Michael Stewart - Keep in a Cold, Dark Place

By Michael F. Stewart

In Fleshertons tiny school library, Limpy OMalley sewed a tapestry made of old potato bags. It was to be her submission to Hillcrest School for the Arts Scholarship Committee, a special school in the city, away from the farm, and Limpys golden ticket to a better life. If only she could finish her application in time to win the scholarship.

The folds of Limpys art threatened to smother her. Sketched in twine on a blanket of burlap were serpentine roads and trees scraggly with winters approach. The tapestry spread over the table, over the sides of a plastic chair, and crept along her knees and up Limpys chest toward her throat. Her fingers ached from stitching the town shapes.

She sewed the family farm now. Or not so much the farm, but her symbol for it, a box, a replica of the golden box that shone from the computer screen.

French fry. The voice came from behind her.

Limpy brushed lank hair across her face, staring through the greasy strands at the computer screen and then down at the coarse thread. She tried to ignore the teasing, pulling and pushing the thick needle through burlap, tugging at the twine as the box took shape.

B-B-Baked. The second boy stuttered.

Yeah, good one. Scalloped, blurted the first.

Behind her, the boys, Arnie and Emmanuel, snickered on beanbag chairs. She loved those chairs. They werent full of Styrofoam balls like new ones. They contained beans, real beans. Limpy imagined that if she dug a great hole and dropped the bags inside, up would sprout a beanstalk more magnificent than Jacks. Up she could climb, up beyond the borders of her town, and the ring of thorns that encircled her potato bag tapestry.

A bean skittered across the burlap until it planted itself beside the box coalescing in thread beneath her fingertips.

Mashed, Emmanuel said. What are you making anyway?

Arnie struggled out of his beanbag. Stubbly-cheeked and with the deep, red skin of someone who spent his evenings hunched over a tractor, and deer-sick from school during hunting season, he loomed over Limpys work of artistic merit. The reek of teenage boy and beef jerky assaulted her.

Shes making a giant potato sack, Arnie said and sniggered. To put herself in.

Big enough to put her whole family in, more like it, Emmanuel said.

Its not a sack, Limpy said. Itll be the town. When its done.

Two dozen potato sacks cut open and sewn together formed the canvas. Rough stitches sketched in the towns design: Main Street and its stores, the water tower, The Restaurant, the church, nearby homes and the surrounding fields. Only Hillcrest School, outside the thorns, had progressed further than an outline and was nearly done. She was just starting on the arduous process of embroidering the rest of the scenes. But she needed more time.

Limpy had one hour in the school library, one hour to seek the world beyond the eighty-four acres of her fathers potato farm. One hour to work on her art.

Arnie leaned closer, his dull eyes widening. Is that supposed to be Emmanuels store then, tater-pop?

Im not done, she said.

Duh, it doesnt even have the sign.

Its called the General Store. Doesnt need a sign.

W-W-We dont sell much soup, Emmanuel said.

Limpy had taken a symbolic approach to the town buildings. All around the edge of the burlap was the wall of thorns. The Restaurant was a fork and knife, The Bar a glass, the General Store a can of soup, the Church a cross, and her farm a box.

Emmanuel looked hurt, and Limpy didnt know why. His bullying surprised her, even if he did it stammering and red faced. He was smarter than the other boys, and she didnt understand why he needed to hang around with the likes of Arnie.

If my stores a can, why isnt your farm a potato? Emmanuel asked. Yours looks like a treasure chest.

Arnie said, My dad says hell never eat a potato from your farm. The curse makes him sick.

Limpy struggled to keep stitching. It wasnt a treasure chest. It was Pandoras box, but Arnie was closer to the truth. On the computer screen was a painting of a beautiful Greek woman named Pandora, opening a golden boxa cursed boxa box that held all the evil in the world. That was what she stitched in place of her fathers farm.

Curse isnt real, Emmanuel said.

Then why wont your dad let you go near her farm? Arnie asked. You ever eat one of their potatoes?

Limpy looked up and Emmanuel flushed. Shed never known. Shed always wondered why hed never been by, or why Emmanuels father refused to stock any of their potato bags, but she hadnt thought it due to the curse.

None of that mattered. What mattered was that she finish her art, win the scholarship, and flee Flesherton forever.

Leave me alone, Limpy told them. Theyd see. The tapestry would come alive. It had to.

Emmanuel shouldnt be stuck with a can of soup, Arnie said. They sell more bullets for hunting than soup, dont you?

With a wink at Emmanuel and a glance through the bookshelves to see if Ms. Summerfield, their librarian and teacher, was watching, Arnie yanked six inches of gleaming hunting knife from a sheath. Emmanuel doesnt want you sewing his store.

I actually dont care, Emmanuel said.

Limpy gasped at the knife, gathering the folds of her art to her chest, but Arnie had gotten a grip on the burlap.

Come on, Emmanuel said. Dont be dumb.

The only one dumb in this town is Limpys brother. Arnie shook his head. If thats your dads store, then we can cut it out if we want to.

From behind Arnie, Emmanuel gave Limpy a pained look of apology and then hauled on the arm brandishing the knife.

Dont even think about it, Arnie, Limpy said. You dont understand. Fear brimmed in her eyes, but not of the knife, rather the loss of time.

Arnie shrugged Emmanuel off and brought the knife-tip down to the fabric, nudging up a loop of twine. If he damaged the tapestry, shed never finish it. Fatigue dragged at her shoulders. The ache in her thumb had spread to her hands and wrists. She expected this kind of teasing from her brothers. From her father, too. But the school library was her safe place. A place that allowed her to reach beyond the towns bank of thorns, a place that held her fear for the future at bay, and fanned a spark of hope. Limpy squeezed back tears, and slowly stood, shaking and russet red.

You know, she said, forcing a smile. Im pretty good at cutting out eyes. From the depths of her apron she pulled a paring knife. I can peel skin good, too.

She was, of course, referring to potato eyes and potato skin, but she wasnt about to explain that. She thumbed the blade.

Arnie sliced through a row of stitches, splitting them.

Emmanuel shouted for him to stop.

The swish of Ms. Summerfields pants rustled between shelves.

Come on. Emmanuel pulled Arnie toward the library exit.

Limpy, Arnie mumbled.

Get out of here, Limpy whispered after them, as the two boys fast-walked out of the library and into the school hall. The hunting blade was hidden by the time Ms. Summerfields narrow nose poked past the rack of books. Limpys hand quaked as she shoved her paring knife back into her apron pocket. The handle was sticky with potato starch, and she swiped her palms clean.

Limpy had thirty more minutes and, although she mourned the loss of time, she didnt dwell on it. She went right back to her stitching. Ms. Summerfield stopped to marvel at the scope of Limpys work and then drifted away. If there was one thing Limpys father had taught her, it was never to waste anything. Not a thing. Most of all, she feared she was doing exactly that. Having wasted the thirteen years since her birth, now she was wasting the rest of her life in a cold, dark place.