Driftless

by David Rhodes

The safety of her neighbors’ house loomed beyond the hedge, about forty yards away, and she thought about dashing over, pounding on the door, and asking to telephone the police.

  This seemed the safest plan so far. But it also meant abandoning her house, which didn’t seem right. An act of personal defiance was called for. Also, the police might search her house inadequately and leave the intruder inside, concealed in some clever hiding place, waiting.

  On the other hand, she could do nothing—just wait for the dark shape to come out again. This would give her a second look at the intruder as well as provide the assurance that he or she was gone before Gail went back inside.

  While she was considering her options, she heard her name spoken clearly somewhere behind her, and a throat cleared. She turned and found a very small woman who turned out to be Olivia standing behind her, holding a leash with the white dog on the other end of it.

  “Look, Gail,” said Olivia, “this is really none of my business, but you really must do something.”

  “Should we call the police?”

  “That person should be afraid of you, not the police.”

  “We’re women,” said Gail. “No one is ever afraid of us.”

  “Still, you can’t let people come breaking and thieving into your house and get away with it. Here,” and she offered Gail the leash.

  Gail went forward, carefully opened the front door, unclipped the collar, and aimed the dog inside. With the hairs along her broad back bristled up like spikes, Trixie walked through the opening.

  Gail quietly closed the door and hurried to resume her station behind the cherry tree with Olivia.

  Soon, a single shriek followed by many furniture collisions moved through the house, beginning upstairs and coming down. The front door burst open and the dark figure flew outside, its feet touching only the tops of the grasses, followed by Gail’s cat, which dashed under Gail’s car, followed some time later by the white dog, which plodded outside, lay down in the middle of the front yard, and rested her head on her front paws. The sound of running feet on gravel ended with a slamming door and the sound of a motor. Then a heavy vehicle could be heard clattering over Thistlewaite Creek Bridge.

  Gail and Olivia sat on the wet lawn beside Trixie, looking at the moon and listening to night noises.

  “Thanks,” said Gail. “I guess I’m in your debt.”

  “I guess not,” said Olivia. “I’m so far in debt to everyone and for everything that no one will ever owe me anything. Besides, I can’t tell you how many times your music has helped me. When you play your bass at night and sing, well, it’s like hearing a human voice from a cell.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but you seem depressed,” said Gail.

  “I am, but it’s nothing for you to worry about. My misery will go away as soon as I stop causing it. Every inch of it is my own making. I pray you will never know anything about these kinds of things.”

  “I do though,” said Gail. “It’s like trying to outlive yourself, and you can’t. We’re carved into certain people—trapped by a past that keeps making the future look just like it. Do you want to come inside? I can make coffee. We can talk. My house is always a mess but I have a lot to drink.”

  “No, I’ve got to go back before my sister wakes up. She sleeps like the dead between one and three, but after that she’s unpredictable. I appreciate the offer, though. You have no idea how much I would love to sit with you in your messy house and drink, but I’m afraid, as you say, my past won’t allow it.”

  “Wait, don’t go. I want to ask you something,” said Gail.

  “What is it?”

  “Do you think it’s wrong to love another woman?”

  Olivia sat in the wet grass and thought about this for a long time, and then asked, “In what way?”

  “In all ways.”

  Olivia sat for a while longer. “Why are you asking me?”

  “Because you’re here.”

  “Do you mean wrong in terms of society, the church, the mental health community, or do you mean wrong wrong?”

  “I don’t care about those other things, so guess I mean is it wrong wrong.”

  “Hell no.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Absolutely,” Olivia said, and stood up. “Come on, Trixie, we’ve got to get back before Vio wakes up.” The big dog lumbered to its feet and they walked through the hole in the hedge.

  Gail tried, unsuccessfully, to coax her cat out from under the car.

  Inside, she picked up several pieces of furniture and looked to see if anything was missing. As she looked, she found the cardboard box that Grahm and Cora had given her under a pile of clothes in the spare bedroom and then remembered that she had moved it from downstairs to make room for winter boots.

