Boondocks Fantasy

by Jean Rabe

  I may as well not have been there. She didn’t even glance my way. She stepped forward and tucked her small hand into the Lake Person’s giant paw. Her eyes shone with starlight . . . but there were no stars overhead. The fog was too thick. The instant she touched him, the music stopped, and everything turned quiet.

  “Katharine!” screamed Grandma Hels.

  Kate ignored her too—or maybe she couldn’t hear. I don’t know. All I know is that at that moment, the woman I loved stepped forward and went with the antlered man. Onto the water, not into it. She stepped across the surface of Maple Lake as if it were solid rock. I struggled up off the ground, ran into the water, and caught my breath—it was freezing cold, as if this were deep winter and not springtime.

  DO NOT FOLLOW, said the Voice.

  Like hell, I thought. I could still see them, though the fog was closing around their heels. I sloshed out into the water, up to my knees, then my waist. The cold was horrible, worse than anything I’d ever felt. I slowed, shivering, then stopped.

  “No! Not her!” Helen was shouting. “Take me instead!”

  I opened my mouth to call out too, but my voice wouldn’t come. I could barely breathe.

  And then they were gone, into the mist, and the water’s warmth returned, and I was standing alone in the lake, in the night and fog.

  Certain words just hang in the air, unsaid.

  Like come back.

  They dragged the lake. They searched the woods for days. The news was everywhere—even the big American 24-hour networks, because Kate was pretty and white, though for them I was simply “Erica Tilson, Friend.” The Royal Canadian Mounted Police got involved, and Helen and I became persons of interest. They never charged us with anything, but people said all sorts of terrible things about me online. Murdering lesbo, and worse. I barely cared about that; nothing could hurt me more than what happened that night on the lake.

  No one found Kate, of course. She wasn’t there to find. The case went cold, and the news and the Internet saw something shiny else and moved on. Strangers seldom recognize me any more.

  It’s been four years now. I stayed in our apartment, even though it feels too big, too empty. I still work in the same place; it’s OK now that my coworkers have stopped giving me sympathetic glances when they think I’m not looking. And at least once a week, walking around Toronto, I pass a girl on the street and my heart squeezes tight and I can’t breathe and I have to turn and look again—but it’s not her. Never is.

  I can’t go near a bonfire without starting to shake.

  And every weekend that I can manage it, I get in my car—our car, damn it—and head out of town, up 35 to King’s 118, all the way up to Maple Lake. I drive up the dirt road, the tree branches scraping against the roof of the car, and onto the gravel drive. There’s the cottage, and Helen waiting. She’s cleaned the place up. What happened that night cured her of her obsession. There are a few elves left, and the big dragon, but they’re decorations now, not talismans. We don’t want the Lake People to stay away.

  She hugs me. We don’t cry, not anymore. Not because we’re not sad; we just don’t have any tears left. She fires up the grill, and we eat burgers and drink wine and share strawberries I buy on the way. We don’t talk much, but we don’t have to. Certainly neither of us says what’s on our minds: maybe this time, she’ll come with them.

  Then we watch the sunset, and wait for the fog to mantle the water and the music to begin.

  CAT PEOPLE

  Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Mickey Zucker Reichert is a pediatrician, parent, bird wrangler, goat roper, dog trainer, cat herder, horse rider, and fish feeder, who learned (the hard way) not to let macaws remove contact lenses. She is the author of two dozen novels and fifty-some short stories. Her other claims to fame are that she has performed brain surgery and her parents really are rocket scientists.

  Kent Austin sat with his wife Judy on the tired old sofa in their basement family room. Law &Order filled the television screen, the original, not one of the assortment of spin-offs that had never managed to capture either of their interests. A large woman with close-cropped blonde hair, Judy sprawled in her comfortable robe, her feet in Kent’s lap. She worked on crossword puzzles as she watched the show.

  A husky six-footer with salt-and-pepper hair, Kent raised his head to peer out the casement window. The winter night was dark, broken only by a spray of stars and the glare from the distant security light installed by the county. He had checked on their animals two hours earlier. He had led their two cows into the barn, bedding them down on fresh straw in the largest stall. The goats currently stayed in the middle stall, two mothers and three infants nestled under the red heat lamp. The geese, a handsome trio of Africans purchased from a neighbor, had seemed cold also this February evening, so he had locked them into the last stall. The barn cat had slipped beneath the mound of hay to suckle her week-old kittens among the pallets.

  Under the lean of the barn, the chickens had scratched their pen into mud, searching for bugs that would not show up for another month. They laid their brown eggs behind the feeder, ignoring the lovely nesting boxes that Judy had painted and smoothed and lined with spun cotton and straw.

