ’bout it, son. Just thought you were in an extra bit of difficulty with the leg this year, when you went by the stand. Thought it was time I see this sight myself, anyways. So I took the truck up as far as I could, walked the rest. Thought you’d be up and gone by now. And if you weren’t…” He shrugged, looked Aaron in the face again.
“Let’s have us a look, shall we?” Froelich said.
With the old man’s help, the Pumpkin Tender suddenly found himself on top of the mountain, looking down at the valleys which surrounded Orangefield — the scores of pumpkin fields and patches which merged into an orange circle, a ring of fire, the sight of thousands of unpicked pumpkins in the late sun. It was even more magnificent than it would have been at noon — the deep tone of setting Sol making the fields seem to be lit from within.
“Well I’ll be damned, I will,” old Froelich said in amazement. “I had no idea it would be this beautiful, Aaron. And it’s all your doing, boy. All those clean, beautiful pumpkins yet to be picked….” He laughed. “Hell, we could sell tickets to this, it’s so beautiful.”
There were tears in the Pumpkin Tender’s eyes. His mouth opened and a little gasping sound came out.
“That’s all right son,” Froelich said, tightening his grip under Aaron’s arms. “You just stand there and enjoy it. Hell, it’s gonna rain tomorrow, and then picking in earnest will start. This’ll all be gone for another year.”
The sun sank into imperceptible twilight, and the ring of fire’s glow faded, like cooling embers.
“I’ll be damned,” the old farmer repeated, his voice fading like the light.
They stood together silently for a moment; the sun dropped into the clouded horizon, and the glow disappeared, dying light.
“Come on, son,” Froelich said, trying to urge the Pumpkin Tender to turn away. “Time we went back down. The truck’s just a little ways down the path.”
Aaron wouldn’t move. There were tears on his face, and his weight caused the old man to let go of his grip and gently lower him to the ground.
“Gonna stay up here tonight, Aaron?” Froelich asked. He knew from experience not to try to fight the Pumpkin Tender’s impulses. “All right, then. Just in case, I went and got your spare Army blanket from the spot in the shed where you keep your stuff. It’s in the truck, let me get it.”
&nbs
p; The old man wandered off down the path, returned a few minutes later.
Aaron, on the ground, his legs folded awkwardly, felt the blanket go around his shoulders.
“You take care up here, boy. Try to rest that leg of yours.”
Aaron heard the old man’s steps retreat, heard the rumbling roar of the truck’s engine a few moments later — the protesting grind of changed gears, the crunch of tires turning. Headlights stabbed through the growing dark above his head, arced away. In a moment he heard the truck change gears again, the fading sound of its engine as it made its rumbling way down the mountain.
He was alone with the coming night. Already the line of clouds in the west had eaten the sun, were climbing up the sky, eating away early stars.
The ring of fire around Orangefield, which now blinked on its own electric lights against the night, was gone.
Tears continued to dry on the Pumpkin Tender’s face.
His hands beneath the blanket gripped and ungripped.
Inside his head the voice, the same voice which had been talking to him since Froelich had lifted him up, had continued to talk to him insistently, soothingly, with command, as he had tried to enjoy the ring of fire of his own making, still talked to him. It was the clearest thing he had heard since Somalia, and he knew if it kept up he would listen to it—
Remember me? it said.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lists.
While he buried the headless animal, Jordie thought about all the lists he kept. There was the comic book list — his favorites, beginning with The Fantastic Four and ending, at the very bottom, with Batman. There was a lot in between but Batman was the only D.C. title in the bunch, and just barely. He had liked the movies more than the books, but there was something about the character that he just couldn’t dismiss. Maybe it was the fact that Batman was just a man with a neat suit. No super powers, no glowing rocks, no fast-motion — just a man with a mission.
Man with a mission.
Jordie kept lots of other lists: lists of what to get at the store, of what parts he needed to order for his turntables — needles, especially, he needed new needles for his cartridges, his vinyl was starting to sound a bit distorted — a list of what needed to be done around the house. That was the one he hated the most — but one, now that he thought about it, that he didn’t have to bother with anymore. Mom and Aunt Binny had worked long and hard on that one — but, well, he just wouldn’t bother with it anymore.
The animal’s torso was covered with dirt; he wondered idly if he’d dug deep enough but decided that, hell, that sounded too much like a chore so what he’d done was good enough.
“You don’t work, you don’t go to school, you don’t do anything around the house—” his mother was fond of saying.
“Look, Ma, I’m doin’ a chore!” he answered, giggling.
Man, it was cold. He looked down at himself and saw that he was naked, smeared with blood. The sun had gone down. It had still been up when he started digging, but now it was dark and getting chilly. It had been warm as hell a few weeks ago, but now it was really October. He stood up, dropped the shovel and dusted his hands, turning toward the house.
Lists.
There was something else he was supposed to do.
He looked down on the ground, looking for the list, but couldn’t locate it.
