It’s hot as blazes. Tomorrow’s the fourth of July, but I won’t be celebrating. Mud fills the treads of my rubber boots as I step through the tangled hedge of wild rose bushes. Iridescent, green flies have taken up residence in the yellow pollen of every white flower, making it impossible to bend and breath in the scent. Instead, my nose is assaulted by the humid smell of the decaying leaves underfoot. Thorns tear at my jeans, but I keep moving. As my head tops the rise of the levy surrounding our tank, four startled wood ducks flap their wings noisily, lifting their plump bodies into flight. A solitary killdeer continues its search for tiny marsh creatures at the edge of the dark water, ignoring the clomping sounds I make. The sun is out in full. Clouds of mosquitoes swarm me, annoyed by the copious amounts of deet keeping them from their blood feast. I swat at gnats that try to fly directly into my eyes.
The rains are gone, leaving stifling humidity in their wake. I swipe impatiently at the tears falling from my eyes. Yesterday is gone, I remind myself. My self-pity is interrupted by the call of a red-tailed hawk. I can’t find the bird of prey, it’s below the tree line, and the sun is blindingly bright in that direction. I wonder what these creatures feel. Do they miss mates they’ve lost? Do they rejoice at the wind under their wings? I wish for flight, imagining the joy, the freedom of it. How could I not after being the victim of earth’s gravity for so long? I feel as if I’ve stepped into a Mary Oliver poem. Nature’s beauty is not without pain. Somewhere in these woods, a fox chases a field mouse whose hungry babies’ eyes will never open to the light of day. I am not alone with my pain no matter how solitary I feel.
I stand on the levee and watch ripples in the water as turtles take tentative peeks then dip their heads back down into the murky gloom. I want to throw off my clothes and hurl my body into the cool water like a child with no worries. My rational mind says no, tells me it isn’t safe, the water isn’t clean, the bottom is mud. During droughts, I’ve collected the bones of cattle that died, stuck in that mud for the sake of a drink of water. The gray bones lie bleaching on the pier with its rotting boards and rusty nails. I keep my clothes on, kick a thigh bone back into the water from which I’d pulled it earlier. The splash startles a water moccasin in the sedge. I watch his long-black-slide into the water, glad I’ve stayed on dry ground. Sometimes the rational mind is worth a listen. The hawk cries again. I shade my eyes with my hand and find the bird circling high in the sky. I turn back toward the road. Perhaps the postman will bring good news today. My boots feel heavy on my feet.
On my way to the gate, weeds plant stickers in my jeans, reaching through to my skin. The barbs stab me painfully until I stop and pull them out. As I squat, a neighbor drives by in a loud pickup. He probably waves. I don’t look up. He keeps rolling. I’m glad. I don’t want to talk. I want to be left alone. I struggle with the combination lock, wishing I’d added graphite. I’ve ignored that for too long. Someday, I need to take action, or I’ll be climbing over the gate to check the mail. I close the gate and lock it behind me. It’s better to be safe than sorry. The mailbox is a mile down the road. I lived in the city too many years to feel secure leaving anything unlocked. Neighbors probably laugh at me. That’s why I haven’t gone out of my way to meet them.
I’m dripping sweat as I reach into the mailbox painted with flowers, now faded. I remember how happy she was when she decorated it. Such a female action. I’d been satisfied with the black box. Now, as I reach in for bills and advertisements, I’m glad for the memory. She had love to paint things. A fallen tree was work for me, something to clear off the land. She’d look at the same tree, see an animal form, a wolf, a horse, a fox, maybe a bird. Sometimes she painted what she saw in the wood. Others she left in their natural state, letting the form be enough. She would place them strategically in the woods then wait for someone to discover them. She’d called them her foundlings, her woodland creatures. I used to kid her about them.
I riffle through the mail. A card from my sister, still trying to cheer me up, a couple of art catalogs, the bill for electricity. I’d pay the last one, throw the rest into the shredder and add the paper to the compost pile. I couldn’t bear to read the words on the card or see her name on the catalogs. The paper would mix with last autumn’s leaves and become fodder for the garden. Next spring, I’d plant one row of the callas she’d adored, put them alongside my practical corn, peas, and lettuces.
Lost in thought, I’m startled by someone honking their horn. I step quickly off the road and wait for them to pass. They stop instead.
