trouble than help,” she said, swiping the back of one filthy hand across her sweat-stained forehead.
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Dolly? And you did just fine, child,” said Dolly, removing her gargantuan hat to ruffle the hair compressed within. “Just fine,” she repeated, looking her new employee up and down with some concern. “Hope we ain’t wearing you out. You look a bit peaked. How about I fix you some supper, then you can wash up and hit the sack.”
“Thanks, Mrs.—sorry, Dolly—but I’ve really got to get to work.”
Dolly’s forehead wrinkled a bit with confusion. “Ain’t that what we’ve been doing since sunup? I know you’re gung ho and all, but you’ve got nothing to prove. You pulled your weight today, child.”
Even through her haze of exhaustion, the compliment warmed Merry. “I meant for the magazine,” she explained. “My editor’s expecting me to publish my first pieces, like, yesterday, so I’ve got to get to that Internet café you mentioned and send them out. I figured I’d eat there and save you the trouble, though I would like to wash up before I go.”
“I hear you,” Dolly said, giving Merry a pat on the back as she propelled her gently toward the door of the cabin. “I could use a hose-down myself. Let yourself in through the mudroom when you’re ready, and help yourself to the guest bath. Oh, you might see my nephew over at the café, since he eats there most nights. If you do see him, tell him we got two for the morning tour. I’ll send you out to give him a hand with it tomorrow since the feed we laid down will keep the ’packies happy for a day or two.”
Crap. More Sam? Merry wasn’t up to sparring with that ogre again. Not after the day she’d had. And God knew gallivanting about with him in the wilderness all day would surely be a nightmare. But she just smiled and wished Dolly good evening.
Merry hung on to that smile for dear life as she watched Dolly depart. As soon as the door shut behind her, however, she let it, along with her screamingly sore body, slide down until it hit the floor with a thunk.
“Fuck,” she swore.
It seemed to help, so she swore it some more.
“Fuck,” she told her aching arms. “Fuck-fuck,” she informed her abs. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck with a fuck on top,” she told her spasming back.
To her leg, she merely said, “You are dead to me.”
And then she cried, as quietly as she could manage.
There were many kinds of pain, and Merry had known most of them. There was strain-pain, where your muscles protested your inconsiderate overuse. And squishy, bruisy pain, that arrived when you decided to make acquaintance with solid objects better left to their own devices. Stabby pain, and thumpy pain, and even my-boyfriend-forgot-our-anniversary pain. But there was one kind of pain Merry wished she’d never met. And that was damage pain. The kind that said, You ain’t comin’ back from this, sistah .
The kind of pain she’d been married to since the day of the accident, and couldn’t seem to walk out on, no matter how badly she wanted a divorce.
I can barely walk at all , she thought, digging her dirty fingernails into the rough pine floorboards as a wave of agony swept from the tip of her big toe all the way up to the third moon of Jupiter.
She’d hidden it from Dolly, she was pretty sure. They’d hoofed it what felt like miles circumnavigating the ranch, visiting each pen and pasture, getting to know the animals and their needs. She’d fed them, watered them, petted them, and been thoroughly gunked on by the smelly, if otherwise rather winning animals. She’d even managed to stay apace with her hostess, who, despite her claims of getting “past it,” was admirably spry. She’d picked cactus off the hocks of patient alpacas, broken open ginormous bales of hay to feed them, even helped mend a fence or two. And all while walking what had to be miles under a sun that, though not blazing
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Dolly? And you did just fine, child,” said Dolly, removing her gargantuan hat to ruffle the hair compressed within. “Just fine,” she repeated, looking her new employee up and down with some concern. “Hope we ain’t wearing you out. You look a bit peaked. How about I fix you some supper, then you can wash up and hit the sack.”
“Thanks, Mrs.—sorry, Dolly—but I’ve really got to get to work.”
Dolly’s forehead wrinkled a bit with confusion. “Ain’t that what we’ve been doing since sunup? I know you’re gung ho and all, but you’ve got nothing to prove. You pulled your weight today, child.”
Even through her haze of exhaustion, the compliment warmed Merry. “I meant for the magazine,” she explained. “My editor’s expecting me to publish my first pieces, like, yesterday, so I’ve got to get to that Internet café you mentioned and send them out. I figured I’d eat there and save you the trouble, though I would like to wash up before I go.”
“I hear you,” Dolly said, giving Merry a pat on the back as she propelled her gently toward the door of the cabin. “I could use a hose-down myself. Let yourself in through the mudroom when you’re ready, and help yourself to the guest bath. Oh, you might see my nephew over at the café, since he eats there most nights. If you do see him, tell him we got two for the morning tour. I’ll send you out to give him a hand with it tomorrow since the feed we laid down will keep the ’packies happy for a day or two.”
Crap. More Sam? Merry wasn’t up to sparring with that ogre again. Not after the day she’d had. And God knew gallivanting about with him in the wilderness all day would surely be a nightmare. But she just smiled and wished Dolly good evening.
Merry hung on to that smile for dear life as she watched Dolly depart. As soon as the door shut behind her, however, she let it, along with her screamingly sore body, slide down until it hit the floor with a thunk.
“Fuck,” she swore.
It seemed to help, so she swore it some more.
“Fuck,” she told her aching arms. “Fuck-fuck,” she informed her abs. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck with a fuck on top,” she told her spasming back.
To her leg, she merely said, “You are dead to me.”
And then she cried, as quietly as she could manage.
There were many kinds of pain, and Merry had known most of them. There was strain-pain, where your muscles protested your inconsiderate overuse. And squishy, bruisy pain, that arrived when you decided to make acquaintance with solid objects better left to their own devices. Stabby pain, and thumpy pain, and even my-boyfriend-forgot-our-anniversary pain. But there was one kind of pain Merry wished she’d never met. And that was damage pain. The kind that said, You ain’t comin’ back from this, sistah .
The kind of pain she’d been married to since the day of the accident, and couldn’t seem to walk out on, no matter how badly she wanted a divorce.
I can barely walk at all , she thought, digging her dirty fingernails into the rough pine floorboards as a wave of agony swept from the tip of her big toe all the way up to the third moon of Jupiter.
She’d hidden it from Dolly, she was pretty sure. They’d hoofed it what felt like miles circumnavigating the ranch, visiting each pen and pasture, getting to know the animals and their needs. She’d fed them, watered them, petted them, and been thoroughly gunked on by the smelly, if otherwise rather winning animals. She’d even managed to stay apace with her hostess, who, despite her claims of getting “past it,” was admirably spry. She’d picked cactus off the hocks of patient alpacas, broken open ginormous bales of hay to feed them, even helped mend a fence or two. And all while walking what had to be miles under a sun that, though not blazing
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