He shrugged, walked into the house, turning lights on as he went. He had a joint somewhere, where was it? He couldn’t remember. He vaguely remembered smoking three or four in the morning, afternoon. And there had been a pint of Vodka in there somewhere, or had it been a fifth…
The house was a mess, kitchen chairs turned over, table on its side, blood smears on the white floors, walls, refrigerator, everywhere. The head of a cat stared at him from the kitchen counter, next to the toaster oven. Another, larger head was next to it. A second animal, what looked like a mouse but was actually a squirrel, lay eviscerated on the toaster oven’s open door.
He laughed at the mouse/cat thing.
The rest of the house, living and dining room, was a mess, too — some broken furniture, the couch with a burn mark in the center cushion, a scatter of feathers in the fireplace —
The bathroom, at least, was clean.
He took a slow shower, letting warm and then hot water sluice over him, scrubbing himself with Ivory soap. He still couldn’t remember what the other list had said. He knew he should, but his head was just too cloudy—
He let hot, steamy water run into his face, onto his shaggy head of hair.
Got to remember, got to—
It almost came to him, then danced off into the back of his mind again. Finally he shut off the water with an angry, squeaky turn of the handle, got out of the shower and stood before the mirror.
Lettered on the steamed surface in a bold hand was: IN YOUR ROOM.
“Yeah?” he said, out loud.
Then, in his head, the voice fighting through all the static: Go to your room, Jodie.
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
Not bothering to towel himself off, he padded out of the bathroom, pushing aside a broken end table that had somehow found its way in front of his bedroom, and opened the door.
The usual mess inside, nothing more: unmade bed, vinyl records scattered on the floor, a pair of Timberlake boots in front of the open, cluttered closet, his turntables neat and clean on their industrial-sized folding table flanking stacked amp and mixer, huge JBL dj speakers to either side on the carpeted floor.
He switched the rig on — forgetting about the voice, the list.
The amp hummed up into life, and he opened the turn covers; one already had an lp on it, gangster rap, and he slapped an R&B record pulled at random from the nearest sleeve onto the other.
He let the rap record dash into its angry opening, then abruptly switched over with the mixer to the mild rhythm and blues record. Snorting satisfaction, he kept it there, a soft crooning voice flowing from the excellent speakers.
“Awwright!”
Find the list, Jordie.
“Right. Sure.”
And there it was, right in front of him, on top of the amp, taped down and neat as can be. Next to it was another piece of paper which looked older, folded over and taped closed.
At the bottom of the list was: Mom, followed by Aunt Binny, then a list of large animals ascending to Cat and Squirrel at the top.
So that had been what he was burying — the cat’s body.
Rusty, his name was.
Had been.
You didn’t listen to me, Jordie.
Jordie shrugged, hardly listening; he was mouthing the words of the R&B song.
You didn’t follow my directions.
The needle abruptly scratched all the way across the surface of the vinyl, then lifted by itself and was set firmly in its cradle.
Jordie watched this in horror, complained, “Hey! Those things cost money!”
The amp switched itself off.
Listen to me, Jordie.
“Bullshi—”
The electrical cord from the amp pulled itself from the back of the machine, frayed into two separate wires, touched Jordie’s still dripping leg.
A shock went through him, up his body into his neck.
He found himself on the floor, trembling, a red raw welt on his leg where the wires had touched.
Listen.
“Yeah. Okay.” His voice was weak, suddenly frightened.
Get dressed.
“Sure. Whatever you say.”
Yes, Jordie, whatever I say. From now on.
He dressed quickly, jeans, shirt, Timberlakes.
Take the list. Go into the living room.
Head clear now, hands still trembling, Jordie reached for the taped, closed list on the amp.
Not that one. The first one.
“Sure.” Jodie took the original list.
Now go into the living room and clean up.
“Right.” He stumbled out of his bedroom, down the hall a
nd into the living room.
His mother’s headless body was in front of the couch, Aunt Binny’s body sprawled in a wing chair facing the fireplace.
You were supposed to start at the top of the list, Jordie. Not the bottom.
“Huh?”
And I told you to spread it out over the next few days, ease into it slowly.
“Really?”
I didn’t expect you to be so… eager — and so fast.
Jordie shrugged idly. “Whatever.”
That’s not good enough. I’m going to give you a second chance, but I want you to do everything I say. Do you agree?
Jordie heard the sound of something sliding up the hallway, looked to see the electrical cord, two bare wires poised like a coiled python in the opening to the living room. The other end of the cord slid into view like a snake and plugged itself with a snick into a wall outlet just inside the room.
“Gottcha. Whatever you say.”
Go back into your bedroom and look at the second list taped to your amp.
“Sure. Right away.”
Jordie moved out of the room, giving the electrical cord a wide berth — its bare-wired ends, like slitted copper eyes hanging in the air, followed his movements.
He stumbled backwards into his room, went to the amp and pulled off the second list.
Open it up.
“No problem.”
The electrical cord had followed him, was in the doorway, watching.
He opened the piece of paper, stared at it. It had been folded many times, was creased through some of the writing, which had faded it. Its edges were frayed. It was in a different hand than the other list, which, now that he concentrated on it, he remembered writing himself.
The Orangefield Cycle Omnibus Page 13
