Winding Broomcorn

by Mario Milosevic

More than thirteen years have passed since Mr. Milosevic’s “Dead Letters” appeared in our pages, so our crack research team went in search of news about Mr. M. It wasn’t hard to find—his blog at www.mariowrites.com brims with personal and personable stuff, from his fondness for the works of Jorge Luis Borges to musings on life in the Columbia River Gorge and mentions of his wife, writer Kim Antieau. Oh, and did anyone mention the novel? Terrastina and Mazzoli, a novel told in episodes of 99 words each, first appeared online and is now available in print form.
And now, as the magician said after distracting the audience to look in the other direction, we bring you “Winding Broomcorn.”

Had a good crop of broomcorn this year. I harvested great sheaves of it and brought it into my shed. My wife Belle used to love to see it, stiff stalks, all different colors, rust and green and gold. Bundled up like dry rainbows is the way she used to put it.

Would sit with me then, watch me make my brooms. She especially liked the stitching I did at the end, where I bind the stalks together with thread almost as thick as string. She used to say there was nothing more attractive than a man doing something domestic like sewing.

Those days are gone. Now, she’d just as soon I got rid of the winding machine and spend all my time with her, but you know, husbands have to have something to do their wives don’t understand.

I saw it a million times when I was marrying couples. The men always wanted hobbies. The women, well, the men were their hobbies. Not saying anything right or wrong about it. Just what it is.

My pastoring days are over now. Used to have a congregation over at Mill Town on the river. Can’t say I miss it. For one thing, it takes a lot of your time. Belle used to hate it when I had to go to evening meetings at the church. Always something: AA meeting, bible study, bake sale planning, building up the food bank, getting the next rummage sale going. And on and on.

For another thing, there’s a lot of pain involved with pastoring. People in trouble. Their kids sick or dying, or their spouses fooling around or addicted to drugs or the drink or gambling. All kinds of terrible stuff. People miserable for one reason or another and they came to me for help. For divine counsel.

I tried, but I don’t know how much I did for them. Sometimes I wonder if I did any good at all. Only God can really help. Either you believe and get comfort or you don’t and I never knew how to make people believe. Didn’t know if it was right to even try.

Belle never came to my church. Belle isn’t a believer. Says she needs evidence, but never seen any. Preferred sitting in the sun. Well, that’s okay. Everyone is different. Made it awkward for me, though: a pastor who couldn’t convince his own wife about God. What good could he be?

I sometimes wondered that myself.

Now we’re a hundred miles away here in Grangeville in Western Oregon. Lots of wheat farming and cows. Quiet. I grow my broomcorn and make brooms by hand, like my grandfather and mother did. A lost art now. Only old coots like me doing it and not too many of us, either.

But everyone needs a broom. I used to sell them, back in the day. Now I don’t need the money so I give them away for wedding gifts. Or when people come to visit I give them a broom. People in town are always asking me for brooms to give to their friends.

Today I wanted Belle to come out to the shed. Watch me making brooms like she used to. That would be nice.

I looked around. Well, maybe this old shed wasn’t clean enough for her.

I took one of my brooms and began sweeping the dust out from corners. I poked up into the crevices in the ceiling, brought down tangles of cobwebs. Brushed the walls with my broom, pulling away dust and pieces of dirt. I guess I had let it go just a little bit out here in the shed. Kind of grimy. Good to clean it all up. That’s what a broom is for, right? I make them, why not use one of them?

I made a big pile of dust in the middle of the shed. I bent down with a dustpan. I was thinking about going and getting Belle to come sit with me when a woman walked into the shed. I stood up. Can’t say how old she was. One of those people you think could be thirty or she could be sixty or anything in between. She carried a walking stick bent every which way.

“Hello,” she called as she stepped into the shed. “I hear you wind brooms.”

“That’s right,” I said. I put out my hand. “The name’s Dwayne.”

She leaned her stick against the wall, then touched my palm. I hardly felt anything, like she was made of air. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Kate.”

“Hi, Kate.”

“I was in Mill Town,” she said, “and a woman named Alice said you were out here making brooms.”

“I haven’t seen Alice in ages. She and Belle were good friends. Where you from?”

“I’m from a lot of places,” said Kate. “Passing through. Wanted to find out about the guy who makes brooms the old way.”

“Yeah. I’m famous around here. People call me the broom whisperer.” I laughed at my own dumb joke.

She smiled, went over to the stash of broomcorn and ran her hand over the bristles, like she was fascinated by them. “You been doing this long?” she said.

“My family’s been making brooms for close on ninety years. This equipment was my granddad’s. You interested in brooms?”

“I had one. A good one. But it broke.”

“You mean the handle?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “The handle. And more than the handle. It wouldn’t do what it was supposed to do anymore.”

“Oh,” I said. “Do you see any here you like?”

She studied the wall where I had several of my brooms hanging. They made a nice display.

“Those are impressive brooms,” she said, “but I was wondering if you would make one special for me.”

“Oh sure,” I said. “If I can.”

She handed me her walking stick. “Can you make a broom using this as a handle?”

