by Joel Arnold
He woke up, hot and sweaty, the pillow tucked under his belly, the head of his penis buried in it. He pulled the pillow out from under him. There was a wet spot on it, slippery and sticky with ejaculate. His underwear was around his knees.
Jesus.
He pulled them back up. Got out of bed. Stubbed his toe on the duffel bag. Groped for the dresser and bumped his hand on it. He traced a finger along its top edge until he felt the box of tissue. He pulled out a few stiff sheets, wiped the pillow and the mattress in the darkness, then himself, and tossed the tissue under the bed. He’d throw them away in the morning. Didn’t want to bump into anything looking for a wastebasket, let alone the light switch.
He crawled back into bed, keeping the damp side of the pillow down, trying to ignore the dampness he felt on his back, and pulled the covers over him. He shivered. Clutched the afghan tightly to his neck. Hoped he didn’t fall back into the same dream.
Where the hell did that come from?
But soon he fell asleep and dreamed of a deer smashing into his windshield.
THREE
When Andy opened his eyes to the morning, he laid there, disoriented. He squinted at the unfamiliar walls, at the dark wooden door lit up softly by the sun muted through the drawn shade. He sniffed at the musty scent of the bed, the thin layer of dust on the floor. He sat up, the bed creaking, and remembered where he was. He shivered at the chilled air.
The smell of strong coffee reached his nostrils.
“Mae?” he called.
No answer.
The door across the hall was open, the bed inside neatly made, a blue quilt folded at its foot. His aunt’s room.
He grabbed his duffel bag and carried it into the bathroom. A dark green towel waited for him next to the sink. He stepped into the shower and let the hot water pour over his body. It felt good.
He stood there, still and silent, not wanting to move, listening to the water smack at the white porcelain at his feet. He stood there for twenty-five minutes, a marble statue in a fountain, transfixed and hypnotized by the constant stream of wetness, thinking about Cathy. What had he done? What had gone wrong? He missed her.
The water turned cold, jolting him out of his trance. He jerked away, reached a shivering hand through the cold jet of water and slammed the shower knob off. He spit water from his mouth, the metallic flavor lingering as he dried off and dressed.
As he descended the stairway, he stopped halfway, noticing the pictures that hung on either side. Most of the photographs were in black and white, a few in fading color. He recognized his mother, recognized Mae, too, both of them children in the photographs. And there was another girl, younger than the two of them. Who was she?
He recognized a picture of his grandparents. His mother had the same one in a silver frame on her dresser, but that was the closest he ever came to meeting them. They had died before Andy was born.
The third girl. He would have to ask Mae about her later. There was one picture in particular that caught his attention. In it, this unknown girl had a drum in front of her held up by a strap over her shoulder. Both arms were in mid-swing, one raised in the air at ear level, the drumstick pointed up, while the other one was almost at the point of impact, the drumstick ready to connect with the head of the drum.
She looks pretty damn serious, Andy thought.
In the background, with a hand over her ears and a grimace on her face, was Edna. Andy’s mother.
Andy chuckled.
Downstairs in the kitchen, he found a note.
Andy -
Help yourself to breakfast. I’m outside raking the yard. Join me if you’d like.
Mae
He looked through the cupboards and found a box of Rice Krispies. He poured himself a bowl, leaned back in his chair at the small kitchen table and breathed in the smell of - what was it? A fresh smell. Fresh. Milwaukee had smelled of exhaust fumes and burnt air. It smelled hard and rigid. Metal and concrete and business suits. Rotting vegetables. All mixed together in that aroma unique to cities. He'd gotten used to it, hadn’t even noticed it.
Until now.
Now, sitting in Mae’s kitchen with the window slightly open, letting in a crisp autumn breeze, the smell of Milwaukee had become distinct and foul. The chilled wind coming in through the window, sweeping over the Aloe plant, sneaking into Andy’s nostrils, filling up his lungs - was fresh. He couldn’t think of a way to describe it, only to compare it to Milwaukee, compare it to his apartment there, overflowing with the scent of air freshener. Now he relaxed. The fresh air surrounded him like an oxygen mask.
