Resurrection in May

by Lisa Samson

  “It don’t matter none at all.” He pulled over the straight chair, hiked up the knees on his green work pants, and sat down nearby. “Parma-Jean was a sweet chicken. A Golden Comet with a right nice-sized comb atop. She was getting to the end of her prime anyways. I always need a better reason than me to send the girls on their way, so in a manner of speaking, your comin’ did me a favor.”

  The sun, on the wane, eased through the old window Claudius knew needed replacing soon, and illuminated half his head, its light showing his lobeless right ear.

  The girl noticed, touching her own ear.

  He lifted the right side of his mouth. “A dog got me. Dang thing. Run off into the woods and never saw him again. Guess he got a fine meal offa me. Didn’t affect my hearing, as you might could suspect.”

  She spooned up the warm broth, laying a hand on her throat. “It’s been a long time since someone’s fixed me soup to make me feel better.”

  “Me too. And there’s nothing like it when you’re … well, a little tender inside.”

  “But why? Why soup? Why not a turkey bacon club?”

  Claudius didn’t know.

  She reached for one of the hot biscuits dripping with butter he’d churned earlier that day. Well, not churned exactly. He always made butter in Violet’s old Sunbeam mixer.

  The girl sighed as she chewed.

  Lordymercy! What did young people eat these days, that chicken soup and a biscuit forced out such a response? He felt a little sorry for her even though her gold jewelry looked real and her hair musta been done at a fancy beauty parlor, because surely that color blonde wasn’t God-given.

  At least this girl still recognized what was good. You couldn’t say that for everybody.

  “When I was a little boy I always wished that warm buttery taste would never end,” he said.

  “I can see why. It’s not that I generally use food to comfort me—but maybe your food is magic or something.”

  “My mother always told me that somebody caring enough to make it made a real difference. She believed intent makes the difference in just about everything.”

  “My mom says that. Although she always says ‘It’s the thought that counts.’”

  That wasn’t exactly what he meant, but no bother.

  “Sounds like a wise woman.”

  “She’s a music teacher.”

  “That so?”

  She took another bite, a mannerly bite. “Yep. She has kids coming in and out of the house all day. She grew up going to the symphony, and she took up the violin when she was five. She’s really good. She also plays a mean fiddle.”

  “What does your daddy do?”

  “He teaches sociology at UK.”

  “My daddy graduated from the university. So you’re from Lexington?”

  “Yes. Born and bred.”

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “Nope. Only child.”

  “Me too.”

  She set down her spoon. “Advantages and disadvantages, you know?”

  “And I’d agree with you.”

  “My grandparents are all dead, and my parents weren’t close with their siblings. Most of them moved out of state after they graduated. I always thought having a big family would be neat.”

  “I did too. But it was just us around the place.”

  “We live in my mom’s parents’ old house. It’s too big, but it’s been in the family since my grandparents bought it in 1940, and it’s hard to let go of that, you know?”

  Boy, did he.

  While she ate, she asked questions about his farm.

  He pulled his bottom lip together between thumb and forefinger, then let go. “It’s just a small farm. Forty acres. I grow food for the farmers’ market in Lexington, mostly. Some people here in Beattyville like my tomatoes and such. It doesn’t make much, but I don’t need but little. Got a milk cow, some chickens for eggs, a goat. Just need to keep the lights on and the belly full.”

  “Do you have a horse?”

  “Just an old mule named Bill. Bill on the Hill. Can’t get rid of him, though I probably should. Sentimental value more’n anything. Sometimes I hitch him up to the wagon when I harvest pumpkins. Usually I use the tractor, though.”

  “Do you grow flowers?” She popped the last bite of biscuit into her mouth.

  He pulled on his lip again. “You like flowers?”

  She nodded. “I’ve never grown them, but I used to take pictures of them a lot when I was in high school. I don’t know why. It’s not like the world needs more flower pictures, but I took them anyway. They just made me happy.”