  She returned outdoors and succeeded on the second attempt to get her cat to come out from under the car. Inside again, she locked the front door and drove several nails through the back door—which didn’t have a lock—and fastened it to the door frame.

  As she tried to sleep, robins, blackbirds, and finches were beginning to stir in the morning light.

  VALUE

  JULY MONTGOMERY FOLLOWED THE WINDING RIDGE ROAD FOR several miles. In the ditches, wild daisies and lilies reached out in blue, orange, and yellow splotches of color. Overhead a red-tailed hawk sluiced through layers of rising hot air, its wings upturned on the ends.

  On the road to the old mill, July slowed down while three deer crossed. Later, a bevy of turkeys—adults and young ones—scurried into an open field.

  He turned into the drive between the two stone pillars and continued to the horse barn beyond the house.

  July found the Appaloosa’s stall and carried in the first two bales of hay from the pickup. He broke one open and tossed the end slice into the manger. The spotted horse stuck her nose into the hay, smelled, and chewed. Strands of dried grass stuck out of both sides of her soft curved mouth. “Good stuff,” said July, stroking the smooth neck. “I made it myself.”

  “Bee Jay says you should stay for lunch,” a voice said behind him, and he turned toward a young black woman, her head shaved. She wore sandals, khaki pants, and a violet blouse. She reached over the gate and scratched behind the Appaloosa’s ear. “I see you found something she’ll eat. Poor thing hasn’t eaten for three or four days.”

  “Must have gotten into some moldy alfalfa,” said July. “The marsh grass will help.”

  “So are you staying for lunch?”

  “I’m afraid not. I appreciate the offer, though.”

  The young woman walked back to the house and July continued carrying in the bales and stacking them next to the Appaloosa’s stall.

  On the last trip he saw Barbara Jean come out of the house and walk toward the barn.

  “Yesha says you won’t stay for lunch,” she said.

  “Sorry, but thanks anyway.”

  “Is that the hay you talked about?”

  “Yup.”

  “Looks like it did the trick,” she said, watching the mare. “Where’d you learn about horses?”

  “I spent some time in Montana.”

  “When?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “How much do we owe you?”

  “Nothing. The hay belonged to a neighbor and he wouldn’t take anything for it when I told him it was for your sick horse.”

  “I don’t like being in debt.”

  “Say, Bee Jay, did Gail Shotwell play her song for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you think?”

  “It was a wonderful song—a little rough around the edges, but very good. I can’t work with her, though. She’s too edgy, emotional.”

  July peeled off another slice of hay and set it in the manager. “And you’re not?” he asked.

  “Of course I am. What I mean is, I can’t work with someone like me. She has an attitude and we’d fight all the time. She’s also young eye-candy, and that’s always trouble in a group l
ike ours. Are you sure you can’t stay for lunch? Yesha’s a great cook.”

  “Sorry, I’ve got too much to do.”

  Driving away from the horse farm, July continued along the river road and turned into an asphalt drive. It ran uphill toward a brick house overlooking the river valley. He parked in front of the greenhouse, walked between two long rows of raised flower beds, and knocked on the door.

  A thundercloud was growing in the west, and its surrounding steel gray occupied a third of the sky.

  “Oh, July,” said Leona Pikes, a lively, trim women in her seventies. “Come in. Timothy said you might be coming this week. It’s not going to rain, is it?”

  “I hope not,” said July, stepping inside.

  “Tim’s on the back porch. I’ll bring something to drink. What would you like?”

  “Do you have beer?”

  “Is a dark Guinness all right?”

  “Sure.”

  July walked through the recently renovated home across polished hardwood floors, over the floral carpet and onto a large, screened-in porch overlooking the boathouse and the river.

  Seated in a wicker rocking chair, Tim Pikes looked up from his New York Times and smiled, his face finding a few new vertical wrinkles.

