Caroline: Cash
“Love...is a burnin’ thing, And it makes a fiery ring Bound by wild desire, I fell into a ring of fire.”
It is the summer of 1966, and Johnny Cash is crooning in my ear with every other step. The comforting weight of my Sony thumps rhythmically against the side of my dad’s old rucksack, and for a few precious moments of scratchy cowboy warbling, I can almost forget those sad, empty eyes that watched me walk out of his house. They turned away -- ashamed? Disinterested? Whatever the reason, they didn’t have to watch me shut the door on my way out for the last time. It’s fine. There’s three cans of baked beans left in my bag, Cash is singing, and I am, too.
“I fell into a burnin’ ring of fire, I went down, down, down, And the flames went higher…”
My wailing notes, loud and proud, dim to a whisper as I see a cherry-red postwar Ford come ambling up the highway. I can see the lady behind the wheel as she approaches, and as I toss my ponytail back over my shoulder, I hike a thumb high up in the air to see if she slows. She does. I turn up the volume on Cash and cinch my belts a little tighter as I break into a loping jog, careful not to slip and skin my knees on the dusty shoulder again.
“And it burns, burns, burns, The ring of fire, the ring of fire…”
It is the spring of 1967 and I’ve just finished cutting my own hair in the bed of Rose Marie’s truck. The heavy weight of my ponytail is gone, tossed aside in a thick, limp clump like some old and dead thing that hung from my skull for too many years. Something useless. Vestigial. I don’t even know what that word means, but it feels right. Johnny Cash stirs my chestful of emotions from his perch in the truck’s radio, and when I hear the crackle of flame outside between verses, I know that Rose Marie’s being polite enough to smoke and give me a little space while I pretend not to cry. I wait a few beats for the tears to finish spilling, for the familiar stink of Rose Marie’s Marlboros to waft over and make me gag and finally shut off the waterworks.
When I don’t smell her cigarettes, I turn just in time to see the lumbering monster, all muscle and teeth and bark-flecked fur, lurch out of the treeline and sprint straight for her. I turn just in time to see Rose Marie steady the old stetson on her short, black head of hair and raise her outstretched finger at the sasquatch. I turn just in time to see Rose Marie kill like God does.
From afar.
“The taste of love is sweet, When hearts like ours meet. I fell for you like a child Oh, but the fire went wild.”
It is the winter of 1975 and I’m hollering for the nurse for the sixth time in as many minutes to come bring me some goddamned orange juice, some water, a fifth of vodka, fucking something because my Rose Marie is thirsty, goddammit, and she’s tired. I return to the side of the hospital bed and slump into my shitty little folding chair and wrap my head in my hands as I’m ignored again. Rose Marie doesn’t need a drink. Rose Marie doesn’t need much of anything, anymore; she’s days from the grave at best, the doctors can’t do anything about the cancer, and she wouldn’t pay them if they could. Not even the soothing strum of Cash’s guitar from the bedside radio can shake me from my ugly, wracking sobs, but when I feel a thin hand reach out to stroke through my long hair, I wipe my nose with a streak of denim and slap a smile on for the sweetest mother I’ll ever know. Rose Marie Fokker has words for me, and even though the cancer has taken the strength from her, stolen the skip from her step and the life from her body, I can still see the crackling spark of spellfire in her eye as she presses her hat into my hands.
“I fell into a burnin’ ring of fire! I went down, down, down, And the flames went higher! And it burns, burns, burns, The ring of fire, the ring of fire!”
It is the spring of 1982 and I’m stuck on a single-lane highway in the middle of the night, surrounded on both sides by tree trunks so thick I’d run out of breath jogging around them, and now lost somewhere between Virginia and its better half. Something stirs just beyond the edge of my headlights, and as I pump the gas a little harder, my cherry-red 1979 Ford Bronco responds with a mighty roar to match my singing voice. My radio burned out on mile 53 of my latest hunting trip, but I’m not gonna let that stop me from singing loud and proud. I roll the windows down on either side to hear the wind whipping at my hair and the tattered brim of my stetson, and when the half-skinned thing that might have tried to look like an elk comes sprinting alongside my truck, I suck a deep breath and belt out at my loudest and proudest. My right hand grips the steering wheel to keep me steady as I pull the revolver from my belt with my left, and when I open my mouth to finish the chorus, the monster throws itself at me in a mess of legs and hooves and meat and antlers. Sigils flare to life along the revolver’s receiver as the hammer strikes home on an empty chamber, and as my spell lights the lonesome forest road with the force of the midday sun, I kill like Rose Marie did.
From afar.
