Winter 2016 — THE POTOMAC



Black Krim, White Rabbit

  Rosie Forrest

Dew greased the grass for bad ideas, and Alice, barefoot, spun on flat green shots. The sun was there before it rose, the sky like pure cellophane that day, and cicadas croaked to vibrate skin. Ms. Rousseau would sleep till noon, her legs unfeeling again, and men patrolled the grounds in hard orange hats.

Alice waited for a sign.

Rain was in the forecast, and open-mouthed, Alice checked for spittle on the regular. Tongues taste drops that palms can't feel. With the right amount of rain, she could plant Ms. Rousseau's prize tomatoes—some black like crude oil, some a fairytale white—and win a million dollars, maybe more. Rain would fix everything. Alice unscrewed the handle on the shovel and screwed it back on tighter and tighter till the wood spilt.

Down the hill a bulldozer poked a yellow to hurt. The operator in overalls cat–called Alice, and she pumped an upright thumb in return. Then, she dug a hole deep enough to bury her entire self twice. Or rather, Alice will dig a hole deep enough to bury her entire self twice but not until the farmhouse buckles with Ms. Rousseau prone inside, and that won't happen 'til the dead oaks near the garden bloom with talking crows.

Capon vive longtemps. Alice spewed Ms. Rousseau's old-time sayings. Capon vive longtemps, in a language good only for remembering. Ms. Rousseau called everyone a coward, everyone who ran with limp feet or a soupy heart. The coward lives a longtime. Alice liked the sound of it that morning. Immortality would suit her well, as long as time ran forwards not back. In diagonal lines she scraped the dry earth with the tip of her shovel.

Alice will confess to nothing more than an upturned thumb, and all the round men who have come knocking with metal-cornered briefcases on the farmhouse door, these men will crawl to her, reaching for her baskets of her purple-black tomatoes, the others ghostly pale, and they will shove fistfuls of money in her face like It's A Wonderful Life when the town saves the Building and Loan.

The morning sun clutched Alice's blouse like a trist nomm. That's what Ms. Rousseau called the man who came last week, trist nomm. Alice hadn't thought he looked so sad. Jolly, more like, with a pink and toothy grin.

Rain was in the forecast despite the deep blue sky. Tomatoes do better in dry heat, that wasn't the worry. A little rain, though, could do wonders. Just enough rain to loosen the red earth for digging.

 
  
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