The stick still had most of its bark on. It was anything but straight. It looked like a lightning bolt, zigging this way and zagging that.

“Sure,” I said. “I can wind some broomcorn on that.”

She pulled up a stool from a corner of the shed and sat down. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “Can you do it now?”

I’ve been making brooms a long time. Since I was nine years old, so that’s almost seventy years, but no one has ever wanted a broom right now.

I laughed. “You sure need this broom, don’t you?”

“I need it for my work.”

“What work is that?” I asked.

“It’s spiritual. I help people.”

“Huh,” I said. Noncommittal like. I wasn’t exactly sure I wanted to tell her I used to be in the same business.

I took the stick from her and brushed off some of the looser bits of bark. I tried bending it, testing its strength. No go. It was a good solid piece of wood.

“It’ll do, right?” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’ll do fine.”

I clamped it in the gripping jaw of the broom machine, then hammered a small nail on the end. I pulled out a bit of wire from the winder and twisted it around the nail. When it was good and secure, I went to the stash of broomcorn and pulled up a good big sheaf of it. I shook it to get rid of the seeds. They fell like bits of colored rain: red, green, and yellow drops. Clung to my shoes and pants. I placed some of the broomcorn around the end of the stick and sat down and started unwinding the wire with the foot pedal. I eased the wire around the bristles of broomcorn and added more bristles as the winding progressed. I started getting warm. Sweat popped up on my forehead.

“It’s quite a process,” said Kate.

“Uh huh,” I said.

“Belle ever come in here and watch you make brooms?”

That sounded like a strange question.

“Not for a long time,” I said. “She used to like it.”

She nodded. “Yes, but how long?”

“Don’t know exactly. Couple three years, I guess.”

“Not since she died, right?”

The wire had the stalks wrapped pretty tight by this time. The thing already looked something like a real broom. All I had to do now was bend the bristles over the spooled wire and stitch up the broom so the bristles held together. That last part, the stitching, was what Belle really liked.

Kate didn’t say anything else. Watched me. I heard her breathing.

“How’d you know about Belle?” I said.

“Call it a sixth sense. Or maybe a seventh or eighth. I lost count some time ago.”

“Who are you?”

“Someone who needs a new broom. That’s all.”

I slipped on the leather mitt I used to help me push the needle through the bristles. The mitt belonged to my mother a long time ago, from when she used to stitch brooms. I did a few stitches in silence, bent over, with the heat starting to get to me.

“You like to go around the countryside harassing widowers?” I said.

“It wasn’t anything personal. I just noticed. Had to say something.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s mostly I couldn’t help myself. You seem like you’re in pain.”

“Okay.”

“I really do need the broom.”

I kept stitching the bristles, making sure they were gathered up good and tight. Nothing worse than a broom that doesn’t hold together to get at the dust hiding in cracks and crevices. You want that good strong sweeping action, or else what’s the point? When I finished, I loosened the clamp and took the broom out. Held it out for her inspection. I didn’t want to look in her eyes.

She took it and held the bristles up close, examining them.

“I usually trim the ends,” I said. “At an angle for better sweeping, but I’m guessing you want it all raggedy like it is.”

“Quite right,” she said. “Good guess.” She stood up and placed the unbristled end on the floor, like it was still a walking stick. She held it just at the base of where the bent bristles make a knob.

“What do I owe you?”

“Nothing. I make them for fun now.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

I waved my hand.

“Some of us are gathering for a ceremony,” she said. “Tonight. You’re welcome to come if you want.”

“Oh, I’ve had lots of ceremonies in my life.”

“One more won’t hurt you.”

“Probably won’t help, either,” I said.

“I’d really like you to come. We’ll be up on the hill behind the fire hall at dusk. Thanks again for the broom.”

She turned around and walked out of the shed.

* * * *

Later I thought I should have said more to Kate about Belle. Explained how things were. Some people have that effect. You just want to tell them things and you don’t know why. And then later you wonder why you didn’t.

People in town knew I was married once, and a lot of people even knew Belle’s name, but she died only a few months after we came to Grangeville, so not too many people here really knew her. Except me.

But the worst of it? I don’t even go to church anymore. Me, who used to be a pastor, I can’t understand God anymore, taking away Belle like that. When I was pastoring and people came to me with their grief, I used to tell them it was God’s will. None of us could understand. We just had to have faith.

Well, I was only half right. I don’t understand, but I also don’t have faith anymore.

So I pretend Belle is still alive. In my mind, that’s all. No one else has to know. No one else does know.

Until Kate.

After Kate left I made some more brooms until I got tired of making brooms. Then I went into the house and opened a can of soup and ate it while I watched Belle’s favorite show, the one with the detective who sees crimes before they happen. I never much liked it, but it makes me think of Belle and I like anything that reminds me of her. I thought about that hill behind the firehouse. Who would have a ceremony there? In this town? Crazy.

The firehall is only a block from my house. I can see the hill from my front window. I turned off the TV, got up from the couch, opened the front door, and stood at the screen door. The night was still warm, but a cool breeze was beginning to catch on the air. I heard noises coming from over beyond the firehall: howls, hollering.

