Soldiers and Dandelions
by Tessa Blue Jones
The sun rides high, at its pinnacle, shining down bright and hot on a cloudless, windy day. I keep my head down low, stepping off the sidewalk into a sea of sand surrounding the lone bus bench. The brisk wind whips the grains of sand into a stinging fury, attacking arms and the backs of legs. Eyes half close against the onslaught, each grain finding its way through my eyelashes feeling like a boulder, massive and heavy. My hair tosses in the stiff breeze, becomes a careless tangle.
I sit down on the weathered wooden planks of the bus bench and wait. Another blast of wind and I bow my head against it, tasting grit in my mouth.
My slit eyes catch yellow movement at the juncture of bus-bench leg and ridged-up sand. It’s a dandelion, nestled amongst fluttering jagged leaves, yellow head bobbing on a skinny green stem. Dent de lion. Lion’s tooth. Noxious weed, according to some. To me, a beautiful flower. Hardy, too, growing in the middle of well-kept lawns, seas of sand, the sides of roadways, even in the cracks of sidewalks. Or at the feet of bus benches.
I slide off the bench, crouch down and touch a thin yellow petal. My fingers tremble. My mind skitters backward, whirling, to a younger time, and the fingers touching the dandelion become chubby and soft and clumsy.
The sun disappears and the wide, little-kid smile turns to an O of terror as a man looms over me. Daddy. I feel him jerk me to my feet, and as he drags away my struggling body, he flattens my beautiful dandelion with a careless foot. Cringing, I stare up at him. Fear. So much fear. And after the fear, pain. He whispers to me in a thundering voice. (Be a good soldier.)
My heart drums in my chest as I return to the present. It’s hard to breathe. Tears trickle slowly down my face. Glancing around, I see that no one else is at the stop, and none of the speeding cars seem to have noticed me crouching in the dirt, touching a dandelion wedged at the concrete base of an old bus bench.
I sigh with relief, and start to get up, but another blast of wind sends the yellow flower twitching and bobbing. A shift in the mind, and I’m nine years old, staring out the bedroom window, tummy growling, oh so hungry. Legs heavy, feeling like dead wood nailed to my hips. Day 24 without food. A test from God, Daddy says, to see if we are good soldiers. And in the unkempt back yard, dandelions spring up in riotous clumps of jagged green leaves, bright yellow flowers, and white puff-balls ready to explode in the springtime breeze.
A giggle brings me back to the bus stop, and I see a tangle of white and green and blue. A little girl in green shorts and tee-shirt, her hair a cloud of short blonde curls, clinging to her mother’s jeans. The little girl is staring at me, amused (look at the funny lady, mommy.) The mother, I can tell, is not so amused.
I try to get up, so I can dust myself off and appear somewhat normal, but I just don’t have the energy. I sink back down on my heels, squatting there, yet another slide of my past slipping into my viewer brain. Click.
Daddy going through his “dark time.” Again. His broken mind dips into the pit of hell. Reads a sign from God, written in veins across his own forehead. God gives him his instructions. He reaches for me, and I cry out. (Be a good soldier.) When the fear consumes me, and I can’t breathe anymore, Tracker comes. Tracker, a strong, tough, young man. Grim. Tracker reads signs, too. He sees Daddy tracks. Tracker never smiles, but he knows how to get through the things that Daddy does to us. He’s brave. Fearless. He plucks a dandelion and puts it in my tiny hand, and sends me off to sit on StoryTeller’s knee. The fear and pain ebb away to nothing as I bury my nose into velvety-soft petals and listen to a story of long ago and far away and once upon a time. When the story ends and I come back, I wonder at the soreness, the smell, the bruises. And where’s Tracker? I look for him but he’s nowhere to be found. I miss my friend. Even if he doesn’t smile.
Two sharp blasts from a car horn and I’m back at the bus stop. My knees are stiff from crouching in the sand. The blonde, curly-headed child, still with her mother. The mother looks at me strangely, and shields the child from me with her body, as if afraid that I might hurt her. I laugh at the thought, but it turns to a sob somehow, strangling in the back of my throat.
Hurtling back through time, I’m hiding behind my mother’s legs, wanting to disappear while the monster-daddy hunts for me. He is close. I can smell him. I hear the belt slide whisper-soft through the loops of his pants, and mother steps away, giving me to him. No, mommy, please. (Be a good soldier.)
Suddenly I’m the deep end of a pool. I can’t swim, and terror washes over me as a large daddy hand grabs the top of my head, pushing me under. I thrash my chubby legs and my tiny hands try to push the weight off the top of my head. My lungs burn for air. As he yanks me up by my hair, I hear his maniacal laughter, and the words, “baptism.” I do not understand. I gasp and choke. (Be a good soldier.)
Again at the bus stop. I take several deep breaths, as if to reassure myself that I can indeed breathe. The little girl cries at the sand blowing in her eyes. I look up and whisper, “Be a good soldier.” Mother and child move to the far end of the patchy sand, close enough to run to the bus when it arrives, far enough away to be out of reach of the wild-eyed, tangled-hair woman squatting at the base of the concrete bus bench, muttering while she fondles the petals of a many-bladed flower.
(Be a good soldier. Be a good soldier. Be a good soldier.) It echoes through my head and I wonder - a good soldier? What is that? A soldier kills or is killed. What’s so good about that? Why did Daddy always insist upon it? I shiver in the hot sun, and watch idly as the wind blows and a dandelion seed from a puff-ball floats in from somewhere far away, a tiny parachute delivering a seed of life to this dusty Texas town.
It lands close by my dandelion, and I push a few grains of sand over it to hold it still. A partner, I tell the flower at my feet. It nods its yellow head in gratitude.