“Are you the guy that lives in the blue house on the place with the white fence?” It’s a woman. Her elbow is sticking out of the window. She’s got freckled skin and a long braid of brown and gray hair that’s messy from driving with the window open. Her bangs are tangled from the wind. Her skin is sun-dried. I can see white inside the thin, tanned wrinkles around her eyes.
“Yes,” I say. I look at the road, away from her. I begin walking, hoping she’ll drive on.
“I’m Maggie,” she says.
“Mmm.”
“How long have you been living out here?”
She’s not going to leave me alone. I try frowning to discourage her.
“Long enough,” I say.
“I just moved in this week. Green house after the bend. Used to be the Cameron place. You know it?”
“Yep.” I slap my thigh with the mail, keep walking. I don’t turn my head.
“You should come by. I made a peach pie this morning. Got some homemade ice cream too. It’s too much for me, but I had a hankerin’ for it.”
I can’t help but smile when she uses the colloquialism. I haven’t heard a person talking that way since I was a boy. She sees the smile, and I curse myself for my lack of self-control.
“Come at three. That’s the best time for a snack. You won’t regret it. I make a mighty-fine peach pie. Everyone says so.”
“Can’t.”
“Sure, you can. Gate’ll be open.”
“Said, I can’t.”
“I don’t believe you. You come on down. You look like you could use some fattening up. You’re all skin and bones. Don’t you eat?” She’s driving slowly, keeping pace. Her eyes are dancing when I venture a look at her.
“Are you always this pushy?”
“I prefer to think of it as being neighborly,” she says.
“Bossy.”
“Assertive.”
“Whatever.”
“Now, see. I hate that ‘whatever’ attitude. Whatever never gets you anywhere good,” she tapped on the side of her truck. “Are you coming at three, or am I gonna have to come get you?”
I look up with a scowl. “You wouldn’t be able to get in.”
“Try me.” She exaggerates a smile and bats her eyelashes, hits the gas pedal and leaves me standing with my mouth open.
“Damn hard-headed woman,” I say to no one but myself.
A little after three, I’m turning the compost. It’s good to mix it after a good rain like we’ve just had. I’ve watched a couple of does at the feeder this afternoon, and I hear them behind me. They’re almost tame, but I never get too close. Keeping the wild in things is good. I only feed them protein so their fawns will be healthy. I’m wondering where all the bucks from last fall have gone as I close the fence around the pile of leaves and shredded paper. I drop the rake and let out a gasp when I turn, and the woman from the road is standing there, staring at me.
“What in tarnation?” I say. “You’re trespassing. Get off my land.” I point my finger down the lane toward the gate she must’ve just climbed over.
“Not trespassing. I told you I’d come get you if you didn’t show up at three. It’s a quarter after. You’re late. In my book, that’s just plain old rude.” Her hands are planted on her hips, and she’s squinting at me. I can’t see any of the white skin in her wrinkles.
We stare at each other for a full minute. I can hear the seconds ticking in my head.
“Well?” she asks.
“Well, what?”
“Come on.” She starts walking toward the gate. I shake my head, dust my jeans down and slap my hat on my thigh. I follow.
“Damned woman,” I mutter.
“I heard that,” she says without looking back. She starts to climb the gate, but I reach out to stop her. I grapple with the lock.
She says, “Graphite’ll fix that.”
I turn and scowl at her. “I know that.”
“I’ve got some. You can borrow it. Just bring it back when you’re finished.” She walks through, and I lock the gate.
“Who do you think’s gonna come in while you’re gone? We’re in the middle of nowhere.” She’s looking puzzled. “
“Seems damned crowded to me, lately,” I say. We’re almost to the bend. I see the green house. I never knew the Cameron’s, but the house looks different than when they lived there. They had a fence near the house to keep the cows in the pasture. She’s kept the fence, but she’s planted a riot of flowers inside it. I see a couple of quarter horses grazing in the field. They’re fine horses. I see a donkey out back. He’s got a swayed back. He looks like he's on his last legs.
“Don’t be an ass,” she says.
“Why not, looks like the one you’ve got’ll be dead any minute.”
“That’s Mickey. He was my dad’s. Dread the day I have to put him down. He’ll keep the coyotes away in the meantime.”
I’m thinking she has some common sense, but I keep my thoughts to myself. I’m standing in her yard staring at the donkey.
