summer shindig to celebrate redneck day. prizes for best costume. drink specials till 9.
At first glance, Raven scoffs. Why would anyone admit being a redneck, let alone celebrate it? She changes her thinking though, after only a few short moments, realizing that mindless gaiety in a social setting might be just what Wren might need. Especially since Lord is away.
Silliness will give Wren a chance to snicker at those who are bold enough to black out their front teeth and don a pair of tattered overalls rolled up to the knee. The party is tomorrow night. Raven makes a mental note to mention it to her sister after she’s had a chance to rest. Besides, the ad also says there will be a special price on chicken wings and a live band. Who doesn’t appreciate chicken wings and live music?
Wren is surprised she falls asleep so quickly once tucked into her comfortable bed, but with the sleep comes something else: her recurring dream. Wren tosses and turns, sweating as she once again finds herself walking toward the meadow and the mysterious scarecrow. This time the dummy moves, extending one hand and bending toward the ground. It captures a baby bird, just new from its nest and learning to fly.
The straw fingers turn hard and pliable like steel threads, encasing the small bird, which begins squawking with fear. Close by, the mother bird screams in protest but the scarecrow doesn’t flinch, it just keeps on squeezing. Wren notices the attire on the figure is altered from her last dream in this pasture. Now it wears a red cravat tucked in amongst the gingham.
Wren awakes with a start, kicking off the light sheet that’s covering her. She realizes she’s seen that neck scarf before. It’s in the photo of Lord’s mother. That photo taken of her the day of her funeral, just as she had taken one of Lord’s deceased father: a photo of the old woman lying dead in her coffin, part of a long-standing tradition in the Magras family to take photos of the dead.
Displacement
Wren and Lord rarely disagree on anything. It’s the way it’s been since the first day they met. If there is conflict, it’s always smoothed over with some discussion and sensible logic. They talk about and share their feelings. They are honest and vulnerable; it’s what holds them together—there’s nothing phony or unspoken between them.
Wren remembers Lord telling her he hated asparagus the first time she cooked him a meal. He’d used his fork to push the vegetable to the side of his plate. “You might like to try it,” she’d urged. “I grow it myself and toss it with garlic, butter, parmesan and black pepper. It’s one of my favourites.”
Most probably, Lord was trying to make a good impression because it was early in their relationship, so he did put a forkful in his mouth. Surprised, Wren was correct, the flavour was superb. Now asparagus is something he asks for as a side dish on a regular basis.
She’s changed his view with respect to other, simple considerations as well. Like decorating the farmhouse. When the couple first moved in, Wren suggested they brighten up some of the rooms with a new paint job. Watching hgtv had turned Wren into a fan of the “accent wall,” which is what she’d had in mind for the downstairs family room. Other than the kitchen, that room was likely to be a room where the newlyweds would spend a lot of their time. The huge bay window and window seat frames a view that looks toward the west, catching the evening sunset. An antique, cast iron wood stove was still in good working order and the main source of heat during the winter months. The room had a bookshelf built-in from floor to ceiling and spanning an entire wall. Wren wants to spruce it up with a new coat of paint, and she suggests a shade of orange.
“Oh, yikes,” Lord responded when she told him her plan. “I’ve always regarded orange as such an offensive colour. I never use it in my designs.”
“Kohkum always told me that orange represents energy.” Wren shows Lord a swatch of a hue she’s hoping to use. “Just an accent wall,” she assures him. She explains that orange reminds her of the sunset, and how the colour captures the essence of her favourite season, autumn. She even mentions that, spiritually speaking, orange is the colour of a person’s aura when they’re radiating happiness, joy, vibrancy and warmth.
Her descriptions come from a place of memory and love, which softens Lord’s heart. It’s what he also wants for their home and he changes his attitude toward the colour. Now, that orange hue is what catches the soft lighting of the wood stove when the two cuddle up for an evening of relaxation and a good movie.
The dream prompts Wren with an uncomfortable idea, one that may require her to navigate through another potential disagreement. When Lord returns, she will ask him once again if she can move the display photo of his mom that sits on the mantel in the living room. That framed photo of Lord’s mother laying in her coffin is something Wren has always had a hard time getting used to. Even the idea of death photography is unsettling for her, despite Lord telling her that it was the norm in certain parts of the Maritimes and the New England states, and even still happens today.
Lord has always honoured her Cree roots, so even though the image of a dead woman on her mantel gives her the willies, she feels a bit conflicted. She wants to be able to honour his family’s traditions in return. She hasn’t been able to tell him that the photo seems haunted.
And now the dream, the red cravat. At times, she’s felt as if the eyes of Lord’s dead mother are open and watching her from the photo, and she has yet to tell him about the disconcerting thing that happened one night when he was away.
* * *
There was a wicked rainstorm in the valley and Lord was gone again for work. As Wren settled in for the night, lighting a fire in the stone fireplace, she felt as though she was being watched. Maybe it was the sound of a harsh wind blowing branches against the side of the house. Maybe it was the flickering of light from the fireplace. Maybe it was the fact that Wren was alone and in a large home out in the middle of the prairie. Maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her but in those moments, Wren was certain she saw the eyes in the death photo open. She shook her head in disbelief and looked again. The eyes were closed. But were they open a moment before?
