Homemade
strawberry pie.
He did just
that. We spent the next hour or so
immersed in
lighthearted conversation, strawberries,
and whipped
cream.
After He Left
Aunt J noted, I think he’s
taken with you, girl.
Taken with me? “No way.
Why would he be?”
She shrugged. He could have
brought the reins on Sunday.
Which proved exactly zip.
He was driving by…
Even if the reins were important,
he didn’t have to stay for dessert.
“Maybe not. But I’m not
good enough for him.”
Why would you say such
a thing, Pattyn?
“Have you looked at him,
Aunt J? He’s beautiful.”
Have you looked in a mirror
lately? So are you. So are you.
“Me? Beautiful? I’m
plain as cardboard.”
That may be how you see yourself,
but the rest of the world would
be hard put to agree. You shine
brighter than the Milky Way.
Now there are those who might
try to take that from you, but
you don’t have to give it away.
Keep on shining, Pattyn.
And when the right young man
comes along, he’ll love you all
the more for giftin’ this sad
planet with your light.
I Didn’t Know
How to respond,
but with a simple
thank you. Then
I excused myself
and went in to bed.
I sat in the rocker,
staring out at a corner
of the Milky Way,
Aunt J’s words
floating in my head.
I’d never thought
of myself as anything
but banal.
Could I see myself
as beautiful instead?
Smaller steps, maybe?
“Pretty” would do, or
even “cute.” Still,
this was territory I
almost feared to tread.
I felt like a snake,
perhaps a bit afraid
of the brand-new
serpent, commanding
an old skin to shed.
The Morning After
Found me antsy, so I borrowed
Aunt J’s .22 and hiked back up
into the summer-kissed hills.
Before I left, she insisted I clean
the rifle, which had sat, unused, for
more years than she could remember.
I’d never cleaned a gun before, and
as I thought about it, I began to wonder
why Dad had never taught me the skill.
A dirty gun is no kind of weapon,
Aunt J said. You could take out
an eye as easily as hit a target.
Anyway, she showed me how,
and as I walked, the scent of gun oil
blended with evergreen. Heavenly!
It had been several weeks since
I’d shot a gun and for ten or fifteen
minutes I felt as rusty as tin in salt air.
But then it all came tumbling back
and for quite some time I amused myself,
shooting ever-smaller pinecones from the trees.
As I wandered farther and farther
into the belly of the forest, a flash
of beige brushed the corner of my eye.
I froze, and so did the doe, heavy with
fawn. We gave each other a stout once-over,
then she flinched and vanished, a whisper.
It came to me that I never considered
raising that gun and taking aim, not that
a .22 was much in the way of a venison rifle.
And in a moment of clarity, I understood
that while killing for meat can be tolerated,
killing for passion might very well be easier
By Friday Afternoon
I decided my bottom had healed
enough to practice a bit on Old
Poncho. I didn’t want to look like
a complete fool in front of Ethan.
(The best-laid plans…)
Aunt J was taking a nap when I
wandered down to the barn,
clipped a rope to Poncho’s halter,
and led him to the tack room.
(That much I remembered.)
I slipped a blanket over his back,
topped it with the saddle, reached
for the cinch. That’s when things
got a bit hazy memory-wise.
(I’d only seen it done once!)
Through one ring, pull it tight,
now some kind of a knot?
Okay, it didn’t feel exactly right,
but I calculated it might do.
(Math was not my best subject.)
Whatever I did, it managed
to hold my weight as I stepped
up into the stirrup and pulled
myself into the saddle.
(Thereby increasing my confidence.)
I’d forgotten the bridle completely,
but Poncho didn’t seem to care.
He steered just fine without a bit,
at least while circling at a walk.
(Building my confidence even more.)
I knew I had to trot sometime,
master whatever technique
stopped one from bouncing.
I nudged him to pick up speed.
(Things started to go wrong immediately.)
Plop-plop-plop. Bounce, bounce,
bounce. Maybe faster was better?
I kicked once. Poncho upped his pace.