He took a deep breath, tried to fill his lungs with a reserve he could take home with him.
Or maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe that would only remind him of the stench at home. The stench of his apartment. Of Cathy’s apartment.
Cathy. Shit.
The clock on the stove read 11:00.
He decided to join Mae in the yard.
The house stood on a two-acre lot. The front of the yard ended in a row of juniper bushes that separated the property from the highway, across from which stretched endless fields of dried and withered cornstalks. To the west was another large cornfield, spotted with geese in search of kernels strewn across the black soil.
Several large sturdy oaks occupied Mae’s yard, their branches bare. Bright orange-red October sun poured down into the yard, hitting Andy’s face with a brilliant flash as he walked out onto the front step. He squinted, momentarily blinded, shading his eyes with his arm. The sun was different here. Like freshly squeezed orange juice. Pure. Not like the muddied light that filtered into Andy’s eyes back home.
In various spots throughout the yard, dead leaves were heaped into piles. The sound of a rake scraping over dead grass came from behind the house.
Andy followed the narrow driveway until it ended in a small cul-de-sac. Beyond was a garage, separate from the house, its windows opaque from the reflecting sun.
Andy looked around the rear of the house and saw Mae stuff an armful of leaves into a wheelbarrow. She wore a faded pair of blue jeans and a maroon windbreaker. The wind tussled her hair, sending it flopping over itself, forming a new hairdo each time she turned and faced a different direction.
The house was built of brick, weathered here and there with orange paint chipped off and cracks running along the walls like veins.
At the top of the house, under the black slate roof, was a porthole window, which Andy guessed belonged to an attic. He also noticed a pair of rusting metal storm doors set into the ground. The shiny new steel padlock keeping the doors shut reminded him of the sheriff’s story about Mae’s burning cat. He had yet to see any cats.
Mae hefted a pile of leaves into the wheelbarrow and carted them off to the other side of the property, where she dumped them into a larger pile of smoldering leaves.
Behind Mae’s property, to the north, was a wooded area. A small, overgrown trail disappeared into the trees.
Mae saw Andy standing there like a lost dog, and waved, yelling, “Over here, over here,” as if he hadn’t seen her.
He waved back and ambled over.
Mae tipped the wheelbarrow forward and shook it, sending another pile of leaves into the blackening mass. Then she placed the handles of the wheelbarrow into Andy’s hands. She smiled, and said, “Glad you came to help. Now we’ll get the job done twice as fast.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Well, for starters, just roll that baby on over to the next pile of leaves, and we’ll go from there.”
Andy pushed the wheelbarrow to the closest pile.
“Okay, you can set it down, now.” Mae looked at Andy questioningly. “Haven’t you ever raked leaves before?”
Andy’s cheeks flushed. “Guess not.”
“Well, if I would’ve known that, Andy, then I wouldn’t have started so soon. The raking part’s all done.” She patted him on the shoulder. “But hauling the leaves is twice the fun.”
Andy s
miled and bent over, picked up two handfuls of leaves and tossed them into the wheelbarrow.
“It’ll be faster if you use your hands together. Like a team. Pretend they’re a steam shovel, Andy.” His aunt threw a bunch in. “A steam shovel.”
After filling the wheelbarrow, they dumped the load on the rest of the incinerating leaves, and went back for more. They continued until all the leaves burned.
“You’ve never raked leaves? Any kind of yard work?” Mae’s cheeks were red from the crisp breeze, her lungs working a little harder now to fill with air.
Andy breathed harder, too. “We didn’t have a yard.”
“That’s too bad.” Mae smiled sympathetically, taking off the work gloves she'd been wearing, wiping off her sweaty hands onto her jeans. “I think it’s a good experience for everyone to do some yard work now and then. To feel the leaves. The texture. To feel the grass and the soil. I mean really get down and feel it, pick it up with your bare hands and squeeze the shit out of it, and get a feel for the whole life cycle. Growth, death, erosion, and growth again. It’s all right here,” she said, gesturing to the ground.
