The Immanent Squalor of Transcendence

Marla pretends not to know how to drive Raquel's car, but, against her wishes, time continues. The speedometer is proof she is acutely aware that her wishes have not come true, zipping down the elevated streets of Cherry Gardens, a town famous for being the center of a 50-year drought. Water travels from reservoirs 300 miles away to fill a glass for all 300 of its inhabitants, but ask any resident, and they'll tell you what they think of the desert.

"There is a consistency in the sand, the sky, and us in Cherry Gardens. It's still the same," Says the town's primary teacher, Mr. Wilhoit. "I have 12 students, from 1st to 7th grade. Then Mrs. Moss takes over."

He is a tall, lanky man with a large, Roman nose. Last Halloween, someone threw a pumpkin at him and said, "Duck, Ichabad," keeping with his neighbors' consistency with the mantle of sameness that is the sand that surrounds them.

It is late October, and it is 93 degrees. Mr. Wilhoit travels by foot, says it's twenty minutes between the two welcome signs. He sees Marla in her roommate's car, and though he wants to tell her it's a piece of shit, he still has not worked up the courage to make her laugh. He waves her down, but she does not stop; she slows down and pops her head out of the piece of shit, saying, "Sorry, Fred, I'm late."

No one has been late in Cherry Gardens for anything. Time is a curious relationship with its citizens, but extraordinary claims require extraordinary investigations, thinks Mr. Wilhoit. The road is a long arch, with little gravel paths that branch out to homes. He watches Raquel's tires kick up dust and decides to cut through the sand and rock. When he reaches her car, his path will be the string to the curved road's bow. What was 93 degrees at 11 AM is now 96 degrees at 1 PM. This three-degree temperature change reminds him he has a water bottle in his pocket. Nothing more.

Halfway, he takes a drink. The sun takes its time traveling over his shoulders. He thinks he's bleeding and is shocked to find sweat around his temples. If that isn't weird enough for Mr. Wilhoit, a drop hits the ground and up comes a flower. Like any man of reason and science, he stops. He thinks the bruts would too. He bends over to touch it, and another bead of sweat falls, and another flower springs from the sand. He no longer wishes to touch any of this, which he does not understand. It makes no sense. He opens his water and jolts a lick out, and a line of flowers pops up where the water has hit the mantle of sameness that is sand. The consistent landscape that he and Cherry Gardens have lived with their entire lives.

At the end of this little garden is a worn letter, thrust up with the flowers. Mr. Wilhoit used to have 13 students until Max graduated 7th grade, and Mrs. Moss became his teacher for about a year. His name is on the letter, and Mr. Wilhoit recognizes his handwriting. This boy was smart, smarter than Mrs. Moss, thought Fred, a bias against women his intelligence neglected and justified, thrusting him through his life where he can appreciate the geometry of a tortoise shell. Still, his self-assertion spoils the relationships he takes for granted. He removes his gold-framed wired glasses and reads:

When we jump and don't fall, we are suspended by disbelief, whether or not we know how, matters. The longer you are up, the more time you have to look down. Curiosity breeds excitement and ascends, but we are still in this suspension of disbelief. The weight of our hats will not bring us down. In this place, we tend to make strong miscalculations, rooted in vanity, about how firm our friends and family are when they extend a hand that has always been there. Mr. Wilhoit, please treat Mrs. Moss with respect. In many ways, her intelligence does not wish to be measured. If you want to measure something, count the cows. They will always be there. Cherry Gardens loves Cheeseburgers too much.

Max Allison

Mr. Wilhoit looks to his left and right. Turns around and back again. He slowly scans everything and sees no witnesses. He removes his father's Zippo and lights the letter on fire. The ash burns the flowers in flame, and the little garden is gone just as fast as it sprang. Mr. Wilhoit continues his walk to Raquel's piece of shit. The image of the tortoise shell, its living geometry, is the only thought that occupies his mind, which is why he is surprised to find himself in the town graveyard with Mrs. Moss. She stands between the graves of Raquel and Max. Separate families, but buried side by side since they both left for greater things in the same car accident. Well fed by the groundskeeper's hose, this is the only patch of dark green grass for hundreds of miles.

"What are you doing?"

"Two years ago today," she says.

"Ah, Max."

"And Raquel."

"Max was very bright. Too bright for this world."

"Raquel was Raquel, Raquel enough for this world. So was lovely, Max."

"Do you think they are in Heaven, Mrs. Moss?"

"What difference does it make, Mr. Wilhoit?"

"No difference."

"I think there is. I hope Heaven exists."

"What does your hope look like?"

She looks at him. They are both weathered and tan, and they should probably stop cutting each other's hair.

"That has no difference. And yours?"

He looks around and lifts his arms. "It's here! Look out. The desert transcends all division!"

"And yet you have a surface level of life."

"It's imminent!"

"It's also transcendent. Watch."

Marla grabs his water and tosses it across the ground. Flowers spring from their graves.

"I knew that," says Mr. Wilhoit.

"But what?" asks Mrs. Moss. "What did you know?"