BURNT BISCUITS

Cory Zimmerman

A pit formed in her belly. Her knees grew wobbly, and she felt faint but forced herself to harden as she held Junior in her arms. It was a Goddamn cold one, and she’d have invited him inside, but he shrugged it off with the frigid breeze and returned to his wagon, leaving a chicken bone in her throat. She hollered at Mama, but she wasn’t sure she’d heard her or not, say she was off, and she sat Junior into the wagon, before climbing in myself. The horse dug her shoe at the frozen ground—and the rickety old wagon had seen better days amongst the ghostly backdrop of closing fog. The journey was silent, for all but the crack of the whip and the occasional, “Hey, now,” and the caw of winter crows, for all but the hooves trotting along and the creaking of the old wagon, and her breath. She felt she’d seen better days, but kept her face covered from the chill, anticipating the long-waited reunion.

The farmhouse was small, and the roof looked like it might cave in by spring. Hardly any paint left to peel—the timber was a bleached, dull gray. Richie’s pa helped them down from the wagon, and Sarah instantly felt trapped as the gate blew shut on her heels. She was hesitant to enter, afraid of what she might find on the other side, but eager at the same time. Junior’s cherry red cheeks left her but little choice. Inside, the air was warm but smelled horribly of onions, and Richie’s pa hollered at six or seven children to “Go on an’ get!” And they did, scattering like roaches under the floorboards, before Sarah saw Richie appear like a phantom from the wall, but sat motionless in a corner near a smoldering log. The chair upon which he sat was stiff and straight-backed, and Richie’s chin rested on his chest as she fell into his arms, but his arms remained snug in his lap.

“Richie, oh, Richie!”

Their child snug between them, Junior somehow slid out the side, falling to the floor with a soft thump. Junior didn’t cry but sat up on his own. As Sarah, only then noticed something was amiss.

“Richie...?”

“They say he can hear us,” said his ma, sat on a sofa against the opposing wall.

Noticing his gray flesh, Sarah backed away as though she’d just touched a corpse. Her hand over her mouth, she tried not to vomit—Richie’s lips were blue, and his face as pale as the old house. His ma went on that the doctors said there seemed to be a hell of lot coming back subject to sudden moods, tempers, fits of profound melancholy, with a restless desire for pleasure, but moved quickly to passion. “The Army doctors sayin’ they done lost control of themselves, bitter in speech, violent in opinion, downright frightening.”

But Sarah didn’t see any of this—she didn’t see anything, nothing but a corpse propped up in a chair beside a smoldering log.

“...many coffins and the bodies pushed off at mid-sea, plunged into the ocean to drift away. Said, the day Richie was ordered to give a hand, he became so shaky he dropped his end of the box, and the body of a young boy fell out at his feet—and Richie collapsed. Furthermore, Doc said, he succumbed to sittin’ silent in the corner of the deck—motionless—empty-eyed—absent-minded—face shriveled in the light of day—whisperin’ into the darkness of night. By day, he was moanin’ and mutterin’ nonsensicals, spewin’ profanities at the sky, until he ceased to speak altogether, and that’s how he arrived.”

“Never knew my boy was a coward—” said his pa.

But Richie’s eschewed, hallowed eyes were more idle than that of death itself, as he stared plainly ahead, motionless. Sarah thought death was simple and straightforward, while what sat before her dwelled deeper in the shroud of the abyss of strangeness.

“But he’ll be back to his old self in no time,” says his ma, “ain’t that right, Richie,” she hollered.

“Nope. He’s ruined,” said his pa, “can't even wipe his own ass."

Richie was an icicle, so much so, Sarah was afraid to touch him again, for fear he might fall and shatter at her feet, melting before the mantle. The crackling of the log jittered her nerves as the silence grew long between remarks. The absence of songbirds rose drearily along with it all, whatever this may be, and left her right ear ringing. Richie’s ma struggled to her feet and went into the kitchen to return with a platter of biscuits. She offered Sarah one, but she politely declined as she could scent their charred bottoms. When his ma placed one in Richie’s lap, Sarah watched it tumble to the floor, as an old mutt came out of nowhere and gobble it down. Junior giggled and Sarah was sickened.

“He’ll come ‘round,” said his ma, messing his hair, his eyes empty, going two different directions by now, as if disconnected from any type of central connection. His pa grumbled on, but Sarah didn’t care what for. Her heart hurts, and the onion fumes made her eyes water. She leaned into the wall for balance and felt she might push over the whole dang house with her weight. She felt disoriented, and her left index finger quivered. The surrounding nightmare was wrapped in a yellow, flowered wallpaper that curled at the seams. She saw a leafless tree out the window, its limbs coated in crackling ice.

“Hell, Richie once broke an apple in two with his bare hands,” said his pa, words as hard for Sarah to swallow as a burnt biscuit.