* * *
Awake from her nightmare, Wren remembers noticing the cravat in the photo and thinking, What an odd piece of clothing to take to one’s final resting place.
Lord had given no direct answer to an earlier request by Wren to move the photo, feeling as though he was being asked to make a choice between his love for Wren and love for his mother. He sidestepped the subject instead, offering to make them both tea and some microwave popcorn.
Wren has never told her husband about the eerie quality of the photo. How does she explain the darkness she’s felt from it? It’s even disturbing Kohkum’s love in this home. Energy is real and Wren believes the presence of that photo causes disruption.
The Day After
The next morning, the sisters are wakened by the sounds of air brakes coming to a halt. Wren pulls back the bedroom curtains to see a couple of young farm boys in the yard. She knows them, giving a smile and wave before hurriedly pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a sweater of Lord’s that she finds on the floor. It’s two sizes too big for Wren and fits her more like a dress. “Comfort clothing” she calls it. Wren likes wearing her husband’s clothing when he’s away because the fabric holds his scent.
The neighbour boys are delivering the first cord of firewood that Lord ordered before leaving on his trip. Wren admires them both as they are always so polite and respectful. Their family owns the nursery up the highway, the place where she buys her seedlings. Within minutes, Wren is outside to say hello to them, and to see if they want any help with unloading.
“Morning, Miss. It’s going to be a hot one today,” the blond-haired lad offers as Wren steps out the front door. “Thought we’d get this chore out of the way before the morning breaks.”
He and his brother offer to stack the wood.
“No need,” replies Wren. “We can stack it if you just unload it. My sister is visiting
,” she adds, “so we can do it. Nice to have some company as my husband is away on business again.”
“Sure is enough for a lot of bonfires,” the boy remarks. “A lot of fire.”
Working together, the boys seem to unload the entire cord within minutes, offering final goodbyes and waves as they swing back into their green pickup and retreat down the grid leading to the main highway.
All this activity happens before Raven has mustered up the gumption to get out of bed and join her sister outside. When she appears, she’s carrying two mugs of hot coffee. “Good thing you set the timer on this last night,” Raven says and yawns, handing over one of the coffees to her sister. “I can’t imagine starting the day without it.” It’s then she notices the big pile of freshly chopped wood, which appears to be blocking her car in the driveway. “Where did this come from?” she asks.
Wren chuckles and motions to Raven to follow her to the side of the house. The mortar is now dried on Wren’s new outdoor kiln.
“It’s lovely,” Raven says as she observes Lord’s handiwork in building it, “but why do you need another one? You already have a kiln in your studio.”
Wren explains, “When it’s hot out and I’m wanting to fire my work, it’s almost unbearable to be working inside.” She describes how, one morning not long ago, Lord had come home to find Wren taking a cold shower just to cool down. Firing the kiln had made her studio as hot as an oven. “It was after that day he started with plans for this outdoor model. A gift, he said, for our first anniversary.”
“You firing it up this weekend?” Raven asks.
“Hadn’t planned on it…” starts Wren.
“Good,” Raven interjects, “because I have a plan. Tell you all about it in a few minutes. Let’s head in for some breakfast first.”
While the two walk back to the farmhouse, Wren finds herself feeling content and rested. A night has passed since the baby went away, but Wren has the comfort of her sister keeping her heart safe, even if her sleep has been interrupted by that recurring and macabre dream about the scarecrow and red cravat. She figures it’s because the two have been joking about old times, and is there such a thing as too much fresh air?
The twins have walked in the meadow and along the banks of the stream, just like they did when they were girls, picking rocks and wildflowers. Wren finds the familiarity brings her calm. This morning, she notices Raven does not bring up the subject of the baby going away, which is just as well. It will take some time for Wren to accept what happened, and even more time to decide whether to let her husband know.
Later, while the two are stacking cordwood, Raven mentions the shindig happening down at the local watering hole. “Come on, we should go,” Raven urges. “It’ll do you some good. Besides, it will give me a chance to meet some of the characters in town who you’ve been describing.”
It’s hard to say no to some harmless activity aimed at cheering her up, so Wren agrees; before long, the two find themselves in the basement of the farmhouse digging through old clothes that might serve as redneck attire.
“I stored all my fat clothes down here,” Wren admits. “You know the ones.”
Raven nods. She does indeed know the practice of keeping oversized clothing in the closet, just in case.
“I’ve been meaning to send these to the Sally Ann for a while now,” Wren says about the clothes.
“Well, good thing you didn’t. We can find some redneck costume items in here for that party, I’m sure. As Raven rifles through a black garbage bag of clothes, she snickers at some of the styles. Just then, Wren notices a piece of clothing that she knows she didn’t put down there: a red and white gingham dress, the same style that she’s seen on the scarecrow in her dreams.
Where did it come from?
