by Callan Wink
“Tell me about her,” she said.
August was very aware of his hands, splayed on the tablecloth. Tanned dark. A dry crack on his thumb. Dirt under the nails, thick veins leading to his wrist. As he spoke he looked at them. “She was my mother’s friend. My last year of high school.”
“So she was much older?”
“Twenty-seven. Ten years older than me at the time.”
“What did she look like? Was she beautiful?”
“She’s tall. Blond. Not skinny. But not fat, either. There’s just lots of her, and it’s not mushy but it’s soft.”
“I can imagine her perfectly. I know that type. And she broke your heart, right?”
“Maybe.”
Kim nodded as if this had confirmed something she’d thought all along. “Are you to the stage yet where you appreciate the experience for what it was? Because you were young and you learned, right? She taught you things?”
August was looking over her shoulder now. Out the window behind her he could see the yard light blink on, glowing green. “She taught me about her. That’s it. And so far, I don’t see how that knowledge could be useful in the future. Because she’s gone. It’s useless knowledge.”
They’d finished the bottle, glasses empty, food cold. “What do you mean? You don’t think all women are fundamentally similar?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Maybe you haven’t had a large enough sampling size yet to draw conclusions.”
“She’s not like you. I know that much.”
Kim gave a dry laugh. “Outside of being one, I’ve had some experiences with women. Men like to make out that there’s some big mystery there, but it’s not true. You ever hear about something called the sacred feminine?”
August shrugged. “No.”
“It’s basically a theory about how all life on earth flows through the female form. And that women are closer to the sacred than men because they can give birth. It’s supposed to be about female empowerment, but I guarantee the concept was dreamed up by a man. Men want to believe that a woman embodies something essential about the universe, and so they tend to get all worked up over us. Most women won’t admit it, even to themselves, but deep down we know it’s all bullshit. A woman is like a knot. A knot isn’t sacred. A knot isn’t profound or evil or virtuous because it’s intricate. Once you’ve untangled a knot it disappears.”
“So?”
“All I’m saying is that you should forget her. If you don’t, she’ll be like black paint on your hands, and it will stain everything you touch for the rest of your life.” She cleared her throat and stood up, her chair making a loud noise on the floor tiles. “Help me clear this stuff away. No dessert tonight, sorry.”
He helped her scrape the plates and left her there in the empty kitchen, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed over her chest.
Coming back from town, August pulled off at the Hutterite farm stand that had just opened for the season. It was a small whitewashed plywood structure with a corrugated metal roof and awning. Behind a low counter were racks of jars: apple butter and strawberry-rhubarb jam, pickled asparagus and green beans and cucumbers. Shelves of baked goods, pies, and loaves of white bread. There were large plastic bins stacked for the eventual produce that wasn’t yet ready for harvest and a hand-lettered sign: SELF-SERVE. PUT CASH IN THE BOX. FOR FRYERS DRIVE TO COLONY. NO SUNDAY SALES.
August stood considering the jars of jam and preserves. Chokecherry jam. He’d never seen that before. It was a warm day, and the pies seemed to glisten and sweat under the plastic wrap. He picked out a loaf of plain white and a loaf of sourdough and a jar of apple butter and a jar of the chokecherry. He was digging through his wallet for correct change when a Hutterite girl came up from the colony, towing a wheeled metal cart. From the cart she lifted a large box full of baked goods. She smiled at August and began restocking the shelves. August watched her, blond hair, a few tendrils escaping the polka-dot kerchief she wore over her head. A dark-green dress with a black apron, her feet bare, soles dirty as she raised up on her tiptoes to reach the top shelf. She was humming.
“This chokecherry jam,” August said. His voice seemed loud, bouncing around under the tin roof of the shed. The girl turned, startled. “What’s it like?” he said, quieter.
“Like?” she said.
“How does it taste?”
“It’s sweet,” she said. “Chokecherries are really sour, so we add lots of sugar.”
She had just the faintest hint of accent. German, August figured. She had a small mole on her right nostril. He thought she was probably fourteen or fifteen years old. “Okay,” he said. “How about the apple butter? How’s that taste?”
She looked at him, eyebrows raised. “You’ve never had apple butter?”
“Maybe, but it’s been a long time.”
“It’s sweet,” she said. “We boil down lots of apples with cinnamon and sugar. Everyone likes it. I’m sure you’ll like it.”
“Okay. Well, I think I’ll get one of each and these loaves of bread, too.”
She gave him a small smile. Pointed at the sign, then tapped a finger on the slotted cashbox bolted to the counter. “Go ahead and just slide your money in here and help yourself,” she said.
August had his wallet out. “Is there any way I could get change? All I’ve got is a twenty.” He waved the bill slightly, as if to provide evidence.
She produced a key from her apron and unlocked the cashbox. Apparently it had been a slow day. It contained a lone twenty. She shrugged. “I guess that doesn’t help much. I could run back to the house?”
“I don’t want to put you out. I’ll just pick up some more stuff, I guess. A few more jars of jam, maybe. I could give them to my mom or something, because I probably won’t eat it all.”
