THE PLACE           

 It is 1986 and the ground along Route 60, which will one day be Mills Creek Crossing: A Covenant Community, lies silvered in the moonlight, a rutted field of tire marks, wrappers and cans.  A low-bellied animal rattles a bush and heads for the two lane, only to freeze at sudden headlights and a blaring horn. The ensuing thud is soft and wet; the car whizzes by so fast it sounds as though the tires have skimmed water.            

There is a river in the near distance, a small branch of the Guyandotte running behind the tree line on the field’s far side, but it has been a dry July and the bed only emanates a dampness, creating a muddy chill in the air.           

 There is nothing here but flattened weeds and clumps of blade grass, quick to raise welts or draw blood. Yet when the vehicles pull in for the flea market on the weekends, most of the children spill out barefoot. No one knows how the flea market got started or why it should have come to this field, but it might have happened like this:            

A young man named Reuben is driving down Route 60 in a tan Chevy pick-up. Both windows are down; the only sounds in the cab are the wind and the roar of the muffler. A chain link dog collar dangles from the rear-view mirror. On the largest loop is fastened an oblong piece of wood on which he’s burned his name in large letters, leaving a flourish at the end. Reuben made it in shop the day before he dropped out of high school.             

Reuben’s eyes are the blue of an indeterminate distance, and he doesn’t blink or tear at the whipping wind. He squints steadfastly at the road, foot pressed to the gas with the urgency of a need unmet. Suddenly, he turns the wheel with an abruptness that defies natural law; it is as if he scented the field before sighting it, pulling the rest of his senses in. The cords in his neck jump before his eyes move.             

The truck is now stopped, straddling the graveled berm and the outer edge of the field. A gnarled apple tree with drooping limbs is approximately three feet behind his left bumper. Reuben sprawls behind the wheel. The key chain sways, causing the wood to knock against the windshield. Reuben watches it until he can no longer stand hearing his name repeated and throws it in the glove compartment.             

He lights a cigarette but after a few draws throws it out the window. He opens the door, jumps out of the cab, his heel crushing the butt. Reuben stands blinking, then turns back to the cab and sweeps the seat free of debris. He pushes the magazines under the seat; he kicks the cans under the truck. Though he stands perfectly still, he carries within an air of perpetual motion, as if another Reuben stands at the ready to jump from his skin.

He narrows his eyes and studies the tree. It has scant patches of slate-colored leaves, due to dust, and no fruit. He hoists himself into the bed of the pick-up and squats, lifting a squarish bundle wrapped in garbage bags and knotted with twine. He throws it over the side so that it lands flat and then he jumps from the truck bed.             

Now he hesitates, watching the cars whiz down the two lane, glancing at the road kill, turning back to study the black plastic glinting in the sun. The field behind him is clear. He drops to his knees, digging in his jeans for a penknife and carefully slices the plastic.           

 Inside is a stack of neatly folded Elvis Presley tee shirts. The King, alive again on hot pink, smiles from the top. Reuben smiles back. Of the four poses printed on the pink, yellow, orange and lime green tee shirts, this one is his favorite. Elvis smiles face forward, young and free from guile. This is exactly the way he would look, Reuben decides, if he were a star.            

 He rummages under the tee shirts and brings out a clump of wire hangers, then cuts the twine that binds the tee shirts with his knife. He does this blade upward, but when the sharp edge rises, it is at least three inches from his face.             

He unfolds the first tee shirt and slips it on the hanger. He walks to the apple tree, selecting a limb slightly above eye level. He bends the neck of the hanger until it bites the bark. Reuben steps back and smiles in approval as Elvis gently gyrates with the breeze.           

 Reuben turns back to the stack he left on the ground and freezes. The wind has also raised a cloud of dust around the rest of his merchandise. He is startled into action, and carries the stack of tee-shirts as carefully as if he were carrying a bride across a threshold and lays it at the base of the tree. He gathers the biggest rocks he can find from the berm to weigh down the plastic edges, then makes quick work of hanging the rest.

His rapidity does not exclude precision; there is not one color overdone in the balance of the tree.              Reuben kicks the rocks away from the plastic, then wads the garbage bag into a ball, throwing it in the direction of the river. The shape begins to fall apart the moment it leaves his hand. The wind scuttles the plastic across the field, changing it time and again until it reaches the tree line in the form of an enormous turtle with a nearly severed head.           

 Reuben returns to the truck bed and rummages until he pulls out a camp stool, the canvas seat striped green and white. Spine straight, he crosses one boot-encased foot over the other and reaches in his shirt pocket for his smokes. The pack is empty. He wads it into a ball and throws it from him but the wind has vanished and the crumpled pack remains in his sight. The cars continue to roll past and he nods at every one.           

 The first couple who turn in are fresh from an estate sale in Kentucky. They claim their station wagon is loaded with antique glass. The woman nods at Reuben, then wrests the car keys from her husband and opens the tailgate, sliding boxes forward. The man introduces himself as Larry Z. Johnson and offers Reuben a cigarette, which he accepts. The men make small talk until the woman interrupts.            