Andy stared for a moment, and asked, “If you like the feel of the earth so much, why are you wearing gloves?”
She laughed. Shrugged. “After a while, the soil starts eroding everything away.” She took hold of Andy’s hands and held them up to his face. “But look at your hands,” she said. “They’re still young. They haven’t lived yet. The soil on your hands is making them grow, making them strong.” She squeezed his hands, then let them go.
“It’s all a cycle, Andy. It’s all a rhythm.” She smiled. “Wait here a moment.”
When she came back out of the house, she carried an old brown shoebox. Across the side of it was written BULBS in thick, black marker. She handed the box to Andy.
“Tulips,” she said.
She led Andy to a patch of bare soil, about six-feet by four-feet, behind the house. She reverently got down on her knees. Andy did the same. Mae took the box of tulips and handed Andy a small spade.
“All you have to do is dig a small hole about five or six inches deep, and place in a bulb, big side down.” She waited until he scooped out a spade full of dirt, then placed a tulip in his hand. He stuck it in the hole.
“Now cover it up and pat down the soil with the spade.”
Done.
“Good.” She handed over ten more bulbs, keeping the rest for herself. “Just plant them wherever you feel fit, Andy. I trust your creative judgment.”
His creative judgment consisted of tossing a bulb a few inches into the air and planting it where it landed.
“The thing I like most about tulips, Andy, is that you stick them in the ground, and no matter how hard the winter is, or how cold the ground gets, they always come up in the spring. They’re tough little buggers. But the funny thing is - even after toughing out months of a cold winter - once they do grow up through the ground, it only takes a swift kick to destroy them.”
Andy tossed another bulb into the air. Watched it land. Dug a hole in the earth with his fingers and buried it.
“So tell me about Edna, Andy. How’s she been?”
They sat cross-legged next to the tulip garden in Mae’s backyard. The temperature had dropped slightly, the wind picking up a bit, but Mae didn’t seem to notice this as much as Andy did. Whenever the chill began to bite into Andy’s hands, he rubbed them quickly together, letting the friction warm them.
“She’s been all right, I guess.”
“What’s she been doing all these years?”
“Working in the records department at St. Mary’s hospital.”
Mae nodded. Looked away.
Andy ran his hand over the yellow-brown grass, then cupped his palms together and blew warm, moist air into them.
Mae asked, “Is she still married?”
“Mom? No. My father died a long time ago. I can’t even remember him.”
“Did Edna tell you much about him?”
“About my father?” Andy picked at the dead grass in front of him. “Not really,” he said. “Did you know him?”
Mae stared hard at Andy, her voice hesitant. “Yes, I knew your dad.” She leaned back, squinting from the sun. “You know, Andy - when you called and asked to come over here, I didn’t know how I’d react at first.”
“I hope I’m not too much of a bother.”
“Oh, you’re not a bother. It’s just that the memories I have of your mother, your father - “ She paused for a moment, searching for the right words. “It’s strange to have them thrust at me so suddenly, so out of the blue. It’s like I’ve been thrown blindfolded into a large, deep lake.”
Andy didn’t know what to say. How could she not have known that his father died years ago? Her own sister’s husband?
Mae twisted around suddenly and got to her knees. She pointed to the woods in back. “Listen. Do you hear that?”
Andy turned around. “What?”
“Listen.”
Andy tried to listen and at first all he heard were his own chaotic thoughts, his own heart beating rapidly in his chest. But as he forced himself to relax and listen, he heard a rhythmic knocking coming from the trees. A rapid, staccato THOCK! THOCK! THOCK!
“It’s a redhead,” Mae said. “There. Do you see it?”
Andy shook his head.
Mae pointed into the woods. “There. In that big elm. A redheaded woodpecker.”
