Dandelions in Paradise

by Kit Duncan

The dirt road intersected with another dirt road. We turned to the right and walked another couple of miles before we came to the outskirts of a small community. A green sign welcomed us.

  Paradise Lost and Found Population: 1,471, When Everyone's Home. Est. 1847.

  "That's the name of your town?" I asked as we passed the sign. 'Paradise Lost and Found?'"

  Silas scoffed a little and said, "No, that's just a little eternal humor. The name of the town is Wilsonville, but Cory Larson thinks that name is dull, and every time we put up a new sign he slips out here and replaces it. About five years ago we just gave up and left his silly sign up."

  The sidewalks were planks, with awnings over them. At first glance, I felt like I was stepping onto a Hollywood set filming a Western. But as we walked a little further it seemed more like a mid nineteen-fifties town, the sort of place you'd expect Beaver Cleaver and his family to live in. There were a few side streets, houses with painted clapboard siding, white picket fences, brightly painted shutters. The main street had an assortment of shops, a post office, a newspaper, two hotels, and an old fashioned Opera House. The marquee above the door read, "South Pacific. Tuesday through Friday. Matinee on Saturday. Tickets on Sale Today."

  "Sallie wants to see that. Better stop while I remember," Silas said, and he walked up to the ticket window. I didn't see him give the booth attendant any money, but when he walked back toward me he was putting the tickets in his pocket. "I got three, just in case you want to join us. You like Rodgers and Hammerstein Two?"

  "Too?"

  "No, Two. Oscar Hammerstein. He was a second."

  "Yes, I do," I said. "Never saw South Pacific, though. But it was Mom's favorite show of all time."

  "Oh, it's okay, I guess. I like a little more drama, a little less lovey-dovey silliness. But Sallie, she loves this stuff. She went with me a few summers ago when they were doing Death of a Salesman, though. Now there's a play that'll snatch you by the throat."

  We walked by a two story stone building. A large brass sign by the door read, "Wilsonville Public Libra." The last two letters were missing.

  "Cory Larson's handiwork?" I asked, nodding toward the sign.

  Silas looked, frowned, and said, "'Fraid so. He likes one of the librarians who was born in October in her last life, and he thinks altering the sign where she works is amusing. They're supposed to fix it sometime next week. Someone needs to bat that boy upside the head. I said as much once, at a town meeting. But no, pretty much the rest of the town disagreed, said he has a 'good heart.' Well," Silas giggled low. "I guess that's true. Boy'd do just about anything for anyone. And around here, a good heart will get you through a lot of crap. Still," Silas grumbled again, "I wish he'd take up another hobby."

  We passed two women and a little girl, about eight years old. They said hi to Silas as we walked by, and he smiled warmly at them. Across the street, two men were playing checkers, and another man was standing behind one of them. I over heard the man standing up say, "No, not there, George! He'll corner you!" One of the men at the table glared up at him and hissed through gritted teeth, "Tom, quit telling me where to move. You're worse than a…."

  Their voices trailed off then, and I wondered what Tom was worse than.

  "Ah, here we are." Silas stopped in front of a whitewashed frame building. The sign, painted in a beautiful oak finish wood, said, "Genial Story."

  "General Store?" I interpreted.

  Silas sighed and answered, "Yes. McMillan finally got tired of replacing the old signs. Every time he did Cory'd just defile it. We talked with Cory about it and he said that 'Genial Story' was more descriptive, said folks came here to talk more than buy. I reckon every soul, even in Paradise, gets to have at least one vice. So anyway, McMillan had this one made a few years back, and so far Cory's left it alone.

  "Cory's a fine enough young man, I guess," Silas concluded, "but my goodness, I'll be glad when he decides to reincarnate!"

  We entered the little store, and my first thought was that, all vandalism aside, Cory Larson was right. The room was abuzz with voices and laughter. Three men and two women were sitting in straight whicker chairs around a stove pipe, another group of people were sitting at a table eating pie and drinking lemonade, and there were several small clumps of people talking with one another. A group of four children rushed past us and out the door, laughing and giggling as they crashed through the double screen door.