  He liked flower pictures. What was wrong with a nice picture of a flower?

  “I just grow some marigolds to keep the bugs away. My mother loved flowers, though.”

  She set down her biscuit and picked up her spoon. “Are you married, Mr… .”

  “Claudius Borne. Just call me Claudius, though.”

  “I’m May Seymour.”

  He laughed. “May come in May.” He examined his work-rough hands on his knees, then began to pick his nails clean with his pocketknife. “Naw, I ain’t married. Not that I didn’t want to be. Seems to me some of the men that would make the best husbands are the most overlooked by the women. And there weren’t nothin’ I could do about that.”

  “Here, here,” she muttered. “I’ve overlooked my share. That’s college for you.”

  “And maybe I was too behind the times. Just wanted to stay on here. Farm, live a simple life. After the war, most the gals had set themselves to moving to Lexington and what not. They say Beattyville’s a fine place to be from.”

  She smiled.

  “But I’d die in such straits. Now it’s a little late to go finding me a wife. And we do fine here, May. I got me a German shepherd, Scout’s his name, who’s been a fine friend. You got a pet?”

  “I do! I love animals. Her name’s Girlfriend. A miniature English bulldog. She’s probably going crazy back at my apartment.”

  “Then let’s get you back to Lexington, May-May.” He never called her hardly anything else after that. “Can’t have that Girlfriend messing all over your floors now, can we?”

  “Nope.” She threw back the covers, straightened her dress, then circled the room with her gaze twice, examining the place.

  He hoped she didn’t think he had improper designs. It seemed evident to him this wasn’t his room, that nobody stayed here regularly amid the wallpaper Mother picked out in the early eighties, with its pink cabbage roses and ribbons in shades of rose and green. The tops of the golden oak furniture held nothing but yellowing doilies beneath old milk-glass vases and lamps with frilled pink shades.

  “It’s pretty up here.”

  Nothing had been dropped or cast aside. No mugs or saucers sat forgotten on the downstairs trip to the kitchen, no ball of Kleenex or paper had missed the trash can. And yet, despite the fact it had never really been anybody’s room, Claudius cleaned it regularly, the old pine flooring still glowing with the blurred reflection of the windows, the pale green curtains thin and soft and fresh.

  Only two dime-store pictures in cheap document frames hung from hooks on the walls—the old mill house and the guardian angel guiding children on a bridge. He’d moved them from his own bedroom downstairs after his mother died. For some reason, he liked the thought of guardian angels.

  “I’ve always loved that picture,” May said. “Do you believe in guardian angels, Claudius?”

  “I sure do. I even talk to mine, but just one time I’d like the angel to show himself and at least say hello.”

  “I believe in them too. I used to see mine.”

  “You did?”

  She nodded and turned to a small corner bookshelf holding a few of the fanciful novels he liked to read, like Scaramouche and The Three Musketeers, their cloth covers dappled with age, their pages golden.

  Her back to him felt so decisive, he couldn’t ask the follow-up questions: How did you know it was an angel, and what
did this angel of yours look like? And then he’d ask, but not until he knew her better, could you see my angel too?

  “I like it here.” She turned to face him, her arms hugged across her waist.

  The girl looked like she could use a round of meals like his mother used to serve.

  “It’s pretty. And very peaceful.”

  “It is that.”

  “I already feel so much better.”

  “Well, good. I’ll get this tray back to the kitchen. You sure you finished? Only one biscuit?”

  “My stomach is still a little …”

  “Say no more.”

  He backed out of the room with the tray.

  As they pulled onto Route 11 just north of Beattyville, May, still hugging her midsection, asked, “What’s the name of this farm?”

  “Borne’s Last Chance.”

  “I love that! Who named it?”

  “My great-grandfather, when he bought it well more than a century ago.”

  “There’s got to be a story behind a name like that.”