“Larry Zane,” she says flatly.           

 Larry mumbles something under his breath, then says, “My wife, Mary Jo.”             

“Pleased to meet you,” says Reuben, and Mary Jo nods before her eyes pierce her husband.             

Larry goes to the wagon and begins to unload the boxes with the expression of a man who has earned a bad back while rearranging furniture for a woman.  Once the boxes are on the ground, he brings out an aluminum table, pulls back a shaft underneath and, with his foot, taps each table leg until it clicks.              

“Over there,” says Mary Jo, pointing to a level spot farther back in the field, and Larry lifts the table with a piteous expression, which his wife ignores.            

 “Is this all right?” he asks, before placing it on the ground.           

“Back just a bit,” she says, and then, “Right there. Now help me with the rest so I can get the table set up.”           

 Larry has forgotten his pained expression and they walk side by side to the wagon for the remaining boxes. Mary Jo gets a nubby pink tablecloth from the front seat and drapes it over the box she carries. Once at the table, she spreads the tablecloth with the motions of a magician, while Larry goes back for the third box.            

“That’s all for now,” she says, but before Larry can beat a retreat, adds, “Did you remember the cash box?”            

“ I put it under your chair,” he says, and then hurries with a gait that is surprising, going back to the station wagon where he brings out a folding chair for himself. He goes to sit beside Reuben and offers him another smoke. They light up together and the two men sit companionably, watching the cars whiz down the road.           

 “Prime location,” says Larry Zane finally.           

 Reuben nods. “Thought so myself.”            

“Yep,” Larry Zane continues, “Everything is chicken, but the bone.”          

  Larry glances over his shoulder and sees his wife unwrap their valuables. Mary Jo takes each piece from the crinkled newspaper as though it were a precious treasure. She works carefully and fast; soon the table is laden with sun- filled glasses, silver- capped salt and pepper shakers, fruit bowls, banana dishes and saltcellars. Then she begins to arrange each piece just so, placing the taller pieces in back with the smaller pieces in the front, turning each so their etched sides show.           

 Larry leans toward Reuben with an air of confidentiality. “We just came from that estate sale, haven’t even been home. The deceased was a judge. What’s behind you has value. Trouble is, people don’t want value anymore, they just want —” He breaks off, seeing the Elvis tee shirts cavorting in the breeze. “Anyway, I’ve got a small fortune on that table. There’s some stuff I’d like to keep, but I told Mary Jo we’ll sell everything whether we make anything or not. I don’t want to pack it around.”            

“Good point.” Reuben watches his latest smoke ring dissolve in the air. “I don’t appreciate nothing. Mommy’s house was full of old glass and crocheted stuff. I grew up around old.”           

 “You still have it?” Larry asks, shaking out another cigarette and when Reuben hesitates, says, “Go ahead, I have a carton in the wagon.”           

 “Naw,” says Reuben, taking two smokes. “I took everything to the dump after she died and left it there. Along with some cast iron porch furniture. Just the sight of that bench and little chairs made my butt hurt. What good is something if it’s only to look at? I’m a man for comfort.” He lights up.

“We agree on that,” says Larry, rearranging the cushion he saved for himself.            

 Their camaraderie is interrupted by the sound of squealing brakes, the sight of children being thrown forward in the back of a rusty green pickup amongst baskets of produce, and a hand, a huge, hairy hand motioning the car behind him to pass in a negligent manner. The second driver, in a silver compact, is furious and can’t quit laying on his horn; he also appears to be spitting at his windshield. The truck turns, the hand waves goodbye without malice, then pummels the field, the oversized tires plowing the hard earth.           

Larry grips the arms of his chair. “God Almighty,” he breathes.            

Mary Jo, hearing the ruckus, has stepped in front of her table with outspread arms. Death may be coming in the form of a rusted pickup with unmatched side doors, but even so she will protect her valuables. She and Larry have never been blessed with children.            

The driver continues to take the field in short stops and starts mixed with cursing. A  woman sits beside him, silent and thin-lipped. The truck stops far enough away from Mary Jo that not even the most delicate of her glassware is disturbed. Whether this courtesy comes from the recalcitrant engine or is the man’s own design is unclear, and no one asks. The man gets out and slams his door, which is a light blue. He is huge, clad in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and bib overalls which don’t connect the first three snaps on either side.  He takes off a psychedelic ball cap, which reveals a thick fur of dark, curling hair and approaches the men. As he gets closer, Reuben feels a wash of emotion which leaves him both envious and uncertain. He doesn’t know if he could have pulled that off himself.            

The man stops when his shadow covers them. “I’m Theodore Roosevelt Vance. What times does the flea market begin? I don’t want my produce to wilt.”           

 Reuben, who is now beginning to realize there is a plan behind everything and since he has initiated this mystery, shrugs. “Soon.”           

 His answer satisfies Roosevelt and he clamps his ball cap back on his head. Larry offers him a smoke, but he declines, pulling out a packet of Mail Pouch. The silver of the wrap shines brightly as soda cans in the sun. “You can call me Rosie. Everyone else does.”           