“You comin’ in or you standing in the sun ‘til you stroke out?” she asks. She’s opened the screen door, tapping a foot impatiently.
I squint her way. “I’m coming.” I walk up the porch steps, scrape my boots on the bristled shape of a hedgehog, step inside. The house smells of the pie. My mind goes back to last year, another pie, another woman. I almost turn to leave, but I’m already in her house. My eyes adjust slowly to the dimmer light. She’s decorated the place sparingly. Nothing fluffy around that I can see. There’s a portrait of a black quarter horse over the mantle. I step up for a closer look.
“Jet,” she says coming up to stand beside me. She’s looking sad.
“When’d he pass?”
“Couple of years ago. Saddest day.” She turns quickly, goes into her kitchen. I hear her setting bowls out, so I follow. The ice cream maker is in a corner, sitting in a bucket full of melting ice and rock salt.
“You made ice cream and pie this morning?” I ask. She’s industrious, gotta give her that. I wonder if the pie will taste as good as it smells.
“Ya think?” She’s rolling her eyes like I’m an idiot. “Dip some up. Scoops over there.” She points to a drawer. I open it, dig around for the utensil. She stands beside me with bowls full of pie in her hands while I dip up the cream. We sit at an oak pedestal table in sturdy oak chairs. Her placemats have pictures of horses. I’ve seen similar things in catalogs, thought they were silly. I don’t mind these. There’s nothing else in the kitchen with horses for decoration. I think that’s why the placemats don’t bother me. Nothing in the place is overdone. I don’t say anything, just dig in.
She’s an excellent cook. I’m tempted to compliment her. If I do, she’ll be dragging me down her again, so I keep quiet.
“How long’s she been dead?” she asks.
I jerk my head up, almost choke on the pie. “None of your business,” I say.
“You gotta talk about it sometime,” she says.
“You some kinda psychiatrist?”
“No.”
I move my chair away from the table, pick my hat up from the chair I laid it on earlier. “I’ll be on my way now. Thanks for the pie.” I walk out into the heat, put my hat on my head.
The lock on the gate is stuck. I have no patience, so I climb over, muttering the whole time. I pass a fallen tree, kick it so hard I hurt my toes. I limp to the house and drop into my armchair. The place echoes with memories. I shut my eyes. I don’t mean to, but I fall asleep. I dream of her.
She’s got paint in her hair, on her clothes. She’s at her easel painting flowers. She’s humming a song. I step up behind her and wrap my arms around her waist. She leans her head back and sighs. I smell the soap from her morning bath mixed with turpentine, her smell.
“I miss you,” I say.
“I miss you, too.” She turns and kisses my cheek places her hand on the other cheek. She searches my eyes. “You have to let me go,” she says.
“No.” I step back shaking my head. She nods and starts to fade. I step toward her, try to wrap my arms around her again, but she’s gone. I sit in the chair and stare at the easel. The painting has changed. It’s no longer a flower. It’s a black quarter horse.
I start awake. I’ve got tears in the corners of my eyes. I get up and make a pot of coffee. Sit at the table with my head in my hands.
The phone rings.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“I don’t like to talk about her.”
“I know.”
I can hear her breathing. Neither of us hangs up.
“Tell me about Jet,” I say. She tells me about her horse. I listen to the cadence of her voice. It fills the quiet corners of my house. I think of the taste of the hot pie, of the ice cream. She would’ve said it had too much cinnamon. I like cinnamon. It makes me sad. The clock ticks. It sounds lonely.
“You didn’t take the graphite,” she eventually says.
“Have my own.”
“You don’t always have to be self-sufficient,” she says.
“Mmm.”
“Come back tomorrow. I’ll make salad for lunch. We’ll have cold watermelon to celebrate the fourth. You need to eat.”
“We’ll see.” I hang up.
I drink my coffee, think of taking a shower, but I’ve got work waiting. It’s hours before sunset. I limp outside and into the boiling heat, favoring the foot I hurt earlier. I hear the hawk. He’s close. Another one calls out in reply. I locate them in the sky, just above the treetops. I watch as they circle one another. He’s screeching, calling her. They fly higher and higher until they disappear from my sight. I find the chainsaw, go over to the fallen tree. I’ll cut it up for firewood, take it to the green house around the curve in the road. Maybe she can start a fire with it.