  “Oh, yes indeed. Apparently his family was well-to-do back east. Maryland, they say. And his son, my grandfather, was on his way to bankrupting them if he didn’t end up in jail first. So Great-granddaddy Borne found this farm, plunked down the money, then plunked down his son and headed back east quick as he could. They never spoke again, far as I know.”

  “I see he must have done all right with the place.” Her eyes glimmered with hopefulness.

  “Naw. He moved on after two years, leaving his new and pregnant wife behind. When my grandmother got notice of his death a few years later, she wrote a letter to my Great-granddaddy Borne and told him everything. The great man arrived two months later with the deed in his hand and a tear in his eye.” He turned toward her. “That’s how my father always described it. He gave my grandmother the farm and stayed in close touch. No wonder my father was such a good man. How my Great-granddaddy sired my grandfather, now that I don’t know.”

  “It’s hard to say with some kids.” May rooted around in her little pink purse. “And it can be all mixed up. Like, I’m hardly the perfect girl. I date too much, drink too much, smoke too much, but I just graduated with a 4.0 and I love animals and little kids. People are a little of this and a little of that sometimes.”

  He passed what might be the slowest woman in the county, at the wheel of a green Gran Torino. “Well, my grandfather seemed to be … hardly complex.”

  “Lucky for him, then.” She put some kind of bright blue rubber band on her wrist.

  Even from the side he could see a sadness glistening over her eyes, a sheen of exhaustion from trying not to let life get down too deep inside.

  “You think so? Lucky?”

  “Sure.” She turned to face him. “It’s like, imagine not really having a conscience. Or caring that other people suffer. Wouldn’t that be a great existence?”

  Claudius had to admit he didn’t do too much that would make other people cringe. But caring about suffering? Well, he was too busy running the farm, he guessed. He cared, in his heart, and when the ladies’ group at church had a special drive he always helped out, but he didn’t think that was the type of caring May was talking about. “Hmm,” he said. “What got you thinking about suffering?”

  “I’m leaving for a trip to Rwanda soon. Working at a medical mission. Probably an everything mission.”

  “For how long?”

  “A couple of months.”

  “So you’ll be going with a church group or something?”

  “Just me. Believe me, I’ll just be helping out. I’m no missionary.”

  The way she said it sounded like she thought being a missionary was a bad thing. But Jesus said to go to the lost, didn’t he?

  “Then why are you going?”

  “Not to force my beliefs on someone, that’s for sure.”

  Oh. “Then what for?”

  “Father Isaac needs help in the village. I like kids, and I don’t mind pitching in and doing what needs doing.”

  “I’m sure you’ll have a good time.”

  They continued along in silence, May dozing on and off, then drove down Mountain Parkway, Claudius wondering what Ruthie must have thought when they whizzed by her as she was pulling out of the Shell station near the exit. Honest to goodness, he’d never had a woman as pretty as May in his car, and Ruthie—Sister Ruth as the folks at church called her—had been bugging him for at least thirty years about his marital state. Not that she was up for it herself, but people can always see what’s wrong with other people’s lives before their own. Ruthie had always been a good friend, the asparagus of friends, planted deep and coming back year after year.

  May woke up completely when the rumble strips buzzed as they pulled onto the exit for I-64. She braided her long blonde hair as they drove along, then tied it off with the blue rubber band. She’d brushed as much throw-up out of it as she could when he’d showed her the bathroom before they left. Washed her face, too, and brushed her teeth.

  “I hope Girlfriend’s okay. She’s probably already messed all over my apartment.”

  “How long you had her?”

  “Seven years. My parents gave her to me after I finished up ninth grade.”

  “You got a dog just for finishing ninth grade?”

  “It was a terrible year. I got acne, lost my best friend to the cool group, and was given the model citizenship award, which is the death knell of any chance at popularity. I figured the dog was well deserved. You know something’s wrong when your parents think you so unable to make friends, they buy one for you.”