A squeal of brakes startles me, and as I look up, I see that the bus has come. The little girl and her mother are already boarding. I rush to get on. One single backward glance reveals the dandelion, standing tall and tough in its blustery, sandy world. I climb the steps, slip some change into the slot of the metal box. As I make my way to the back of the bus, I stare at my lone dandelion through graffiti-scratched windows.
As the bus pulls away, I’m sad for a moment at the loss of my dandelion. But then a voice whispers to me (Tracker, is that you?) and says, “Don’t you get it? You are the dandelion.”
Me? I am the dandelion? The understanding ebbs and flows for a moment, my mind a tidal pool. Then I grin. I stomp my feet. I throw my head back and laugh. Me. Yes. I am the dandelion. I am strong. I am tough. I am even pretty to some.
Then I get mad. I yell in a fit of rage, “Daddy! Can you hear me? Listen up! You can try to destroy me. But you can’t kill me. My soul runs as strong and tough and deep as the roots of the dandelion. I will survive. I have survived.”
I laugh again, and pound hard on the vinyl seats of the bus. I notice that everyone has shifted, moving to the front, vacating the entire back of the bus (look at that funny lady, mommy.) Oh, dear.
Off the bus, and into a tall building, all glass and steel and fluorescent lights. It’s dim and cool and quiet inside. I ride the elevator to the third floor, fidgeting until the doors whoosh open. I run down the hall, burst into the office and blurt out, “I may not be a good soldier, but I’m a damn good dandelion.”
My shrink, with his carefully schooled, blank face, just nods his head and says, “I see.”
Second Honeymoon
by Cheryll (Gabby) Ganzel
Sara joined Matt on the fur throw rug in front of the fireplace. Matt laughed and poured her a glass of wine.
“I can tell this is our second honeymoon and not our first. Blue fleece footy pj’s? The penguins are cute, but not exactly sexy.”
“It was a lot warmer on our first honeymoon,” Sara replied. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into coming here. We could be halfway to Jamaica by now and I co
uld be wearing my blue bikini instead.”
“But then I wouldn’t have you all to myself. Besides, I really needed to get away. It’s been hell at work. Never knowing from one day to the next if you still have a job.”
“Okay, make you a deal. You build a bigger fire and I’ll go change.”
“Hmmmm that’s the spirit. We’re going to need a lot more firewood. I’ll brave the elements. In no time at all it will be even hotter in here than in Jamaica, I promise. Be right back.”
Sara hugged her knees to her chest. The wine and the warmth of the fire made her drowsy. A howling brought Sara to her feet. What was that? Was that the wind? An animal? A scream rose above the howling.
“Sara! Help me! Sara!”
Sara rushed out of the cabin. She had barely left the porch when the lights in the cabin went out. Blackness surrounded her. No moonlight reflected against the snow. She could see nothing. Driving wind and snow pushed Sara forward. She strained to hear Matt’s voice above the screeching wind.
It was snowing harder now. Sara struggled through the drifts. Her feet were numb. Shouldn’t she have reached the shed by now, she thought? Matt was a walking compass but she had no sense of direction at all. Still, how hard could it be to find the shed? If she remembered correctly, it was only about 50 yards from the cabin. If she remembered correctly. That was the key.
“Sara!”
“Matt?” Where are you?
“Over here! Help me!”
Sara turned toward the sound. She plowed through the snow until her legs felt as numb as her feet. Wind whipped the snow, pelting her face and hands. Sara pulled up her hoodie and tucked her head down. Wait, what was that? A flicker of light? From the cabin? It seemed to move.
“Sara, where are you? Help me!”
“I’m here Matt. I’m coming.”
Sara stumbled, landing face down in the snow. She was exhausted. I’ll get up in a minute she thought. I just need to rest for a minute.
A gentle warmth spread through her, cradling her against the cold. She heard Matt’s voice, growing more distant, calling her. For a moment she thought she could see the cabin. It was right there, and then it was gone. From somewhere in the night, she heard the whistle of a train. A lonesome sound. It was the last thing she heard.
It had been a long morning. The paramedics and the coroner had left about an hour ago, but the Sheriff remained.
“Let’s go over your statement one more time. I’ll record it and then get it in writing later today. You can stop by the station and sign the papers. You say you have no idea when or why Sara left the cabin?”
“No. We both had several glasses of wine by the fireplace. Sara complained that she was cold and wanted a bigger fire, but there wasn’t any more firewood. I told her it was too dark and cold to go get more last night. I’d get more first thing in the morning. I was tired and wanted to go to bed. Sara said she was going to take a hot bath first. I fell asleep right away. I woke up this morning and she wasn’t in bed. I got dressed so I could get the firewood and that’s when I found her. Just laying there. In the snow. Ten feet from the porch.” Matt’s voice wavered.
“Were you and Sara having any marital problems?”
“No, in fact this was kind of like a second honeymoon for us. It was Sara’s idea to come here. She said she wanted to spend a lot of time together, just the two of us. Get away from it all. She said she needed to unwind. She had been under a lot of stress at work.”
“I guess that’s all I need for now. Make sure you stop by the station. You’ll have to wait for the autopsy results before you can get a death certificate. Shouldn’t take but a couple of days.”
“Thanks Sheriff. I’ll be there as soon as I finish packing up here.”
Matt watched until the Sheriff’s car was out of sight. He reached in his pocket for his cell phone, checked the number of bars and dialed.
“Good morning, National Life Insurance. How may I help you?”
“This is Matthew Parker. I’d like to speak to my agent, please.”
“Who’s your agent?”
“Morgan, Elizabeth Morgan.”
“One moment please.”
“Elizabeth Morgan.”
“Hey, it’s me, Matt.”
“Success?”
He grinned. “How does Jamaica sound?”