Muscles and tendons strain
under the weight of the half-filled buckets. She recalls the time, not so long ago,
when she had carried them easily full up. Grunting, she trudges to the end of the lot and
dumps the
finished compost in two piles between the newly emerged cucumber plants. The
sweat streams
stinging into her eyes, which she brushes away with a dirty glove.
The same dirty glove wraps around the rough handle of
the rake and, after smoothing the buttery black loam between the plants, the
tall woman drops
the tool and straightens
to place both
gloves on the small of her back. After a moment, she picks up the buckets and
muttering, slogs
back to the compost pile.
Beside the compost pile shines the newly purchased
wheelbarrow, unmarred by weather and time and grit. The woman considers a moment this work-saving technology and
then proceeds to
spade the buckets, again, half-full. One more trek to the front and her job will be done; her lunch earned.
Inside the farmhouse, the man, the partner, watches out of the wavy glass his
wife's exertions. Crazy woman. Just yesterday, he'd bought her the most
ergonomic tool invented by man and still she insists
on the buckets. He places
a large checkered cloth over the lunch tray and elbows out the ancient screen door.
On the porch stands a
small, battered wooden
table and two mismatched chairs. He places the tray in the center of the table, then fingers the silverware, centering it
cleanly on the napkins. He adjusts the posy trough so his wife will have the
best view.
Satisfied, he pours the lemonade into the
tumblers, adding a fresh slice of lemon to each. Here she comes, hands wet from
the pump, faded red
hair haloing her flushed and freckled angel face. His heart accelerates as he flashes briefly on the moment, forty
seven years before, when he'd seen his son rush out of her womb. She looks up at him and smiles. Her stomach growls loudly under the farmer
bibs. She is
happy.
He returns the smile and pulls her chair out from under the
his mother's linen tablecloth. She settles into the chair while he
serves. Although
her appetite exceeds
the small portion, the woman leans onto the ladder-back and sighs with pleasure. Her eyes
wander out, over the riotous blooming garden and back to her husband's weathered
face so concentrated on gathering and piling dirty dishes.
There are so few moments, so few
perfect moments, to be had in this life; this is surely one of them. They surely
deserve this moment. All the preceding dark, dangerous, devastating and disastrous
moments are forgotten.
At the sound of a creaking step,
they turn their heads. Well, if it isn’t the grandson of their neighbor to the
north mounting the porch! Pink scalp under parted hair and no smile to greet
theirs, just dark and downcast eyes as the official process server skims his
sunburned hand along the peeling paint of the railing. The husband looks out to
the road and sees a brand new double cab pickup tucked behind the barberry
bushes. Tricky bastard.
The sun ducks behind a rain cloud. A
hawk screeches; finally, the dreaded papers. Like a ghost, the youth disappears
as quickly as he had materialized. With shaking hands, the documents unfold
that will irrevocably change their lives. Should they stay and fight or fade
off at the bank's decree?
This is their place. Indeed as the
sun comes up in the morning, this is their place. Here, they have nurtured
their child and one another and this land. They are as rooted here as the
bordering tall maples and oaks and pines planted with their own might.
The
two sit in silence for a long moment and then the woman reaches over to pat his
age-spotted hand. She heaves herself from the chair and steps violently aside
to vomit over the balustrade. When she is finished, he springs up to extend the
checkered napkin.
***
He wakes upon the same feather
mattress on which he’d been born, his extended arm numb from the weight of her
head. The rooster crows. Another day. He’s
lost the farm. He’s lost it. He would not weep here, in her presence, but the
barn was another matter. He’d promised to protect her and now what, a high rise
in the city? An errant tear slips down the craggy cheek. The city would kill
her.
She stirs, lifts her head and
reaches up to move his sleeping arm. Under the breeze scented, warm blankets,
her hand moves to his chest and lingers before trailing lower. He groans and
turns to face his solace. No mouth kissing in the morning, but everything else.
He forgets the farm and any sense of place. This woman. He rises to milk
Bessie.
She serves oatmeal downstairs,
topped with sweet cream and strawberries. Her appetite is vigorous, yesterday’s
upset forgotten. Yet, the papers lay on the sideboard and must soon be
discussed. Haven’t they already discussed, over and over and over, all elements
related? Haven’t they already researched every possibility? Didn't they sell
off all but the house and outbuildings and two acres?
The husband retreats to the barn to
feed the few animals they have left and the wife cleans her sunny kitchen.