Still bouncing, I kicked again.
(In retrospect, it was a bad move.)
Poncho had had quite enough.
He feinted right. I leaned right,
just as he shifted left. Completely
baffled, my body kept right.
(About then, I suspected something was amiss.)
The saddle moved along with
my weight, cocking sideways.
I grabbed the horn and planted
my feet in the stirrups.
(Not exactly the right thing to do.)
Poncho put on the brakes,
resulting in the saddle and me
coming to a sudden halt, at a
ninety-degree angle to the horizon.
(Hilarious, if it had been someone else.)
About then, I happened to glance
toward the driveway, where a shiny
blue Dodge Dakota had parked.
Ethan stood beside it, grinning.
(Like I said, the best-laid plans…)
No Way Off That Horse
But to look like a total idiot
and fall butt-first in the dirt,
so that’s exactly what I did.
I thought your problem was
sitting a trot, not gettin’ off
the horse. Ethan stood over me.
Aunt J told him? My face
bubbled heat. “Apparently,
I’ve got multiple problems.”
Ethan’s grin broadened.
He offered a hand, pulled
me to my feet. Don’t we all?
Poncho snorted and moved
to one side, and the saddle
slid completely under his belly.
Hard to sit a horse sideways,
Pattyn, least that’s what
I’ve always believed.
“Really? Well, I didn’t have much
of a problem with the sideways
thing. Now, straight up and down…”
He laughed out loud. We’ll
have to work on that, okay?
Ready to put the old boy away?
We’ll have to work on that? Why
did I so like the sound of that?
God, he was good-looking!
Ethan undid what was left of my
cinch knot, hoisted the saddle
up over one shoulder.
I led Poncho back to his pasture,
Ethan so close his scent—
sunbaked skin—engulfed me.
I’m glad you could spend the summer
with your aunt. She doesn’t get
much company out here.
At least she hadn’t told him
everything. “I’m glad I came.”
Getting gladder by the minute.
Ethan Helped Me
Feed and water the livestock,
all the time making small talk.
He was working
at the feed store
to help pay for his
next semester at
UC Davis. He
was going to be
a veterinarian.
I told him I had no clue
what I wanted to be.
His mom had
recently died and
his dad lived,
single, on eighty
acres, just a couple
of miles from
where we stood.
I told him my dad should
have stayed single.
He had no brothers
or sisters and was,
in fact, lucky to
have made it into
this world. His
mom had had problems
carrying babies.
I told him my mom was
the goddess of fertility.
He’d had a girl at
Davis, but when he
brought her home
for a visit, she took
a good look around
and decided Caliente
was beneath her—
meaning he was too.
I told him not even Death
Valley was beneath my ex.
He wasn’t Mormon.
I told him I wasn’t sure
I was either.
If He Thought I Was Nuts
He didn’t say so, or even give me a look
that did. The more we talked, the more
I liked him, and that didn’t scare me a bit.
Finally, it struck me that he must have
come over for some particular reason.
Turned out, Aunt J had invited him
to dinner. As we wandered back toward
the house, she came out onto the porch.
You two about ready for supper? Hope so,
’cause supper’s about ready for you.
We went inside, washed up, and by the time
we got to the table, dinner had already arrived.
Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans
canned personally by Aunt J, homemade
apple crisp. Oh yes, and a bottle of good Merlot.
Not that I knew good wine from bad, and of course,
the guilt train got rolling as soon as the cork popped.
But somehow I managed to hop off that locomotive.
Stan was the wine collector, said Aunt J. I don’t tap
into the cellar often. Just for special company.
Delicious food, mellow wine, and Ethan’s very
warm leg, real close to mine. From time to time,
our thighs touched and neither of us hurried
to pull them apart. Did he realize what he was
doing to me? Was I doing the same to him?
Half of Me Said Yes
I hadn’t imagined it.
He had kept his leg there.
I hadn’t started it.
He had initiated contact.
I hadn’t insisted.
He had enjoyed it.
The other half insisted
I was crazy.
He was perfect.
I was plain.
