The Sugar the Wind Brings

Abstract

BEN DEBUS The Sugar theWind Brings 1.Thehouse at1211 Hawthorne Lane An empty housedishevels attheend ofHawthorneLane.Itsboardedwindowsgnash thedarkinsidetheroomsthey usedtolight likemuzzledmawscontent tognawtheir tongues. Itbroodsbetweentwotimes: behinda screen ofpines,itseasternfacesulkstowards theLane, thecommons-time likerisenloavesofrye thepeopledhomes,andthosewhopeoplethem, musteachdaybreaktogether. Followsouth alongtheLane tojoina highway road thatribbons pasta mall,a school,pastshops abutting tracts ofhalf-developed land, gougedfields andpilesofrebar, concrete slabs; moveforward, towards theCity, andbeyond. Butfollownorth alongtheLane andcrush through woods,theformless, unmarked timeofoak. The northwest cornerofthehousepointstowards thesewoods,preserved byactionoftheTown; andlikea plough-blade, broken, leftoutside, thehouseallowsthesewoods,thevines,thetrees, tostretch their roots, growunderandaround. 2. Theother house Somemanythousandmilesbeyondthehouse whichbroodsbetweenthetimesofLaneandwoods, 73 beyondthosewoodsthemselves, andoverearth, through townships, cities, streams andfurrowed fields, acrossthesea,acrosstheotherland beyondthesea,insidea denserwoods, an olderwoodswhosepinestipoutthesun, whoseancientoakscorduplikestraining wrists, insidea housewhosewallsaregingerbread, a womanrocksupona chair, andwaits. 3. Theback porchat1211 Hawthorne Lane The treesreachouttheir nuding branches, creak their boughsabovetheporch, andthreaten towards theeaves.The woodsbreathe leavesacrosstheboards; leaveslift andfunnel, scrapealongthesills, tampdowninsidethesteps, thenscuttle on. The beamswhichproptheporch-roof cushwithmoss; thehand-rails, warpedwithwater, brittle as thedrift ofshipwrecks, buckletowards thewoods. Butthough thehousegroansanswers tothecall ofswaying oak,androts, andsplinters, frays as ifbyfraying itcouldjointhewoods, eachcreaking boardrecalls thestepofthose whowalkeditsfloors: thesickconsumptive child ofeighteen sixtyfour ; thespinster aunt whoworea veilandgazedouttowards theeast thosedawnsfrom eighteen ninety-three to -eight; thesweatofthosewhobrokeitsground, whofelled andhewedthetrees whichwouldbecomeitstimbers. Andso thehouse,atonce,invites thewoods, whatever from thewoodswillcome,andtoo whatever childmayenter, luredbyghosts. 74 4. Theother house The doorway tothehouseofgingerbread hangswide,itssugar-crusted muffin-knob mashedup against thecandy-cane thatprops theeave.The door,a giantmadeleine thatsprouts up likea fanofceladon, sways backward towards thejambas iftoclose, thenswings outwideagaininsidea gust. The openingadmitsno light. The windows, panesofwhitesugar, sparkle inthesun whichshafts inthrough thepines,butgivenohint ofwhats inside.A rowofgumdrops rings their casements; curlicues ofbutter-cream weaveivory creepervinesacrossthewalls . Fromfaraway, behindthetrees, thehouse seemslikea gift, a Christmas sweet:a smoke ofsugar-dust wafts from thechimney-stack, a giantwaffle-cone flipped upsidedown, andsettles on a roofofchocolatecurls, theeaveoflemoncakebeneath, likesnow. 5. Theceliar beneath 1211 Hawthorne Lane Beneaththeempty houseon HawthorneLane, insidethecellar, shelves ofempty jars, a sofacloakedindrapes, a table-saw against thewall,a boybreathes deep.The must chafes inhisnose,sowsflorets through histhroat. His flashlight stirs thedark.He prodsitsbeam, a glassy ampouleswilling tar, from here totherearoundtheroom:a billiard ball uponanarmoire gutted ofitsdrawers; a lawnflamingo proppedagainst a box, 75 itsheadcracked off, so thatitshollowneck jagsupwardlikea cup.Beneaththestair, itshand-rail lacedwithChristmas lights, hefinds a lathe.Beneath, insidea bedofdust, a half-carved dollofbalsanuzzlesdown. Abovethewaist, shes scaledinwhittle pocks, herheadunfeatured as a dresser knob, herarmsstraight out,androundedatthehands. Belowthewaist, she'sjustanuncutblock, herlegsstillboundinwood. Insidehispalm, sheseemsa fist ofginger, seemsa root thatsprouts outlikea girl, orlikea girl beneaththeearthso longshe'stakenroot. 