  A tall woman who appeared to be in her mid to late thirties was behind the counter. She handed a white packet to another woman, then looked at us as we approached the counter.

  "Afternoon, Mrs McMillan," Silas said. "Sallie wants two loaves of that blue-green yarn."

  "Two spiels of teal?" the woman asked.

  "Whatever."

  Mrs McMillan went around the counter and disappeared behind a small group of people. She returned a moment later. "This do?" She showed Silas the yarn.

  "I reckon it will."

  Mrs McMillan wrapped the yarn in white paper and handed it to Silas. "What's Sallie making now?"

  "Another afghan," Silas sighed.

  He introduced me to Mrs McMillan, and she reached over the counter and shook my hand warmly.

  "Staying long?" she asked.

  "I'm not sure," I replied. I was confused about how "long" was defined in eternity. Silas smiled at my confusion, put his hand on my shoulder and escorted me out the store.

  We were nearly back to the bluebonnet farm when I observed, "You didn't pay for anything."

  "What's that?" Silas asked.

  "For the tickets or the yarn," I said. "I didn't see you pay for them."

  "Oh," Silas grinned. "I paid for them alright. Ain't no free lunch, even in eternity." He didn't say anything else, as if he had explained the matter thoroughly.

  "I didn't see you give Mrs McMillan any money," I persisted. "Or the lady in the ticket booth."

  "Well," Silas said, his voice not very stern but a little frustrated nonetheless. "I paid for it. You newbies. You're so narrow sometimes."

  "But I don't understand," I whined. I knew I was irritating him, but I really wanted to know how Silas had paid for the tickets and the yarn.

  He stopped walking and looked at me with sober eyes. He sighed deeply, then his shoulders relaxed and he smiled again.

  "I'm sorry. I can be so impatient. Sallie says that's why we keep getting so many newbies lately, says I need to develop more patience. She's probably right. I'm sorry."

  He walked again, and I followed. After a little while he said, "Economic exchanges are universal. But currency from one society to another tends to be unique. Our currency in eternity is just, well, different than what you're used to."

  "But I didn't see you exchange anything," I protested. "Not with either one of them."

  "Didn't see!?!" Silas stopped and glared at me. "How in the name of all that is holy could you not see! I was as charming as the day is long! Didn't you see me being a big ol' sweetheart! My God, I was so pleasant I about choked on my own kindness!"

  I'm not accustomed to being yelled at, and I told Silas so. Just because I was new to eternity, I said hotly, did not give him the right to scream at me. If he couldn't be civil, I said, maybe he needed to just have me assigned to someone else.

  My tone was low and slow, the way it gets when I'm extremely agitated. If I don't speak low and slow when I'm angry I'm liable to start talking loud and fast, and then I become harsh, and next thing you know I'm having to apologize. I do not like to apologize. So, when I'm angry I speak low and slow.

  Besides, it's a control thing. You talk low and slow and your audience has to bend in to hear you.

  Silas leaned his ear toward me to catch my final few words. "What's that?" he asked. "I didn't hear the last part."

  "I said you're an ass!" and I stomped away from him.

  Silas caught up with me a little while later, just before we reached the bluebonnet meadow. I ignored him, and as we walked by the mailbox he caught my elbow.
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br />   "Look," he swung me gently around toward him. "I really am sorry. You just explain all this to newbies over and over and over, you get kind of aggravated."

  "Well," I said, without much feeling. "I'm sorry for being an annoyance." I stomped away, and I heard him follow, then he stopped, grabbed the contents from the mail box, and ran up behind me.

  "Look," Silas' voice sounded contrite. "You're not annoying, really. Truly. It's me. I'm just going through some changes, that's all. Ask me anything. I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

  I stopped and looked at Silas. "Well, I want to know everything, I suppose," I said. "I'm flooded with questions. All I asked about right then, though, was about the money. That's all." I walked toward the house, and he followed.

  Just as we reached the porch, I heard Silas' voice behind me.

  "Hey, Newbie!" he called at me.

  I turned around and folded my arms defiantly.

  "Ever hear of Nietzsche?"

  CHAPTER SEVEN