He was worthy of a rock star.
I deserved a zero.
He was all a man should be.
I wasn’t yet a woman.
I mean, physically I was,
yes. Mother Nature came
to call regularly.
But emotionally?
I was about six years old,
still Daddy’s little girl,
even though Daddy
couldn’t care less
about me. How could
I expect any man
ever would?
Journal Entry, June 16
What is the matter with me?
Three months ago, I barely
knew boys existed.
First I couldn’t get Justin
out of my mind, even though
I had no chance at him, ever.
Then it was Derek I thought I had
to be with, even though he was
a total jerk. (Should have known.)
Now it’s Ethan—too old for me,
too good-looking for me, too
everything, except LDS.
So why this amazing attraction?
Why do I even think he might
be a little bit interested in me?
Even if he is interested, do
I want a summer fling? That
was great, see ya later?
And what if we actually fell in love?
How could it ever work out?
Just think if Dad found out!
Why can’t I just forget about
guys? Do I want to end up like
Aunt J? Or worse, like Mom?
I Tend to Overanalyze
So the next day I tried not to think about him at all.
Let things happen as they’re meant to, I told myself.
Aunt J was planting the garden, turning long, even rows
of dirt so rich you could breathe in the compost smell.
I helped her rake the soil smooth, enjoying the sun’s
gentle pulse on my back and the mindless labor.
For an hour or more we worked quietly. Not a single
question popped into my head. Work is good for that.
But when we stopped for lunch and lemonade, bam,
bam, bam, there came the questions in rapid succession.
“How long were you and Uncle Stan married?” “How
did he die?” “Why didn’t you ever have children?”
Lord, girl, you do ask personal questions, don’t you?
Ah well, a week after our thirteenth anniversary,
Stan found out he had stomach cancer. He fought
it for almost a year, but it finally got the best of him.
I wanted children and we tried to have them, but I couldn’t
carry a baby to full term. After five miscarriages, I said enough.
That made me think of something Ethan said. “Ethan’s
mom had trouble carrying babies too. Isn’t that weird?”
No, Pattyn, it’s not. Now I’m going to tell you a little story,
and it isn’t very pretty. But it’s honest-to-God true.
Another Ugly Story
I sat, fascinated,
as Aunt J remembered:
In the 1950s the U.S. government
detonated nuclear weapons aboveground,
down at the test site near Vegas.
They didn’t have a clear idea
what radiation might do, so they
tracked where the wind blew it,
and what happened to those who
came in contact with the fallout.
I saw anger flash in her
steel gray eyes.
Your father and I were kids then,
living near Ely. These men in suits,
driving official-looking cars, would
come around with these little badges
to wear on the days they set off their bombs.<
br />
They asked our family—and others—
to sit outside and watch the blasts,
which were visible hundreds of miles away.
We learned a little
about them in school.
The mushroom clouds were spectacular.
Some people even had “blast parties,”
drinking and carrying on as those venomous
puffs lifted into the air and spread across the sky.
The wind carried them, and those of us in its path
became known as “downwinders.” The closer
you were to the test site, the more immediate
the results—dead cattle, contaminated milk.
I remembered photos
of soldiers at ground zero.
Afterward, the government men collected
the badges, which turned black by degrees—
the more radiation, the blacker they became.
We were guinea pigs, Pattyn. Government
guinea pigs. As the years wore on, the effects
showed up in elevated cancer levels. And
thousands of women suffered
miscarriage after miscarriage.
That was something they
sure didn’t teach in school.
It wasn’t just in Nevada, either. That radiation
went high into the atmosphere, moving across
the country at will. There are downwinders in
neighboring states, and even farther east.
Today the government pays those of us still
alive $50,000, if we can prove we were affected.
I was one of the lucky ones. I survived breast
cancer. Ethan’s mother was not so fortunate.
Neither was Stan, nor your Grandma Jane.
“What about Dad and Grandpa
Paul? They’re healthy.”
Maybe their immune systems are stronger.
Maybe their cancers are sleeping somewhere.
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