Darkheart

The Past: Mom & Pop

 The day Jeremiah's father lost his face had been absolutely beautiful, one of those autumn afternoons where the contrast of orange trees against the sapphire blue firmament almost fomented spiritual conversion. Jeremiah had been all of five years old, and he recalled that day with painful clarity because his fresh-to-the-world class of kindergartners had headed off apple picking in hopes of returning with enough produce to make sauce, and it was in the middle of climbing the tallest ladder available to him that the little boy had been taken down, whispered over, hushed and rushed back to town in one of the teacher's cars. He recalled feeling special for avoiding the noisy bus but also angry to have missed the rest of the apples, and only when he'd arrived back at the school to find a police officer sitting in the main office with his sisters had he had any sense that something was amiss.

They'd been taken home, the four of them, and their aunt had flown up from Columbus to stay several days while their mother took up a brief residence in Saint Louis, where their father had been transferred. Little Jeremiah had thought the coolest thing about all of it was that his father had been flown by helicopter to Detroit and from there by jet to Saint Louis. The boy hadn't ever flown anywhere, not even gone on one of those fake airplane carnival rides, and he'd been a bit grumpy his parents hadn't taken him along.

It'd been a long, weary time. Aunt Margaret had taken them to and from school, out for ice cream, to the movies, into Red Axe for shopping, but none of it really fit well for five-year-old Jeremiah, who couldn't understand the quiet and concern over an event no one had even explained to him. He'd wanted nothing more than his mother and father, their hugs, their presence, their laughter and comfort. But, after several weeks, when his parents had returned--

Well, he'd quickly wished they'd never come back.

He thought about that initial terror, sitting in his bedroom, looking out over the lake. Years had passed since the man had been hurt, but his son still struggled to look at him let alone be near him. Denis Jones had been a big, bluff man, handsome and strong, reddish-blond hair worn long in keeping with his Welsh ancestors' tradition. He'd been known around town for wearing his kilt to Christmas Mass, for holding down his liquor better than any living member of Port Killdeer, and for bursting into song whenever he'd had just enough whiskey. Family money had meant he didn't have to manage a farm of his own, could maintain their large cabin on the lake while taking seasonal work at the various farms inland. He'd leave for weeks at a time from spring to fall and, after helping seed and haul in crops, would then be able to relax all winter or, should he choose, work odd jobs on and around the lake. He'd been working his last day of harvesting when the accident had happened, when he'd leaned too far over a harvester to view an obstruction and caught his hair in the rollers. He'd been lucky to have lived, everyone whispered. By all accounts, a scalping and partial head crushing weren't the sort of injuries one survived. Yes, he was lucky, they said.

Jeremiah knew--had known even at a young age--how ludicrous a claim that was, that luck had betrayed his father that day, that the man hadn't really lived at all but had in all actuality died, regardless of his body's persistence. No, luck would've been death.

His mother was calling him. Jeremiah shook out of his reverie, pulled his eyes from the deep blue undulation of the lake, and hurried from his room. Down he went, through the shadow of many large rooms whose thick carpets and religious icons couldn't ever quite warm them. When he reached the kitchen, his mother handed him the telephone, named his one and only friend, and walked out. Jeremiah grinned as he held the device to his cheek. "Crystal? What's up?"

He knew what was up. They were going to go to the Maritime Festival that evening. Crystal was calling to tell him he wouldn't have to bike in, that Tom was back in town and would pick him up around four, that Jeremiah could even stay the night if he wanted to so that they could be out late. It was the Fourth, after all, and there'd be fireworks. Jeremiah listened and answered, knowing his only roadblock would be his mother. The woman disliked festivities of any kind unless they were of a religious nature; in fact, he'd never even been to the Maritime Festival, not in any of the years past, and the way Crystal had talked about it (even with her cynical outlook on everything) had excited him. So he'd have to convince his mom to let him go. He'd been working so hard, he'd tell her--looking out for himself and helping around the house--trying to build a work ethic--didn't he deserve a break? Just a little fun? And this wasn't some Pagan thing like Halloween or a commercialized version of Christian notions like Valentine's or Saint Patrick's Day. This one was just a matter of pride and happiness and joy about their country. So he had hope that he could convince her, especially if he were sitting in with his father when they spoke.