Should she pack? She opens the cabinet to eye the tinctures and reaches to the
back. It’s still there, yes, it is. The small, dark jar is again pushed back
into its hiding place and instead she removes the tincture of valerian.
Sighing, she measures a half eyedropper of the medicine into the back of her
mouth and grimaces. She gently closes the cupboard.
Is he crying again? His scarlet eyes
belie is his acts of courage. If only. If only they hadn’t done the remodel. Or
paid cash for John’s college. If only the frost hadn’t ruined the strawberry
crop in 1993. If only they hadn’t had to bury their…She brings herself up and
exhales. This serves no purpose. What is done is done, there’s no going back; time
to go to the barn and interrupt.
The pitchfork moves to and fro, fluttering
the straw. He latches the pen and turns his attentions to the old cart. Another
load for the pile. Another day. He senses her at his back and turns. This
morning would they would gather the fruits of their labors and preserve them
for the future? He pushes a escaped curl back under her kerchief and briefly
touches her soft cheek. Maybe they should instead visit John.
Hand in hand, they walk the shaded
lane. How many years is it now? Since the War? Since John had fallen? How many
steps to the grassy mound and back? The breeze catches her breath and valerian
wafts. Well, whatever it takes. Would the doctor’s chemicals be better than the
herbs she gathers? Together they have shunned the doctors and been the better
for it. Why, hadn’t the gout disappeared under her ministrations?
He stays out of the kitchen when she
is brewing and mixing her various concoctions. Anyway, it is primarily her
domain, as the barn is his. The pantry is a cool place off the kitchen; she
keeps the door closed and the window open in cool weather. He’d installed the
hooks from the ceiling so she could hang to dry her medicinal plants. Neighbors
without health insurance frequently tap on the back door and soon leave with
small Mason jars of mysterious powders and liquids. They frequently add small
donations to the egg money.
Her hand tightens in his as they
approach the gate. Roses lay heavy on their trellis, trailing their perfume for
the calling meadowlark. The grasses wave softly. Here he is. No, not here, but
Elsewhere. Here his body rests, a stopping-off place for them to visit when
they need connection—a connection to him, to each other. The medals, the
worthless medals lay rusting on the granite headstone, bleeding, pressing their
murky stains earthward.
The couple exhales their collective
breath. The woman bends and pulls a wayward weed. They consider mutely the
grandchildren they will never have. She remembers birth spasms, the tiny feet,
the first day of school. He remembers the gazing, hopeful face as the ball leaves
the bat and the same face in the photograph from Basic Training. What’s done is
done. Another day--deprived. Another day. She ventures one last glance over her
shoulder as they shuffle back to the house.
***
The night is warm and a light breeze
swirls the sweet bouquet of memories of springs past. A full moon lights the yard. The yellow cat
brushes his fur on their legs as they gently sway on the porch swing. The
dishes washed, the coffee sipped, the bank papers discussed, the carefully
worded note placed in the mailbox. Now, some time to reflect, to reminisce.
They remember John, laughing,
sailing on the bag swing right there, on that very oak. He loved to swing. He
broke the garden gate with his gall darn swinging. They consider all the
agonizing moments coaxing him down from high places and away from dangerous
machinery. All for what? So he could die
forlorn in foreign mud?
Not tonight. Tonight is for
recalling the good parts. That baby lamb. Wasn’t it the cutest thing? A cute
thing that grew into a monster sheep that butted her to the ground when on the
way to feed the chickens! He loved that lamb. Fed it with a bottle and slept
with it in the shed for weeks. Poncho Pepper Lambert was its name. Never went
to market, that one. Died of old age. Like the dog, the collie, Blondie.
They rock. A train whistles in the
distance and an odd car passes by out on the road. He puts his arm around her
sagging shoulders. It was good, wasn’t it? The best of times. The farmland
rented out for good money; the utilities and taxes easily paid. He buries his
nose in her hair. She reaches for his calloused hand. You ready? His
affirmation lay in her hair. An owl hoots and the yellow cat jumps to his lap.
She gets up. The screen door creaks
open. A moment later she is there, holding the little jar, which he takes from
her steady hand. The animals, will they be okay? Don't worry, the mailman will
call the number. The man, the partner, the husband, unscrews the lid and drinks
half the bitter liquid. He hands the jar to the woman, the wife, and she tips
the jar to her lips.
THE END