  “Sit down,” he said and lowered the rimless glasses on his nose. He slid the folded paper onto the table.

  July sat on the wicker sofa. “I’m here to make the last payment.”

  “Nearly thirty years,” said the old lawyer. “A celebration is in order. Now the farm is entirely yours.”

  “I want to thank you again for giving me the land contract and all the patience you’ve shown. You took a chance on me.”

  “You started out a better farmer than I ended up, July. Leona and I completely failed at farming.”

  This was mostly true, July knew. Years ago, the bank had begun to repossess the property and everything on it, and had sold off most of the land. The contract with July allowed the Pikes to narrowly avoid bankruptcy. Even so, they had been generous to him.

  Leona Pikes arrived with a beer and two glasses of iced tea. She sat next to July on the sofa.

  “I hope this won’t end your visits,” she said. “You used to come all the way into Madison when we were going to law school, and you seem like family.”

  “You also brought fresh milk, eggs, and vegetables,” added Tim. “For several years your visits were the only time during the month when the children had enough to eat.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” said July. “I’m afraid I have another favor to ask—a big one. Now that the farm is paid off, I wonder if you could arrange a trust for me. I have some things I want done.”

  “What things?” asked Tim, sipping his tea. “Leona is more qualified to talk about estate planning. That was more her field.”

  “First, I want to keep farming as long as I can.”

  “Of course. It suits you.”

  July pulled a rectangular piece of newsprint from his cotton shirt and handed it to Leona. She read it and carried it over to Tim, who readjusted the glasses on his nose.

  “That’s a letter to the editor, written last winter,” said July. “And since then, things have gotten worse. I want you to represent them.”

  “Leona and I are retired,” said Tim.

  “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” said July. “Like I said, I want to keep farming. After I’m no longer able, you or your children can have the farm. I don’t have any family.”

  “You don’t have any family at all?” asked Leona.

  “Well, that’s not exactly true, but the only relation I know about isn’t worth a nickel and isn’t worth leaving a nickel to. My neighbors are my family, and these particular neighbors need your help.”

  Tim Pikes looked at the newspaper clipping again. “Shotwell,” he said. Then he repeated the name, hoping to dislodge the appropriate memories. “I think I remember Shotwells. Yes. The parents, as I recall, were cruel to their children and worked them like animals—a predilection shared by many of the other local farmers.”

  Leona smiled and touched July’s arm. “I’m afraid Tim hasn’t retired some of his earlier habits. Almost anything sets him off. His newspaper usually provides fuel for the rest of the morning. The whole planet, it seems, is simply one endless human rights violation waiting for a legal remedy.”

  Undeterred, July continued. “I’ve thought about this a long time. These people need help. Their children, Seth and Grace, are about the age your children were when I first met you. They are in trouble and are likely to get into more. You need to do this for them, and for me.”

  Leona put down her drink. “When government agencies become entangled in this kind of financial skulduggery—and one is clearly involved here—it can go on for a long time. I’m afraid your neighbors would be better off with younger counsel.”

  “I’ve thought about this a long time,” repeated July.

  A man wearing a straw hat and carrying pruning shears walked in front of the porch and opened the screen door. “Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Pikes, but do you still want the dahlia bulbs put next to the roses?”

  “Yes,” said Leona. “And bring the boat around to the dock. If it doesn’t rain, we want to go for a ride this afternoon.”

  After the gardener closed the door and walked away, Tim turned to July. “I guess the most forthright answer is no. We’re retired. But give us all the information you have. We’ll make some calls and see what public resources are available. On that basis we can make recommendations. We’ll call you in a couple days.”

  “I appreciate it,” said July. “And I guess this would be the time to mention that Grahm Shotwell is against anyone representing him.”

  “Of course,” smiled Leona. “The first healthy reaction to overwhelming odds is to decide you don’t need help.”

  “On top of that, I don’t want them to know I have anything to do with this.”

  The old lawyer laughed, folded his glasses, and pushed them into his jacket pocket. “Of course not, July. Heaven forbid that anyone should know anything about you.”

