his house, up the hill, breaking the ice and splashing through a tiny brook, then down the bluff to the frozen stream, where she paused atop a granite boulder.
The moon was in its descent, the stars fading. She’d wait for dawn, for pale light to arise and cover her. She thought of Freely’s grandchildren tearing pretty paper from gifts, singing “Away in a Manger” in church. She thought of families gathered around tables thick with holly. In her mind, she tasted honey-glazed ham, scalloped potatoes, macaroons.
But she could not wait for dawn. Her feet were wet, the night bitterly cold. She clutched her collar and limped along the stony banks, and stepping up to enter the prairie she slipped and fell onto the garbage bag of rags and slid until she was out on the frozen stream. The ice popped, but held. Thistles of pain stabbed her toes. She lay on the brittle black ice and could hear water flowing beneath her.
Spring 2008: The men had come down the hill from the shelter and now gathered around the boat. They were solemn, unshaven, shirts rumpled, the pits of Pastor Hamby’s white shirt stained with sweat. The farmer’s body lay in the hull where once had been dogs, Helen’s jacket shrouding his face. The sun was high, the air damp. A new wall of thunderheads and the fur of rain bulged forth in the west.
“You’ll tell the others?” Helen said.
Pastor Hamby nodded. “What can we do for you ?”
“I need rest,” Helen said, wilting, and almost began to cry from tiredness. “Let me rest awhile.”
Suddenly came the wind, full and strong, and Helen’s coat blew off Keller Lankford and tumbled onto the hillside, exposing his blue bloated face. Helen lunged after her coat. Her ankle gave and she caught herself as she fell. A deacon, Jerry Timlinson, clambered into the boat and covered the dead man’s face with his own jacket, then squinted up at the approach of weather.
Spatterings of rain fell sideways in wind and sunshine. Pastor Hamby and Frank Barker lifted Helen, each with a hand beneath her thigh and another at her back. Slate clouds rowed forward over the sun, its light dappling the hill and then the sunshower was a storm.
The men entered the lightless hall, shirts transparent with rain, Helen riding their arms. “Put me down,” she said, clutching their shirtsleeves. Pale faces emerged from the darkness, Walt Freely and Marilyn, Connie and David Dempsy, the little girl held to his shoulder, everyone she knew, grimly nodding, touching her pant legs, stroking her wrists, some speaking her name with quiet reverence. “Let me down,” she repeated, but they did not, and Helen began to cry. Rain drummed the masonry. Light from the storm laid a greenish glow in the hall. She could not stop herself from crying. They huddled around Helen, silent in the gloam, then the pastor raised his pulpit voice and called for them all to just clear out and leave her be.
FURLOUGH
Plywood covered where once had been glass, and Jorgen strained his eyes to find her in the dark bar. Yesterday, a deer charged its reflection and crashed through the Old Fox’s front window. Bucks acted crazy during their rut. Things like that happened. But Jorgen was weary of hearing about it, and didn’t bother saying hello to Mildred, who sat scratching a lottery ticket behind her bar, or to Pervis Hagen and Ed McDonaghey, who were playing their nightly game of cribbage, as he made his way back to Mary Ellen Landers.
Mary Ellen leaned against the busted jukebox, sipping soda through a straw. She wore a red sequined top, had curled her hair. “What you doing here?” she asked.
“Tad sent me,” he said.
“He ain’t coming?”
“He’ll be where I’m taking you.”
She smiled. “What’s all this?”
“Can’t say.”
“A surprise?”
Jorgen shrugged, then called over to Mildred that he needed a couple shots of whiskey. She waved a hand and told him to get it himself. Jorgen never sat down. He led Mary Ellen to the bar
The moon was in its descent, the stars fading. She’d wait for dawn, for pale light to arise and cover her. She thought of Freely’s grandchildren tearing pretty paper from gifts, singing “Away in a Manger” in church. She thought of families gathered around tables thick with holly. In her mind, she tasted honey-glazed ham, scalloped potatoes, macaroons.
But she could not wait for dawn. Her feet were wet, the night bitterly cold. She clutched her collar and limped along the stony banks, and stepping up to enter the prairie she slipped and fell onto the garbage bag of rags and slid until she was out on the frozen stream. The ice popped, but held. Thistles of pain stabbed her toes. She lay on the brittle black ice and could hear water flowing beneath her.
Spring 2008: The men had come down the hill from the shelter and now gathered around the boat. They were solemn, unshaven, shirts rumpled, the pits of Pastor Hamby’s white shirt stained with sweat. The farmer’s body lay in the hull where once had been dogs, Helen’s jacket shrouding his face. The sun was high, the air damp. A new wall of thunderheads and the fur of rain bulged forth in the west.
“You’ll tell the others?” Helen said.
Pastor Hamby nodded. “What can we do for you ?”
“I need rest,” Helen said, wilting, and almost began to cry from tiredness. “Let me rest awhile.”
Suddenly came the wind, full and strong, and Helen’s coat blew off Keller Lankford and tumbled onto the hillside, exposing his blue bloated face. Helen lunged after her coat. Her ankle gave and she caught herself as she fell. A deacon, Jerry Timlinson, clambered into the boat and covered the dead man’s face with his own jacket, then squinted up at the approach of weather.
Spatterings of rain fell sideways in wind and sunshine. Pastor Hamby and Frank Barker lifted Helen, each with a hand beneath her thigh and another at her back. Slate clouds rowed forward over the sun, its light dappling the hill and then the sunshower was a storm.
The men entered the lightless hall, shirts transparent with rain, Helen riding their arms. “Put me down,” she said, clutching their shirtsleeves. Pale faces emerged from the darkness, Walt Freely and Marilyn, Connie and David Dempsy, the little girl held to his shoulder, everyone she knew, grimly nodding, touching her pant legs, stroking her wrists, some speaking her name with quiet reverence. “Let me down,” she repeated, but they did not, and Helen began to cry. Rain drummed the masonry. Light from the storm laid a greenish glow in the hall. She could not stop herself from crying. They huddled around Helen, silent in the gloam, then the pastor raised his pulpit voice and called for them all to just clear out and leave her be.
FURLOUGH
Plywood covered where once had been glass, and Jorgen strained his eyes to find her in the dark bar. Yesterday, a deer charged its reflection and crashed through the Old Fox’s front window. Bucks acted crazy during their rut. Things like that happened. But Jorgen was weary of hearing about it, and didn’t bother saying hello to Mildred, who sat scratching a lottery ticket behind her bar, or to Pervis Hagen and Ed McDonaghey, who were playing their nightly game of cribbage, as he made his way back to Mary Ellen Landers.
Mary Ellen leaned against the busted jukebox, sipping soda through a straw. She wore a red sequined top, had curled her hair. “What you doing here?” she asked.
“Tad sent me,” he said.
“He ain’t coming?”
“He’ll be where I’m taking you.”
She smiled. “What’s all this?”
“Can’t say.”
“A surprise?”
Jorgen shrugged, then called over to Mildred that he needed a couple shots of whiskey. She waved a hand and told him to get it himself. Jorgen never sat down. He led Mary Ellen to the bar
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