  He laughed out loud. Seemed May was more introspective than she looked. He glanced over with a reassuring smile every once in a while, and she returned it. He didn’t know what to make of her. She seemed sweet and kind, but the way she talked about her life, about boys, well, he just couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

  “Looks to me like you don’t have to worry about being popular now.”

  “No offense, Claudius, but you’ve lived on a farm in Beattyville all your life. How could you know what cool is?”

  “I get to know all kinds at the Lexington farmers’ market.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Okay. I’ll totally give you that.”

  “Why, thank you. And I’ll take it.”

  “Let’s just say I learned to put on makeup, dye my hair that sorority girl blonde, and not let people get to me.”

  “That the key to life?”

  “For some of us. I’m sorry you never got married,” she said as they passed Winchester. “You seem so nice.”

  “Sometimes it just doesn’t happen.”

  “Well, nowadays it seems that decent men like you are so hard to find. And would I even recognize one? Are they the ones who hang out at the computer lab or work hard in the cafeteria kitchen? Probably. And everybody knows May Seymour has no time for boys like that, little fool that she is.”

  She must still be a little drunk, or she fancied herself as a modern-day Daisy Buchanan. Claudius shook his head. “Do you always speak so frankly about yourself ? Daisy?”

  She barked out a laugh. “You got the reference!” She put her hand up, facing him, palm flattened.

  He had no idea what to do, so he grabbed it and shook it a little.

  She laughed even more. “No, I don’t speak like this often. You must have put something magic in that concoction of yours.”

  “I just have that kind of face. Always have.”

  “I hope you don’t think I’m crazy.”

  “We’re all a little crazy, May-May. The sooner you recognize that about yourself and the rest of the world, the more relaxed and the better off you’ll be.”

  “It’s just guys, Claudius. I don’t know how to handle them. I don’t know when to say yes, when to say no. Who’s the right kind of guy, who’s not. I have no sense about them, like … well, it’s like this. There are people with math brains, right? And so math comes easy to them.”


  “I was one of those.”

  “Me too. But then there are people who don’t have a math brain, right? And you know they’ll never ever be sitting next to you in calculus.”

  “But they might could write a poem better than we could.”

  “Oh, yeah. True. That’s not what I’m saying. No offense to the non-math people at all. I’m just saying that when it comes to guys, I’m like people with no math brain. I just can’t get it. Them. Whatever.”

  He reached out and gave her his hand to shake. “That’s me with women. Right there.” They shook hands this time, and he chuckled. “Well, at least we both know there’s somebody else out there like us. And it sounds like the boys at least like you. I just hope you’ll figure it all out better than I did.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I ended up living my life on my farm.”

  “Gotcha. You know, it’s still not inconceivable you might find a woman, live a little, go out beyond your borders.”

  “Oh, May-May! I’m seventy-one years old. I think my time for adventure is done and gone.”

  She waggled a finger at him. “You never know.”

  Well, she was right about that. Maybe a woman would come into his life. And maybe his tomatoes would grow to three pounds apiece and his pumpkins as big as a house. That could happen too.

  Claudius stayed to make sure she got in okay before he drove away. A young man came to the entryway. Though he felt bad for thinking it, Claudius thought he looked as though he got through all his exams by lucky guesses. He reminded him of the Neanderthal man’s good-looking younger brother. Why did women find that animal sort of fellow so attractive? He’d never figure that one out. Maybe May was right about her lack of understanding with men.

  With a knit brow and a wave of his sun-browned hand, he pulled away. Scout sat in the backseat, pink tongue swaying. He gave a goodbye yap.

  May waved back, then stooped to scoop up Girlfriend. She held the dog’s paw and made it wave too.

  Such a nice young lady. Too bad men were her Achilles’ heel.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time a woman lacked that sort of judgment,” he muttered, turning right onto Rose Street. Then he said to Scout, “This was a pretty good day. What do you say we have ourselves a big time and stop at the Dairy Queen in Clay City?”