Wild West
The sisters are clad in oversized jeans, tied at the waist with a piece of rope, and tartan flannel shirts from their teenage days as Bay City Rollers fans. Redneck enough? Doesn’t matter. There are chicken wings to be enjoyed.
As Wren pulls her car into the parking lot, the women let out a roar of laughter. “We’ve certainly come to the right place,” Wren exclaims, having a hard time speaking while laughing at a crude display hanging from the back of another vehicle.
“I can’t believe anyone would display something like that and actually go out in public!” cries Raven. A pair of silver bull balls dangle from the back the truck’s bumper. There is nowhere else to park, so they park right next to it, a blue beat-up pickup. Wren makes a mental note to memorize the plate number, a game she plays with herself to keep her mind sharp.
The place is packed. They go in, find a table, and order a plate of “Rajin Cajun” hot wings but before they can place a drink order, a second server shows up and sets two oversized cocktails in front of them.
“Wow. First drink on the house?” Raven asks.
“No, it’s compliments of the gentleman over in the corner,” she replies. Both ladies try to see who the benefactor is, but the crowd obscures their view. “Tell him thanks, from us both,” Wren says, and studies the intricate drink.
“Call me crazy, but I always thought that drinking from a fishbowl was more of a cosmopolitan thing than a redneck thing,” Raven says before taking a sip of her oversized cocktail.
“It’s actually more of a bachelorette-in-Vegas type thing,” Wren replies and snickers.
Oversized fishbowl or not, the price—and flavour—was right: three shots of vodka served with cranberry juice, soda water and slices of fresh strawberries floating in ice and topped with a slice of orange peel. Two fishbowls later and the sisters put in another food order. Salt and pepper wings this time. They haven’t had much opportunity to talk because of how loud it is in the bar.
“Know any of these people?” Raven is able to yell to her between terrible renditions by the band on stage.
“No… I’m going to run to the little girls’ room. Do you want me to get anything as I make my way back?” Wren asks before grabbing her purse.
“Nothing, thanks. I’ll just sit and watch,” Raven shouts in response.
As Wren scurries away and Raven takes another sip, she’s startled when a man whispers into her ear, “Nice bandana. Wanna see my banana?”
What a comment to utter to a lady! Her instinct is to turn and give this intruder a hard, verbal lashing, maybe even slap him across the face. Raven turns toward the voice to make her disapproval clear but changes her mind immediately. The fellow standing there is incredibly handsome.
“Sorry about that cheesy line, but it is redneck night.” The man introduces himself as Lance. “Seriously though, you just won me twenty dollars. My friend over there bet me that you’d slap my face saying something like that. Thanks for making him the loser.”
Raven laughs, admitting, “Well, you almost did get hit in the face, but there are too many witnesses here. Besides, we don’t want to get thrown out of the bar.”
“It’s often more fun to party out here instead of in the city,” Lance explains. “Especially during the summer. Everyone is so friendly.” He tells Raven he delivers furniture for one of the larger stores in the city.
As Lance and Raven continue to chat, it isn’t his words that grab Raven’s attention, it’s his low-cut wife beater. The white undershirt fits him just a bit too tight and shows off his muscular chest and arms. He reminds her of a young Richard Gere.
“Smoke?” Lance pulls a worn, silver cigarette case from his back pocket. “Keeps the smokes from getting squished. It used to belong to my dad. Took it with him when he’d go hunting.” Lance glances at the worn lettering engraved across the front. “I know it’s a bad habit, but now that the band has taken a break, seems like a good time to head outdoors,” he adds. “I’ll be back in just a few minutes, if it’s okay to join you when I return.”
“Actually, I think I’ll come out, too. Hardly anyone smok
es anymore and it’s more interesting to have company than just lighting up and standing outside alone. Besides, my sister is in the washroom. I may as well grab the opportunity to sneak out before she has time to give me a lecture.”
Raven’s been craving a cigarette all evening. She’s not allowed to smoke in the farmhouse and isn’t comfortable standing outside by herself all the time, especially at night in the dark. In the city when she smokes at her own apartment, it’s usually out on the balcony where she can see streetlights, people and automobiles at every hour.
Raven realizes how much she appreciates being back in the stillness of the valley. It’s beautiful and brings her comfort. Being here takes her back to her childhood. She’s happy about the prospect of relocating back to the land she knows and loves, should the law firm she works for expands into Saskatchewan as planned.
Raven grabs her purse from the back of her chair. She leaves her sweater because the night air is still warm. No one notices Raven walk out toward the exit with some handsome stranger she’s just met. All attention has turned to an arm-wrestling competition that has just started up.
Empty Chairs and Empty Tables
It’s Saturday morning and Wren is frantic on the telephone with Lord. It hasn’t been easy to reach him because cellphone connections are sometimes tenuous in the mountains, especially if the weather is bad. Plus there’s been a thunderstorm. It started shortly after his plane landed yesterday and it hasn’t let up since.
“What do you mean the police won’t help you?” Lord asks, trying to make sense of what she’s telling him.
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