One typical year, as those were the only kind Oleander dealt in, even the year of the killing day. In blood as in drought or in poverty or in flame, Oleander was Oleander, and there were still crops to be sown and meth to be harvested, pies to be baked and pigs to be prized, bargains to be hunted and farms to be foreclosed, cherries to be popped and hearts to be broken, worship to be offered and sinners to be shamed. There was still the promise of a warm night on a covered porch or a sledding trip on a snowy afternoon; there was, flickering on the periphery, like the shy fireflies that danced around Potawamie Lake on late-summer nights, still a glimmer of hope. There was gossip and tradition, for these were the fumes on which Oleander ran, chugging steadily along with its needle wobbling on empty, and would until it faded to a dried-up husk, with only a broken and rusted WELCOME TO OLEANDER, HEART OF THE REAL AMERICA! sign to mark what had once been a town. Tradition: In early October, once the funerals had been endured and the mourners’ houses purged of dying flowers, frozen lasagnas, and baskets of corn muffins long gone stale, the veil of solemnity lifted, and business – what little business the town had left – continued as usual.