  “I just don’t want them to know I’m involved,” said July. “Like I said, my neighbors are my family, but many of them might not be too thrilled to learn that.”

  “Foolishness,” said Leona. “You hide from people, July. It’s an irritating trait. I’m going to start lunch and we want you to stay.”

  “I’m afraid I have too much to do today, but I’ll be back.”

  When July came to the end of the driveway, he realized that talking with the Pikes about earlier times had temporarily interrupted his plans for the day. A somber mood had been building in him all morning and he could no longer ignore it.

  Instead of returning to his farm, he turned left.

  At the old mill he parked on the gravel shoulder and assembled the fishing rod beneath the front seat, forcing the form- fitted male end into the female and twisting until the guide eyes lined up. There was a purple lead-head already on the end of the line and he located a bobber and put it in his pocket.

  He climbed over the DO NOT TRESPASS sign on the gate and walked toward the stone building standing on the edge of the Heartland River. Inside, the massive grinding mill sat in the middle of an empty room, with bird nests in the rafters, that smelled of sun-warmed masonry. Pigeons flapped noisily through the open windows, raising dust. He went through the room and onto the wooden landing outside. At the south end, the waterwheel’s rotting oak slats disappeared into the river.

  An old davenport with exposed springs leaned against the stone wall, carried in by other fishermen. July sat on it, looked out over the water, and smelled the oily, fecund odor of decomposing plants and algae.

  The current ran in a unanimous direction near the middle. Leaves, small limbs, and clumps of moss floated along at a steady pace. A more democratic variety of currents, swirls, eddies, and back-drifts moved along the banks.

  A blue heron flew downriver, its dinosaur he
ad crooking over the water. As the thoughts July wanted to think rose slowly to the surface, he took the chain from around his neck and hung it on an overhead rafter beam. On the end of it dangled the silver ring his wife had made for him.

  They were not even twenty years old then, still children—or at least it seemed like that now. Looking at the ring helped focus his attention, leading him into the place he needed to go.

  He had loved her completely, without abandon, and after three thieves broke into their Iowa farmhouse one night and killed her, he had continued to love her. He had never gotten over her and he had never tried to get over her. She had introduced him to something that did not go away after she was gone.

  And that he needed to think about.

  He clipped the bobber over the monofilament and slid it five or six feet above the jig, then lay the pole down. He could throw out the line if someone came along.

  Where did the real value of life come from? As a child he believed it came from inside him, a by-product of the human machine. Some days seemed worth living and others did not, depending on how he felt, and how he felt depended on the machine inside him. He had been born as a living organism with the capacity to make certain chemicals, and when those chemicals were produced, his experiences had value.

  As he grew older, his attitude changed. Things outside him became more important than his machinery’s chemical laboratory. Other people, his wife, gave value to his life. She was worthwhile, and if at that time he had been asked where his value came from, he would have pointed to her. The machinery inside him was useless in providing worthwhile feelings without her.

  Then, several years after her death, he changed his mind again. He realized that beyond his sorrow, in front of his memories, the same value she had once provided for him was still available. It hadn’t gone away, even though she had. They had loved each other and that love was somehow still active. He could feel it, even though she was no longer there. Her influence had changed everything, permanently.

  He had rediscovered their love in his neighbors. He felt it when he watched Leona and Tim Pikes struggle to earn law degrees after their failure on the farm. He felt it when Grahm walked toward the microphone at American Milk’s annual meeting. He felt it when Jacob pounded on his door in the middle of the night and wanted to talk about Winnie. He felt it when Winnie looked in the plastic bag and ran off to find mushrooms. He felt it when Gail wrote her first song and played it for him. He felt it when Wade said he wanted to move away from his parents’ farm to be closer to Olivia. He felt it now as he listened for over an hour to the sound of moving water, as mile after mile of liquid life flowed by the abandoned mill. He needed to feel it, because without it there was no value.