“Well, that’s nice. Jams make great gifts.” She turned back to her work, organizing the pies, taking one out of circulation that seemed to not pass inspection.
“How about this strawberry-rhubarb?” he said. “Is that pretty good?”
She didn’t turn around. “It is good,” she said. “All of it is pretty good, actually.”
“What’s your favorite?”
She was humming again and her response came in a short, melodious burst. “Strawberry-and-butter-and-sourdough-toast,” she sang, laughing. “I like that for dessert.”
August laughed, too. He picked up a jar of strawberry and another jar of apple butter and set them next to his loaves of bread. Emboldened, he said, “Are you related to a girl named Sarah Jane, by any chance?”
She had a broom and was starting to sweep the leaves and grass dander from the floor of the shed. She stopped, no longer humming. “SJ?” she said.
“Yeah. SJ. I was just curious. A friend of mine knew her, I think. A few years back. I think she lived here.”
The girl was looking in his direction, not quite at him, somewhere off above his shoulder, eyes narrowed slightly. “SJ is my second-oldest sister,” she said.
“I thought you looked like her,” August said. “That’s why I asked.”
“How do you know what she looks like?”
“A picture. My friend showed me.”
“Graven image.”
“Huh?”
The girl was sweeping furiously now. Ramming the broom into the corners so hard, pieces of straw were breaking off. “Thou shalt make no graven image,” she said. “Excuse me.” August stepped to the side so she could sweep past his feet.
“Does she still live here?”
The girl gave one firm shake of her head. Paused her sweeping for a moment to slam the cashbox closed and fasten the lock. “Arm River,” she said. “Up in Saskatchewan. I haven’t seen her in almost two years. And she hardly ever calls.”
“Does she have children?”
“Why do
you care?”
“I’m asking for my friend, that’s all. He wanted to know.”
She was sweeping again, angrily. Broom-straw shrapnel flying, making more of a mess than she was cleaning up. “She only just got engaged last month. So how could she have children? Didn’t even tell me herself, just sent a letter in the mail. Will you be needing anything else? Because I’d like to finish cleaning this.”
August gathered up his jam and bread and retreated from the stand, the girl sweeping him out the door as he went.
It was late afternoon, and the sun was stalled at a wicked angle. August was wrapping up his near-daily battle with the irrigation dams, sweat plastering his shirt to his back. Ancient drove up on the four-wheeler and helped him get the last poly tarp in place. “Hot bitch today,” Ancient said. He stood with a grass stem between his teeth regarding the rising water. “Killed a rattlesnake out behind the house earlier. Was laying all stretched out big as you please, right across the path going to the shed. Didn’t even move when I came up and got him with the shovel. It was like he wasn’t concerned about me at all. Big sucker. Cut this off him.” Ancient reached into his pocket and opened his palm to show August the segmented rattle, nearly as long as his pinky.
“Damn,” August said. “That is a big one.”
Ancient shook the rattle to make it buzz, then put it back in his pocket. “Might make me a key chain out of it or something. Some guys think a rattlesnake rattle is good luck. My old man got bit one time. His leg swole up like a tree trunk. He wanted to wait it out, but I made him go down to Billings to get the shot. He bitched the whole time about how much it was going to cost and was out messing around with the horses again at dawn the next day. Tough old buzzard. They don’t really make them like that anymore.” He cleared his throat. “You been around me a fair bit these past months. Feel free to tell me straight up. You think I have a drinking problem?”
August wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve and settled his hat back on. “What does that even mean?” he said. “A drinking problem.”
“Exactly. That’s what I told Kim. I said, I might have a drinking habit but that don’t necessarily mean it’s a problem. She loves yoga, right? She always calls it her practice. Well, I told her that my practice is drinking. It’s something I engage in. It’s not something that runs my life. She thinks my behavior has been getting erratic, and if I want her to come back I’ll have to go to at least one AA meeting. That’s her condition.”
“Just one?”
“That’s what she says. But I get the feeling that we’re playing a game, and she’s the one that gets to make all the rules. I go to an AA meeting and what’s next? It’s a slippery slope. Do you think I’ve been acting erratic?”
“Do you want her to come back?”
“Of course. That’s what all this is about. You’re evading the question. Have I been erratic?”
“Maybe you should just do it. If it makes her happy. A good woman might be a man’s only hope for salvation on earth.”
Ancient looked at August. Blinked.
“I heard a guy say that one time.”
Ancient laughed, spit his grass stem into the ditch, and straddled the four-wheeler. “I might have to ponder that one for a bit,” he said. He looked at August for a long moment. Shook his head. Fired up the four-wheeler and drove away.
August took the back way home from town. It was early evening, and he had a rotisserie chicken from the IGA steaming in a paper bag next to him on the seat of the truck. He had a side of potato salad and a peach iced tea and a six-pack of Bud. He slowed as he passed the Duncan place. There were new signs, the paint still glistening a fresh and urgent black. They had been installed on two-by-fours as before, but something looked different now and August slowed further, craning out the truck window to get a better look. Each two-by-four was backed by a chainsaw-wrecking metal T-post.