I saw an orange glow up near the top, too. Looked like a campfire. Some figures dancing around. Four or five. I couldn’t tell exactly how many.

There’s a thing that happens to people in grief. I saw it when I was at my old church: they dream about the person passed on and they want to go live in that dream because it’s the world they remember.

I knew that was what happened to me.

I also knew it wasn’t good for me to be in that place for too long. A while, maybe, but if it drags on for months, well, that’s a whole different story. And Belle’s been passed on for years now.

Standing there at the door, the living room behind my back, I felt her. Belle. I thought if I turned around, then I would see her, sitting on the couch, watching her program.

I wanted to turn around.

Wanted to see her again. But I knew she wouldn’t be there. Hadn’t been there for a long time.

But the dancers around the fire. I heard their throaty calls to the darkness.

I pushed the screen door open.

It slammed shut behind me.

My shoes crunched on the gravel.

I didn’t look back.

Not once.

* * * *

I wondered what Belle would have thought about me going to an open air ceremony with a bunch of witches.

There I was, holding hands in a circle with four ladies dressed in black robes and hoods. The fire smoldered and crackled in the center of the circle. All their faces in shadow, hidden from me.

Kate’s voice sounded like it rose from the Earth itself. She called the directions.

North and south, east and west. She brought all of creation into the circle. I felt dizzy, but alive. This was no place for a former pastor to be, hobnobbing with pagans.

Was it?

The wind came through, billowing up the flames. Heat wrapped around my face.

A crow flew over my head, so close I heard the air rustle over its feathers.

Belle?

She used to go outside, sit on the grass. For hours sometimes, just sitting. I’d ask her what she was doing. She said she was in church. Then she’d laugh.

Crazy Belle.

Where was she?

Kate stepped forward. She picked up her broom. The one I made not six hours before. She lifted it high over her head and waved it back and forth like a giant metronome. I had the idea she was brushing the sky. Sweeping it.

The other three ladies raised arms.

Mine felt heavy. Like they were carrying baskets full of stones. But you know, after a while, they didn’t seem that heavy. I needed to lift my arms, too.

So I did. I reached about as high as I could go. I stretched so I stood on my toes.

Kate brought the broom down close to me. She brushed the air all around me, following my shape. She said some words. I couldn’t make them out. They were murmurs, maybe no words at all, really, just the sound of the world.

Then things started getting darker. The sun had slipped away. The stars were coming out. Below me the town was turning on its lights, but they seemed so dim, like I was looking through sunglasses.

And Kate kept waving the broom around me.

The other ladies pulled back their hoods, one at a time. Then I saw, they were all Belle. The first one was Belle when we got married. Young. We were kids. Didn’t know nothing. The second one was Belle older, like when she used to sit on the grass all the time. The third lady was Belle just before she died. Those deep eyes. Understanding everything.

Kate brought the bristles close to me.

Their tips brushed against my clothes.

I felt the sharpness of the ends on my skin. Not enough to hurt, but enough to dig out—something.

Like she was bristling away cobwebs.

Then things started getting not just dark, but cloudy. The three Belles started wavering, like they were made of watercolors. Stained air. I couldn’t see much through the haze that dropped over me.

I thought about Belle.

She used to love my brooms.

Loved to be in the shed with me. Loved the smell of the broomcorn. Liked to hold it in her hands. Laughing at the feel of it. Used to say how much she admired me for making brooms. For making witches feel at home in the world.

I’d never thought about it before. Figured it was one of Belle’s jokes.

Where was she? What world?

Just before everything went completely dark, I thought I felt her. All around me.

Then nowhere.

* * * *

“Hey.”

Familiar voice. I knew who that was.

“Hey, Dwayne? What you doing here?”

I looked up at the sky. It was blocked by Harold, the sheriff. Half of Grangeville’s law enforcement department. A halo glowed around him. Morning light.

“Uh,” I said.

“You been out here all night, Dwayne?”

I sat up. My head felt thick, like it had been pumped full of dough.

“I guess so.”

“You okay?”

I looked around. No sign of Kate or Belle. I stood and examined the ground, walking all over the top of the hill. Harold watched me with narrow eyes. Real suspicious like.

Absolutely no sign of a recent fire. Not one from last night at least.

“Just out for a walk, Dwayne?” said Harold. “Is that it?”

Over there, just past the rise. Was it?

I walked briskly toward the crooked stick.

The broom.

I picked it up and hefted it in my hands.

Harold was right next to me. “That what you were looking for?” he said. “This broom?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Not one of your better ones,” said Harold.

I looked around the world. Grangeville spread out below me. A new day coming up.

My house was down there a bit. I could see the roof.

And I knew there was no one in it.

Not me or Belle.

“What would you say,” I asked Harold, “if I told you this was the best broom I’ve ever made in my life?”

Harold took off his hat and scratched his head.

“Well. Dwayne. I’d have to say you were a little nuts in the head. Like maybe you went off your rocker just a little bit.”

“Yes,” I said. “I think you’re right, Harold. Just a little bit.”