 Then he spits the chew he’s been holding in his mouth.            

Reuben and Larry nod simultaneously and look past Rosie. The back of his truck is stirring. Blue-eyed, wheat-haired children rise from amongst bushels of unshucked corn, green beans, watermelons, and various kinds of squash. They rise slowly, wary as tree lizards, then gather their courage and stand upright, eager for a place in the sun. The last to stand is the smallest, a girl of about three whose hair is long and not bowl-cut like her siblings. She blinks and picks a strand of corn silk from her eyes, staring squarely at the men. She is wearing only a pair of yellow shorts; her long hair covers her top half. She takes a pacifier out of her mouth and throws it over the side of the truck, watching where it lands.             

The passenger side of the door opens and an old-young woman appears. She is wearing a thin cotton house dress that shows her yellowed bra straps. On her feet are flip flops, bright pink. Because Rosie’s truck landed at an angle, both Reuben and Larry have a clear view inside the cab. It is surprisingly clean, and the woman, who moves slowly, has been balancing a bushel basket of tomatoes on the floorboard between her feet and knees. Not a single fruit has been spilled and she lugs out the basket without lifting her head and sets it on the ground. She slams the truck door shut with her behind, and at the sound, the children scamper out of the bed. The woman does not look up, but bends over the bushel of tomatoes again, stopping first to wipe the same wheat colored hair from her eyes.            

Mary Jo, who’s stopped guarding her glass, studies the woman. Like her children, the old -young woman can feel her eyes and glances up, but neither woman acknowledges the other. It is clear by Mary Jo’s expression what she’s thinking — trash from some holler — and so she returns her attention to her table, looking for any stickers that might say “Japan.” The old-young woman, unaffected by her disdain, turns again to her tomatoes.

The two women are much alike in precision. It was a rough ride and Rosie’s wife studies her tomatoes for bruises. Finally, she straightens, bra straps slipped to her elbows and sighs contentedly. Not a single one has been marred. And tomatoes are so thin skinned. 

The woman looks at Mary Jo, but Mary Jo isn’t watching.  Rosie, who hasn’t stopped talking despite a fresh bulge in his jaw, has been telling the men about a gigantic swap meet he once attended at Washington Court House Square in Virginia, only to interrupt himself when he sees the men’s eyes have strayed. All his children, including the little girl, are racing toward the river as though they are running for redemption, their bare feet plopping against the hard-packed earth, halfway to the tree line.            

“Dolores, Hannah, Rachel and you too, Jack,” he bellows, then spits out a wad that splatters the ground and Reuben’s boot. “Get back to the truck and give Mommy a hand with them bushels. And you, Arabella Raine,” he adds, more softly, “Come to Daddy and see this tree. It’s growing shirts instead of apples.”            

He slaps his thigh, but only Larry Zane joins in his laughter. He turns to the men again and begins to speak of his youngest daughter. “Arabella Raine. What a name. But I let the Missus name her because she’s our last. Just look at my wife. She was pretty as a peach when I married her, but she’s ready for retirement now.” He laughs at the joke played at his expense.

The children have almost reached their mother, but she doesn’t lift her head at their approach. She is still working the bushel of tomatoes, putting the best fruits on top. All the children line up in a queue, but for Arabella Raine, who goes to the spot where she dropped her pacifier, wipes it off with spit, then sticks it in her mouth. She finds a shady place beside the truck and leans against the tire, visibly working the pacifier.            

Other vehicles, their trunks laid low by unclaimed treasures, arrive over the course of the afternoon. Rosie stands on two stacked cinderblocks, which Larry found in the back of his wagon, and directs traffic, pulling off his cap when the sweat rains his chest. Reuben keeps to his original position.            By late afternoon, two more trucks with produce have pulled in, a couple selling genuine Indian jewelry and leathers, two women in a sedan with scented candles and stuffed animals made from old quilts. A rawboned youth who could pass for Reuben’s twin spreads a sheet on the ground, which he covers with stolen hubcaps at the bargain price of five dollars. A crowd begins to gather, sparse as the tree leaves but moving.            

The flea market may have started this way –maybe not. Reuben’s twin could have arrived first, filling the branches of the tree with hubcaps while the real Reuben laid his Elvis tee-shirts on the black plastic in the sun. Or the women with the stuffed animals might have stopped first, preferring to try their luck in the field instead of outside the Dollar Store.             

However it happened, it now happens every weekend, and the field is full of buyers, lookers, and sellers. A truck selling chili dogs, nachos, ice cream, packaged snacks and soft drinks feeds them.           

 Yet at this moment, the field, now called Mills Bottom, lies silvered in the moonlight. The crickets have been joined by cicadas which sing loudly from the tree line. Another low-bellied animal scrabbles in the undergrowth; again, headlights burn and disappear.            

 If one were to stand here long enough, it would be possible by a trick of the imagination to make things appear as they are not. The cans filling the rutting tire marks might become hard diamonds and the ruts not ruts at all but roads which, if followed, lead to other worlds. 

copyright, Joan Spilman, 2023. All rights reserved.