6.Theother house A pathway curves acrosstheclearing tucked within thedarkanddeepoftrees. The woods closethick aroundas iftheir shadewerehands, hadlashedtogether trunks toweavea wall. Butlooking down,thesister andherbrother seegumballs, smoothas river-pebbles, bulbed amongst thepathway's cobblestones. It'strue thatgifts canfinduswherewe leastexpect; andso thechildren, lost,tossed-off, andstarved, ignore howdensetheforest's grown, so thick thatifthey turned, steppedtwenty pacesback, they'd neverfindthelittle houseagain. (A hunter passesby.He whispers psalms tosoothehisbristled dog.His fingers itch tocockhisgun.Buthewillleavethewoods andnotknowwhyhishacklesrise, hismouth goesdry, hetakessuchcomfort inhisknife.) Andtruethatsometimes we areledbygifts 76 whichhideuntilthey wishtogivethemselves: themantheriver sweepsawayaccepts thestoneheclingsto,though itbreakshisleg; another finds hisanswerina carol whichdrifts from somewhere on thesnowy air. These followno designthatwe cansee: a glacier placedthestonethatsavestheman a hundred thousand yearsago;thehymn waswritten longbeforetheothers birth topraisean olderbirth, andso hasno clearbearing on themanwhohearsitnow Excepttohim.Andhere,themiracle unfolds: thegift thathereceives as song remains forothers, waitsforallthoseothers walking thedarktohear,andtoaccept. Itmakesnovows.The houseofgingerbread, byitsdesignandsecret place,makesvows. Itvowsa harbor, vowstobe a home, toholdthesister andherbrother close, andonlythem.Alone,they creepup towards thatvow,thatpromise, toomuchmouthtosee thenibble-marks already on theeaves. 7.Thekitchen at1211 Hawthorne Lane Insidethepantry, four brownpapersacks ofsugarhunker backlikehorsemen, old provisions forsomeendalready passed. Andyet, notquitean end:theboycansee thehousehascalledtoothers; empty beers, andbrown-glass fifths, andclear-glass handles, stand uponthesillthatopenstowardthewoods. Theybed thefloor likejaggedunderbrush, slimup likestemsuponthecountertops, 77 lineupingardenfurrows inthesink. The kitchen faucet, crusted whiteandgreen, thedraina wreath oflime,thepipesbeneath thesinka rimeofrust, remind thehouse howwaterusedtogurgle through itswall. The boysquealson thetap,andnothing comes. Butwaterfinds a way:abovehishead, theceiling plaster bubbles, bursts whererain haseatenouttheroof. A grayish stain spillsdownacrossthepaperon thewall, a patterned andrepeatedfield ofsprays, ofhazel,violet, rose.The flowers fade: therosesblanchetopink;thevioletsghost towatermarks, as ifwhatscurries through thewallshadmilkedtheir colorfrom behind. 8. Theother house Besidethedoor,beneaththeporch-eave s shade, thesister andherbrother finda bed ofcrumbled cake,a rowoforangepeelstooled liketulips, stemmed on chocolatestraws. A bush ofdrizzledtaffy bloomswithfrosting roses. A beetle-line ofcandiedfigs swarms up thewall,alongthewindowsill, surrounds a nestofcoconut.Insidethenest, a ringofspeckledEastereggsgrows cold without a mother. So itseemstoGretei. The birdswhichshouldswoopdowntopeckthepanes ofsugarholdso farawaythatGretei can'theartheir song.The antswhichshould invadetheginger wallshavebuiltno hills. No bearslapup thelittle honey...