The frosted-over window had a diagonal crack running from corner to corner, but beyond, the bleak countryside had been erased by the cataract of winter.

She turns her back toward the room seemingly shrunk smaller, as Richie’s ma said, “That there’s the winda’ Richie broke that time Richie snuck out at night—”

“Hell, most likely to shake up with you,” said his pa.

“Found all dem letters of yers in his ruck, and well, we learnt ‘bout the boy and all,” said his ma. “Pa, go on an’ get dem letters!”

His pa grunted, but did as he was told, and returned with a towering stack of envelopes.

“Ya sure does gotta lot to say for a woman, doesn’t ya,” he said, handing them off to her.

“Can I hold the boy?” asked his ma, and it was somehow not until now Sarah noticed that his ma was pregnant.

“Yep, lucky number seven,” said his pa. “They say number seven, the smart one—make all the riches.”

A poor man will have many children, thinks Sarah.

Junior leaning back against the pregnant belly of his grandma, as Richie’s pa shook his head in disappointment, saying sarcastically, “Yep, it’s a good Richie made it on back ‘ere in one piece to help out ‘round here,” as he scuffed and snorted and repositioned himself in his chair.

Sarah held the tower of letters pressed between her chin and my palms, as Richie’s pa leaned forward and flicked Junior’s nose and tugged on his ear, and Richie’s ma gave him a burnt biscuit. Sarah watched, and uttered, as Junior shoved the blackness into his mouth. Sarah accidently dopped the letters and they scattered on the floor by the mutt, who fled in a panic. As she gathered them, she suddenly noticed a crucifix hung from a nail on the wall just above Richie’s head, and a Bible that sat open on a small table beside his chair-coffin. Psalm xxiii, but she could recall it what it said nor meant. She finished stacking the letters in two piles and sat beside them on the floor. And as Richie’s pa poked and prodded Junior, she noticed his red, wrinkled neck. She thought of her own pa, his aching back, a toiler of the earth, who now resting in the very ground he once plowed. Richie’s pa took Junior into his hands and bounced him on his knee a few times but quickly yawned and stood him on his own feet, placing a penny in his palm. Junior then stumbled straight for the front door, and Sarah wanted to follow him right out, but Richie’s ma hopped up and stopped him in his tracks by the britches, and Sarah never did see that penny again.

“Has the boy fallen outta bed yet?” asked his pa.

“Why, no, of course not,” said Sarah.

“Ought to soon ‘nough,” he said.

“Ya ought not wanna let Junior suck his thumb like that,” said his ma, “he’ll end up with teeth like his grand-pappy—mouth like a mule.”

The wind whistled through the crack in the window. Sarah looked up to see Richie’s sunken in cheeks, and his eyes are wrapped tight with dark circles, his lips thinner than she remembered, not those she’d kissed down by the river—most certainly not the same lips.

“Yeah, I stitched up that quilt for the new one but figured Richie could use it for the time bein’,” said his ma in a long breath.

Sarah stared deep into Richie’s eyes, those eyes that once sparkled with sunshine, and she dreamed—

When the biscuit hit the floor that day, Momma said she shall marry poor, and when her elbows were dirty, she said the same, poking them with a fork over ham, as Momma never spoke of wealth nor love. But when Sarah walked those twelve steps on rail tracks without falling, she knew how rich love shall be. However, when she threw the peel of an apple over her right shoulder to see who her husband shall be—all she saw in the mirror—was a bolt of lightning, “Some days it rains worms,” she remembered someone once said.

But when the day finally did arrive, the day her heart would rise, the day old Newton would roll over in his grave, as her heart hit high noon, piercing the dark clouds, absorbing the moist atmosphere, and transcending the heat of late July, the chill of goose pimples as static tingled in the air arose on her arms. Her heart blasted off into space for parts unknown, well past the moon—for the stars—where looking back, the earth became a pebble, as she whooshed off well beyond the Milky Way, to the edge of the universe itself—for the vast—blissful nothingness—the end of all things she believed, into an unimaginable silence, for all but the drum beating in her chest—the beat, beat, warm lifeforce of the ever-expanding sun within, within a simple word—love.

And as she plummeted back into the bright blue vastness of it all, as his hazel eyes looked down upon her, his crooked smile, his cowboy boots kicking up dust—she knew she had fallen. And she hit her head mighty hard. She felt his firm yet gentle grip upon her, lifting her from the arena floor, asking, “You okay, ma’am?”

Embarrassed, she said, “I have no idea what got into him. He’s never bucked me before.”

“Spooked by the thunder is all,” said the boy, just as the sky opened up, and a torrential rain fell to the earth, and he carried her to the barn.

“Roan Beauty,” she said.

“You can call me Richie, ma’am” he said with that crocodile smile.

