The Flagpole
By Laura Burkhart
She didn’t know why she’d acted on that whim, why she pulled the homemade cape from the pile of laundry and ran it up the flagpole. Now it was too late. She watched the wind lift its corners, ripples of red and black against the pale blue.
Then he was standing beside her. “Sandinista colors, then,” he said. “After all this time.”
She couldn’t tell if the shadow that passed across his face hid a smile or replaced it. “So it would appear,” she said. “All those martyrs.” She crossed herself.
Neither of them spoke any more of those early days of living in the jungle, filled with visions of equality, hope for the future, revolutionary plans. In their love they didn’t feel the hunger, notice the wounds that wouldn’t heal, the hand-made leather boots that rotted over the months until their feet didn’t recover. Even when the revolution was over and they returned to dry land and sunshine and victory. And then the contra war…but they didn’t talk about that any more either.
She returned to the cabin and he watched the cape for a while, the rhythm of it blowing, the color it gashed into the milky sky. Then he whistled for the dog and they sniffed their way to the creek, the dog nosing in the underbrush, he inhaling the fresh morning dew. He found his fishing pole where he’d left it leaning against the birch tree. He pulled a scrap of bacon from his pocket. Half for the dog, half for the string at the end of the pole.
She likes the perch, he thought, the little perch that sometimes swim through here, through this narrow part of the creek. He could bring her some. Maybe she would stop crying long enough to taste one.
Back in the shack she swiped her sleeve across her face. Allergies, she told herself. She scraped the bar of lye soap against the washboard, then lifted a wet Superman T-shirt from the tub and rubbed it back and forth, up and down against the rough grate, until she could feel the harsh soap cut into her hands. It felt good, the pain. It felt good to feel anything.
This was it, then, she thought. The last of the overalls, shirts, pajamas, washed one more time before she dropped them in the poor box at the church. She glanced out the window, past the porch, saw the cape wave at her in the wind. What a foolish thing to run up a flagpole. As if it was a real flag. As if they were patriotic. As if they cared at all where they lived, never mind which country. Now.
But he and the boy had been happy the day they came home from the auction, old truck bed filled with mason jars for her, small tools for himself, and for the boy the cape and the flagpole with the red rag on the end that hung out the back of the truck, that bounced over the bumps on the road, covering itself with dust by the time they arrived home.
That flagpole had made the boy happy. They had taken turns, the three of them, finding things to run up it, to surprise the point of the triangle that wasn’t involved in the game that particular day. Because the boy had been too young to do it by himself, even though he had ideas of what he’d like to see up there, flying high above the wooden shack with its tarpaper roof, above the birch trees and the sprawling caragana bushes, maybe even high enough to be seen by the neighbors across the creek and down a ways.
Today, unthinking, she had grabbed the threadbare cape and tied it to the lanyard, then pulled it up so he’d see it when he went out after breakfast. As if this testament could blow away the rage and tears. Now, while water and soap dripped off her hands into the washtub, she felt foolish for that act of whimsy. As if she’d betrayed some grief-stricken part of them both, had tried to fill that deep hollow with lighthearted memories for just a moment. Now the punishing lye against her chapped hands told her it was too soon. She feared it would always be too soon. The shiniest point of the triangle had been torn away. Nothing would change that. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, wiped the water from her face, and bent back over the washboard.
Then he was standing beside her. “Sandinista colors, then,” he said. “After all this time.”
She couldn’t tell if the shadow that passed across his face hid a smile or replaced it. “So it would appear,” she said. “All those martyrs.” She crossed herself.
Neither of them spoke any more of those early days of living in the jungle, filled with visions of equality, hope for the future, revolutionary plans. In their love they didn’t feel the hunger, notice the wounds that wouldn’t heal, the hand-made leather boots that rotted over the months until their feet didn’t recover. Even when the revolution was over and they returned to dry land and sunshine and victory. And then the contra war…but they didn’t talk about that any more either.
She returned to the cabin and he watched the cape for a while, the rhythm of it blowing, the color it gashed into the milky sky. Then he whistled for the dog and they sniffed their way to the creek, the dog nosing in the underbrush, he inhaling the fresh morning dew. He found his fishing pole where he’d left it leaning against the birch tree. He pulled a scrap of bacon from his pocket. Half for the dog, half for the string at the end of the pole.
She likes the perch, he thought, the little perch that sometimes swim through here, through this narrow part of the creek. He could bring her some. Maybe she would stop crying long enough to taste one.
Back in the shack she swiped her sleeve across her face. Allergies, she told herself. She scraped the bar of lye soap against the washboard, then lifted a wet Superman T-shirt from the tub and rubbed it back and forth, up and down against the rough grate, until she could feel the harsh soap cut into her hands. It felt good, the pain. It felt good to feel anything.
This was it, then, she thought. The last of the overalls, shirts, pajamas, washed one more time before she dropped them in the poor box at the church. She glanced out the window, past the porch, saw the cape wave at her in the wind. What a foolish thing to run up a flagpole. As if it was a real flag. As if they were patriotic. As if they cared at all where they lived, never mind which country. Now.
But he and the boy had been happy the day they came home from the auction, old truck bed filled with mason jars for her, small tools for himself, and for the boy the cape and the flagpole with the red rag on the end that hung out the back of the truck, that bounced over the bumps on the road, covering itself with dust by the time they arrived home.
That flagpole had made the boy happy. They had taken turns, the three of them, finding things to run up it, to surprise the point of the triangle that wasn’t involved in the game that particular day. Because the boy had been too young to do it by himself, even though he had ideas of what he’d like to see up there, flying high above the wooden shack with its tarpaper roof, above the birch trees and the sprawling caragana bushes, maybe even high enough to be seen by the neighbors across the creek and down a ways.
Today, unthinking, she had grabbed the threadbare cape and tied it to the lanyard, then pulled it up so he’d see it when he went out after breakfast. As if this testament could blow away the rage and tears. Now, while water and soap dripped off her hands into the washtub, she felt foolish for that act of whimsy. As if she’d betrayed some grief-stricken part of them both, had tried to fill that deep hollow with lighthearted memories for just a moment. Now the punishing lye against her chapped hands told her it was too soon. She feared it would always be too soon. The shiniest point of the triangle had been torn away. Nothing would change that. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, wiped the water from her face, and bent back over the washboard.