August drove the rest of the way home and sat on the porch to eat. He read some of his Hutterite book, his chicken-grease-coated fingers smearing the pages. It didn’t seem the sort of book that one needed to read from cover to cover in any particular order, so he just opened to a random spot and started in. He learned that the Hutterites were devoted to pacifism and that, during World War I, numerous Hutterite men were imprisoned for not complying with the draft. Two brothers, Joseph and Michael Hofer, were abused so badly they both died in Leavenworth. After this came a lengthy chapter on various traditional Hutterite animal husbandry practices. It was dry reading, and before long August dropped the book on the porch and finished picking at the chicken.
He had his feet propped up on the railing and was finishing the last beer when there was a loud huffing noise, like a stubborn engine refusing to turn over, followed by the sound of hooves churning, a crack of wood splintering. August got to his feet just as Chief came around the corner of the shop. Broken free of the corral, he was walleyed, with a long string of viscous snot running from his muzzle. He made one final stride and then went down, legs tangled, skidding in the long grass at the edge of the yard. His raised his head one more time, the cords of his neck clear as ropes under his skin as he struggled and failed to get up. August could feel the thump of his head hitting the ground through the soles of his boots. The horse’s sides heaved, and then he was still. There was the long, slow sound of flatulence, and then Chief was just a brown mound in the weeds, unmistakably dead.
The next day Ancient rented a small excavator and dragged Chief out to the pasture. Before starting on the hole he walked to Chief’s dead form, stood there looking down for a moment, and sat down on the horse’s large haunch. August was there with a shovel, and he tapped the blade on his boot a few times. Waiting.
Ancient took his hat off and held it between his hands, his head bowed slightly. “Chief was a good horse,” he said. “I’ve never much cared for horses, but Chief was all right. My old man’s last horse. I buried my father and now I bury his horse, and it’s like somehow this is actually it. Like, now my old man is truly dead, because as long as something he’d trained was still around, then part of him was still alive, too. But now we put Chief in the ground, and it’s just poor orphan boy Ancient. But I guess the show goes on. No sense being all shmoopy about it.”
Ancient stood and jammed his hat back on his head and slapped his hands on his thighs. He laughed and toed Chief’s shank with his boot. “Maybe this is the universe’s way of keeping us hopping along. Every time someone or something close to you dies, there’s a carcass you have to attend to before it starts to stink. If bodies didn’t decay, the dead would be stacking up everywhere, and soon enough the living would become enslaved by them. Memories are bad enough as it is. Let’s get this thing dealt with.”
August stood by with the shovel to help him but there wasn’t much for him to do. The excavator bucket scraped and sparked, and August could smell the ozone odor rising from the bruised stones in the pit. He leaned on his shovel, and when a magpie landed on Chief’s flank, August scuffed his feet to make the bird fly away. When the hole was dug Ancient hooked the bucket around Chief’s long back and dragged him over the edge into the hole. August felt Chief’s final thud broadcast through the dirt, and then Ancient began shoving the loose, rocky soil back into the grave.
Hole filled, Ancient ran the excavator back and forth over the grave a few times to tamp everything down, and soon there was just a disturbed patch of dirt that would be indistinguishable from the rest of the pasture in a matter of days. Ancient drove the excavator back to the yard, up the ramp, and onto the trailer, where August helped him hitch the safety chains around the tracks.
“I rented the thing by the hour,” Ancient said. “Probably some other little jobs I could do around the place while I have it but I don’t really feel like messing with it right now. I’m just going to take it back. You eat yet?”
August shook his head no, and then they were heading into town.
* * *
—
They dropped the excavator at Northern Rental and went to the Mint for dinner.
Ancient was drinking whiskey, barely picking at his hamburger. August stuck to beer; he was suddenly ravenous and ended up eating half of Ancient’s burger on top of his.
“How’s it going with Kim?” August said. “None of my business. I just hope it’s going okay.”
Ancient swirled a fry around in ketchup. Chewed and sipped his drink. “It’s all right, you asking. I’ve been leaving you in the lurch a fair amount lately, and I’m sorry. You’ve been doing a good job. And, when I’m gone, I don’t worry that things aren’t being taken care of. I lucked out hiring you, and I hope you know that I feel that way. I’ve never met your old man, but I have to think that it was him that taught you how to work. Hopefully you thank him for that on occasion. If I ever met him, I’d thank him. Anyway. She’s got a job down there now. She’s working as a receptionist at an orthodontics office. I go down there and we go to counseling. She’s still staying with her sister, and so we go to counseling, and after, we go have dinner or something and then we go sleep in her sister’s basement on the pullout couch. I’ve seen enough of Billings to last me a lifetime. Smells like burning oil all the time, and the streets are littered with bums and drunks and other defects.”
“You’re doing counseling?”
“Yeah. We talk in circles and pay someone to listen. She’s got the job now, though, and it’s hard to see that as anything but one foot following the other out the door. Your parents are split, aren’t they?”
“For a while now.”
“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“My dad started messing with a girl he had helping out in the barn. At the time, she was younger than I am now. She’d just graduated high school. Was actually working for my dad when she was still in high school, so who knows.”