“No, that’s the name of my horse, silly, Roan Beauty,” she said.

Richie grinned and shook his head, “You’ll be alright, I think,” he said, “I’ll fetch your horse, ma’am, Ms. Roan Beauty, I mean, now, you take a seat—” as he ran off in the rain.

Sarah sat motionless on the bale of hay, wondering, is love the end of all things?

That night, Sarah, didn’t eat Sam’s glazed ham, nor the maple syrup-drizzled sweet potatoes, as she pretended to have a bellyache in her finest dress, waiting for midnight, when she snuck quietly out the back door. She saddled up Roan Beauty and made a gait, old JoJo trailing just behind. She agreed to meet Richie down by the river’s bank, by an old fallen cottonwood. Illuminated by the moonlight, it felt otherworldly as their horses strolled side by side in perfect stride. They talked of all sorts of things, but Sarah continually strayed away from talking about the Hilltop she called home. They mostly talked about their dreams between moments of awkward silence—stars above—an occasional glance into one another’s eye—a shooting star—before Sarah hollered for JoJo, who’d surely picked up on the scent of a skunk.

Richie took to JoJo quite nicely, and Sarah knew he was meant to be, as everyone knew a boy fond of dogs would make a good husband. And each night they found it more difficult to part ways as they strolled beside the river, its reflection an inviting path to off to their destiny, their current, even as their river of words ran dry from time to time. Each night they found themselves staying out an hour or two later than the previous, before trotting home thier separate ways—an ace of hearts torn in two.

Sarah’s momma and pa didn’t give a damn where she’d been off to, long as she returned, and only Sam, the Hilltop patient, appointed family chef by Dr. Zolla, noticed her comings and goings at odd hours. But he never interfered, and Sarah loved him for that. With JoJo stank to high heaven under her bed, Sarah dreamt of Richie’s eyes through the day, eyes like the sky, and what the sea must look like; of his chiseled jaw, yet boyish rosy cheeks—ignoring the old saying; a rosy-cheeked couple is lousy luck. As a blush had long become a permanent stain upon her freckled face. She dreamt until the sky turned black, and then upon return, she dreamed until the black sky turned to violet to orange, and back to blue, which seemed to arrive earlier, and earlier each morning approaching harvest season. Sarah worried for Richie, as she knew he was in the fields working by dawn—dark rings around his eyes.

As she waited midnight, she could already hear Richie’s soft voice, an occasional coyote cry, the hoot of an owl, and whispers of love. She could already imagine the reflection of the stars in his eyes as he glanced over at her own, containing the explosion of her heart. But tonight, Sarah fell dead off her horse, lying there along the bank of the dear old river, the most beautiful hazel eyes looking down upon her happy corpse.

Richie’s horse was a chestnut thoroughbred named Autumn, as orange as the leaves that time of year. Sarah sat beside Richie on the old dead tree, bleached white as a bone, glowing with life in the moonlight. Her legs crossed within her finest flowered dress, her nerves, too much—she kicked her shiny black shoes back and forth as Richie put his hand upon hers, and like that, time stopped, and she should live forever in that tiny sliver when he leaned over and placed his lips upon hers.

But she panicked and jumped back, pulling Richie over with her, and they plummeted, knocking the wind out of Sarah, yet again. Richie leaned over to see if she was alright, “You ain’t plannin’ on makin’ a habit out of this, are ya?” he asked.

As she, breathless, reached up and grabbed a handful of his beautiful brunette hair and pulled his lips toward hers, and she kissed him deeply and purely, and behind her shut eyes, she saw nothing but stars—not realizing how hard she’d hit her head—wondering once again, was love the end of all things?

The crickets blessed them both that night, beneath the midnight sky, as Richie said, rolling over upon his back, “I have a little sister, they call her, peep, peep / she wades in the water, deep, deep, deep / she climbs up the mountains, high, high, high / my poor little sister, she has but one eye.”

Sarah giggled, and after a moment of silence, said, “You are just a tiny spark, hanging up there in the dark / like a cinder from the sun, when the day is done / all your sisters and cousins, come a-crowding out by the dozens / just to see what makes you merry, jolly, jolly, fairy / as the wink and blink and twinkle, all the sky looks like a sprinkle / of white sugar on a cake, like that the fairies bake.”

They awoke to a flock of honking geese splashing down upon the river—finding themselves wrapped in a saddle blanket. Richie cursed and jumped to his feet, saying, “Pa is going to kill me—” but fell over in the tall grass as he put his trousers on inside-out, and Sarah laughed. “I’m Serious. He’s gonna hang me out to dry,” he said, twisted at the feet, “he’s gonna have my hide—” falling over again, as Sarah covered the dreadful scar on her thigh, exposed to the light of day.

