The fair market price of a single, undyed candlestick was one dollar. Not that anyone had dollars anymore. So Agnes Renfrew accepted all sorts of odds and ends and bits and bobs in exchange for the treasured beeswax tapers.
Each Wednesday, without fail, Mrs. Singleton would knock on her door, carrying a basket of pickled onions, or canned potatoes that she would exchange for seven candlesticks. She was a no-nonsense woman, who would never dream of displaying a candlestick decorated with green–or most shockingly red–in her window, so Agnes kept the more scandalous waxes in a drawer. They would barter, not because Agnes thought she was being taken advantage of, but because Mrs. Singleton would be offended if she didn’t. And like clockwork, she would exit her house and travel back down the lane a quarter of an hour later with an empty basket and seven bone-colored candles.
Mr. Tannenberry preferred to pay his visit on Thursdays. They were her slow days, and she never minded his lingering visits as he inspected her most intricately carved candles. Ever since his wife died of radiation poisoning a few years back, he had taken up her routines, and always traded generously, as if the more he paid, the greater the protection the candles would provide. Agnes pushed away this thought. She hadn’t felt the candles’ magic in years, and it brought an unpleasant pressure and heat to the space behind her eyes.
Agnes never voiced her thoughts about Mr. Tannenberry to anyone. Their time together felt sacred, suspended in a delicate bubble, keeping their separate sorrows at bay, if only for a time.
Today, his chapped and wrinkled hand paused above the candles displayed in a regimented line like a squad of soldiers.
“Are they not to your liking?”
“No…it’s just,” he pulled back his hand. “I love when you have the ones that look like flowers.” Agnes knew this of course.
“Unfortunately, they take a bit more wax than the others, and lately since the bees disappeared…” Agnes looked away, her lips in a tight line.
“Do you ever think about going south?” The suggestion hovered, heavy in the air between them. “A young woman like you could make the journey. I’ve heard of safe zones–”
“Could you ever leave?”
“No.” He twisted the ring he still wore on his left hand.
A bitter taste flooded her mouth. Tannenbury would never understand. His wife died after a full life– he didn’t fail the way she had. She had gotten too comfortable in their wax scavenging trips to the narrow safe zones. A mother is supposed to protect her child. The rest of Tannenbury’s visit was tainted by a thick fog of guilt.
On Friday morning, the sun rose into an unusually clear blue sky. She smiled at the raucous knocking at her door. She opened it, and in a whirlwind of dust, a little blonde boy tumbled in.
“Ms. Renfrew,” the gap in his teeth and inattention of youth made her name sound like ‘Whenfoo.’ “Momma says I gotta get eight candles ‘cause it’s an extra special week!”
“Is it now?” she said with a grin, opening the drawer where his bundle of candles was already waiting.
“Yes!” He was practically vibrating. “It’s my birthday! Momma says I can light an extra candle on my birthday, and it will keep me safe all year!”
“She’s a smart lady,” Agnes said, unable to hide the smile on her face. She dug out a candle dyed a pale yellow from the springtime dandelions. The tiny flowers were some of the only pretty things left. Stubborn and undeterred, growing in the poisoned soil beyond the settlement. They reminded her of the boy, sprouting and reaching upwards toward the hazy skies. What a blessing to still have birthdays in this ruined world.
“Here, I’ve got a special candle just for you.”
The boy’s face lit up, and he chattered away as she added the candle to the bundle. She held out her hand, and he dutifully handed over the single shiny quarter. It was not enough. But he never had enough. Agnes turned around and slipped the coin behind the ribbon and tied a bow over it, as she always did.
“Now take this straight to your momma, and don’t shake it,” she said. The boy nodded, as he always did. On impulse, she ruffled his hair like she used to with her own son. The motion was so natural. The boy smiled and ran off, but Agnes’s chest went cold, and her vision blurred as she stared at the chunk of blond hair left tangled in her fingers.
Night came quickly. Agnes sat at her table, melting the cut edges of the ribbons she would use to secure next week’s bundles. The repetition of the familiar task brought her no comfort. Her hand scraped the bottom of the drawer as she grabbed the last one. There were never enough.
As she swept the pile of ribbons into their drawer, her eyes lingered on the locks of her son’s light brown hair she kept hidden there. She flipped open the chest pocket of her dress and pulled out his photo. Her son’s eyes smiled under the curtain of sandy brown bangs. He was only gone from her side for a moment, but in the radiation-soaked wasteland, that’s all it took.
Agnes took her candle to the window, setting it in its ceremonious place. She imagined herself walking out the door and through the empty street, turning South, away from the contamination and death. She had seen enough death for several lifetimes.
Her hand rested against the cold, dark glass as she watched the candle’s flame dance in its reflection. She closed her eyes and held the photo over her thundering heart. He would have to forgive her for leaving. With a quick breath, she snuffed the candle, because, despite wishing, the tiny flames did nothing to keep the genuine terrors at bay.
* * *
Ⓒ Liz J. Bradley
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