He didn’t know an elm from a jack pine, but his eyes finally latched onto the bird, its bright red head jack-hammering the tree. Every once in a while, it would stop, turn its head to check on its progress, and continue on.
Mae’s eyes suddenly sparkled. “Are you interested in birds, Andy?”
Andy wanted to know more about his father. His mother rarely talked about him. To Andy, he was merely a few pictures tucked in her dresser. He opened his mouth to ask about him, but stopped. Instead, he said, “I haven’t had much chance to see any. Just a lot of pigeons.”
Mae gazed upward into the sky. “They have the most hypnotic shoulders.”
“Pigeons?”
“Yes. When the sunlight hits the feathers on their shoulders, the colors shift and swirl around. Like when you look into a pool of spilled oil.”
She stood up and stretched, looked across the grassy weed-filled field that separated her property from the neighbors’. “I’m really nuts about bird watching. I’ve spent hours and hours sitting here watching them. Sometimes I just plant myself right where we are now and wait for them to come. Sometimes I get out my pair of binoculars and go searching for them. They’re so graceful when they’re flying. So pleasant and soothing. It’s like they’re a part of the wind.”
Andy followed Mae’s eyes across the unkempt grass, the browning weeds. Followed her eyes to the red brick house with the clothes billowing ghost-like between the white metal poles.
“But when they’re not flying,” Mae continued, still staring at the neighbors’ house, “they seem so damn nervous. If you get a good look at them, you can see their little bodies twitching, and their heads jerking around.”
Andy stood up, his legs tingling from the lack of circulation. He walked in a circle to get the blood going. The wind had shifted and was now sending smoke from the burning pile of leaves in their direction. Andy coughed and rubbed at his eyes. He turned away from the thick smoke.
Mae stood up and put her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes darted back and forth across his face. “I’ll let you use my binoculars if you’d like,” she said. “You can go and find some birds for yourself.”
Andy’s stomach growled. It was close to three in the afternoon.
“Hungry?” Mae asked.
“Sure.” Andy coughed again.
“I’ll whip up a couple sandwiches.”
The pile of leaves smoldered like a black acrid heart at the edge of the property.
Inside Mae’s kitchen, Andy thumbed through the phonebook, looking up the Ellingston Auto R
epair Shop. He thought it best to forget about bringing up his father again with Mae. Obviously there was a whole can of worms in there somewhere, and he didn’t have the time or patience to open it now. He had to get his car out of the repair shop, drive home, and try to patch things up with Cathy. He hoped he wasn’t too late.
He found the repair shop’s number and dialed. Someone picked up the other line. Andy said, “Hi. This is Andrew Byrd, and I was wondering - “
“You've reached the Ellingston Auto Repair Shop. We’re closed right now, so please leave your - “
Andy hung up.
“They’re closed,” he said in disbelief. “It’s only a little after three, and they’re closed.”
“They don’t always have a lot to do down there. They probably got bored and went home.”
“But they’ve got my car to work on.”
“This isn’t Milwaukee, Andy. They just don’t carry the kind of parts you need here. I’ll bet they have to order a windshield from Minneapolis.”
“How long will that take?”
“Who knows?” Mae stacked the sandwiches she made on a plate and brought them to the kitchen table. She sat down across from Andy and sighed. “You’re welcome to stay here if you’d like.”
Andy took a sandwich from the plate and looked at it. Then he set it back down. “I guess I don’t have a choice.” He looked up at Mae. “What else can I do?”
Mae watched him without answering. She sat down and bit into her sandwich. She continued to watch him as he sat there, staring at the top of the kitchen table.
FOUR
The binoculars bounced up and down on the dark blue windbreaker Andy borrowed from Mae. They hung around his neck by a tan leather strap stained dark from years of use. “You can’t make out the moons of Jupiter with them,” his aunt said, “but you sure as hell can hone in on a bird.” The weight of the strap dug comfortably into his neck as they bounced and jerked in time with his footsteps. He followed the overgrown trail behind Mae’s yard.