Richie crawled over to her through the tall grass and gave her the most honest kiss upon her itchy lips. He then jumped upon Autumn, saying, “There are some blackberries just down the way—tell your parents you woke before dawn to gather some.”

“You want me to lie?” asked Sarah, knowing her parents could give a damn.

“Whatever you must do, to meet me here tonight,” he said.

“And what about your pa?” asked Sarah.

“The old bastard is gonna have to put me down to keep me away from you, Sarah Beauty!”

Roan blew as autumn trotted away, and Sarah pulled up her dress.

Slowly strolling along the bank of the river in the rising sun, Jojo chased a dragonfly, chomping his jaws, and as they arrived at the blackberry bush, Sarah’s dress got all caught up in the briar—and she knew Richie was thinking of her. The berries were huge and ripe, and she brought home a dress full. And as she had imagined, she found only Sam in the kitchen. She could sense his concern, but as far as she was concerned, she was no longer a girl, but a woman, and she told him as much the way she dumped the berries from her stained dress upon the tabletop, asking with a yawn, “Sam, will you please make a blackberry pie?”

She then collapsed in bed, snoring in minutes.

Some hours later, she awoke to the scent of a blackberry pie cooling on the window’s ledge. And Sarah discovered a note under the pan which read:

Any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.

Sarah showed up that night with a blackberry pie. And little did the happy lovers know as Richie’s blue-stained fingers touched her bare breasts that a plague of locusts was upon them. That with the W on their backs, the W of war, they’d soon see how handsome Richie looked in uniform. But in their brief moment of bliss, with a few branches, a box of matches, and with a few scratchy horse blankets, they spent the shortest night of their lives in the nude. Sarah was so damned with love and red with rashes, that upon seeing his broad shoulders in that uniform, wondered how she’d become such a lucky gal, neither of them could grasp onto any sense of reasoning as to the seriousness of war.

At Grandview Station, with the same knee he had placed upon the arena floor, Richie kneeled upon the wooden planks of the platform and asked, “Sarah Beauty, will you be my bride?”

“Yes!” she said, covering her face with her hands, feeling faint.

“Sarah, I need your hand,” he said, sliding a horseshoe nail ring upon her finger, as the deafening train whistle sounded. Richie grabbed her by the waist, pulled her in, leaned her back, and with the most romantic postcard kiss, he disappeared into the train engine steam, leaving Sarah all alone, ears ringing. And she found herself lost in a fog—the world spun about, as she called out his name. “The old bastards gonna have to put me down—” she heard him shout, “to keep me away from you Sarah Beauty!”

“Put you down…?” she repeated under her breath, stumbling wide eyed, nauseated, spinning the weight of the world about her finger.

Sarah set out to write Richie one letter a day, with a heart full of hope, yet, with bowels of dread, as a great part of herself hoped maybe her letters may never find him—left lost in some deserted crumbling post office, surrounded by dead horses and flies, with no seeing eyes to read them. And when not hiding in the outhouse, Sarah lied amongst butterflies, waiting for one to land upon her, but when one did, she saw its yellow wings, and her heart dropped. She pulled one off and cried as it fell to the grass, but it must be done, she reminded herself, as she stood, spinning, grinning, running in circles, laughing, and crying, hysterical, singing, cursing, having found love, having lost love, unable to bear the weight of that ring, as the dandelions turned white and blew away with wishes. Her tears fell amongst the dancing loonies and kooks of the Hilltop, and the geese circled about in Autumn, as summer had passed, and she still had not heard word from Richie. As the vultures circled, the scent of dead roses nauseating, she shoved JoJo away as she threw up in the grass, and she knew it would be a blackberry winter. Knowing the frost could not kill a fattened blackberry, she worried nonetheless—this baby may ruin our love, and she told him so in a letter-number seventy-two.

With purple under her nails, she worried, Sam, is it true, we will never be lovelier?

And as the deep fog rolled in, the cracked window frozen over with ice, creaked in the unforgiving wind, howling with no mercy upon the bleak frozen field of time. It was a brutal cold, one for a frostbitten heart, as Richie had become her winter. They say hell is burning hot, she believed, but are are wrong. Hell was cold. Hell was a man frozen solid, once a boy warm with the blood of youth and passion rushing through his veins, cheeks rosy, limbs strong. Hell was purple fingers and blue toes. Toes Sarah tried to rub warm before wrapping them back up in the quilt. And she shivered as Richie’s pa muttered under his breath, “Boy musta saw himself a kraut broad in the nude to lose his damn mind, way he done—”

His ma looked over at Sarah with a wrinkled brow, and it was at that moment precisely, as her forehead relaxed upon seeing Richie’s toes tucked warm and tight, as her posture sank back into her chair, as she turned away, Sarah know Richie’s had relinquished her motherly duties to her son. And with her first deep breath in weeks, she rubbed her growing belly and gummed on a burnt biscuit.