  Kent absently massaged one of Judy’s feet, and she sighed contentedly. Currently in their early fifties, they had raised their two children and sent both out into the world. They now chased a long-held dream, that they could retire early and put their efforts into farming the forty acres they had purchased in rural Iowa. So far, they had only the barn, a handful of animals, and a dream. Eventually, they would purchase a tractor, a used sickle mower, and an even more used baler so their own back ten could become an alfalfa field and they would no longer need to purchase the hay that fed their stock. Eventually, the geese would procreate. The Austins intended to inseminate the cows to provide calves and stimulate the production of milk. The chickens would produce enough eggs to sell at small, friendly markets; and when the goat herd grew large enough, they could also sell the kids and culls.

  Kent and Judy had discussed their fantasy of farm living for so long it had become almost clichéd. Now, they were poised on the brink of actually discussing the time when they could finally quit their nine-to-five jobs and work on the property full time. Together.

  The lights in the family room flickered. This far from the central energy grid, brownouts were common. At first, Kent thought nothing of it. Then it recurred, and the television picture wavered as well. It seemed odd, unlike anything they had experienced before. The lights blinked off and on repeatedly, in a strange chaotic pattern, the sort of thing better suited to a horror movie than a natural disruption of a power line. Then the dog started barking with the force he usually reserved for the presence of skunks and raccoons just outside his kennel.

  Kent leaped off the couch and ran upstairs.

  “What’s wrong?” Judy asked, her voice barely carrying to him on the main floor.

  Kent looked out the back window. Nothing seemed amiss, except for a fluttering orange glow that seemed to come from the south side of the property. Opening the back door, he ran out onto the porch, barely noticing the snow leaching through his socks. Flames engulfed the barn that, only two hours earlier, had seemed so still and peaceful. Gouts of flame shot toward the sky, trailing tarry smoke. Kent’s heart rate soared, and his breath caught in his throat.

  Kent spun back toward the house, almost colliding with Judy, now racing through the back door. “What is it?” she said, then stopped. A small scream of horror escaped her.

  “Call 911,” Kent said, as calmly as possible. Without thinking, he ran toward the flaming barn.

  “Be careful!” Judy hollered, disappearing back inside the house.

  Kent heard her only as a noise, no more coherent than the barking dog. “Oh my God. Oh . . . my . . . God!” As he drew nearer, the heat smacked him like a wall, and the full extent of the fire grew apparent. It crackled and popped, consuming the barn like a massive, starving beas
t. “Oh my God.” Kent found himself incapable of other speech. Without any clear idea of what he planned to do, he plunged toward the barn.

  Something underfoot tripped him. Kent stumbled, overbalanced, then he hit the ground hard enough to spike pain through his spine. The barn cat that Judy had named Chloe cried plaintively into his face, a tiny orange kitten dangling from her jaws.

  Without thinking, Kent snatched the kitten and thrust it into the front pouch of his hooded sweatshirt. The cat charged toward the building, stopped, looked back at him, and howled with all the pain and fury of the universe.

  The northeast door was not yet engulfed. The fire had clearly started in the stalls or the chicken coop. Most probably, the goats had knocked their heat lamp onto a pile of straw. The animals in the stalls had taken the brunt of the damage, and it seemed unlikely Kent could save any of them. Nothing else inside mattered. He hesitated.

  Chloe hooked Kent’s ankle through the sock, driving her claws deep into his flesh. Spurred by the pain, he pulled open the door. The cat ran inside, beneath the roiling smoke. Drawn by the sudden influx of air, flames shot toward them. Every muscle in Kent’s body screamed for him to escape. He knew he should run home and wait for the volunteer firemen to handle the situation. But despite his better judgment, Kent stumbled into the barn, immediately lost in the smoke that stung his eyes. He stumbled forward blindly, sucking in acrid air that dried his mouth instantly and made his face feel aflame. Realizing he had made a dangerous mistake, he tried to find the door. It seemed to have disappeared. He had no idea which way to go.

  Kent took a step. His foot came down on something hard, and his ankle twisted painfully. He scrabbled for balance and caught something hot and metallic, burning his fingers. Jerking away, he lost his balance fully and wound up on the concrete floor. He gasped in a lungful of air, only then remembering that heat rises. Keeping his head low, he crawled forward, guided by something that touched his hand and moved repeatedly. Eventually, hay stabbed his forehead and he felt wooden slats beneath his fingers. I’m at the hay pile. It seemed a crazy place to go. Nothing would burn faster than dried grass.

  A furry object, surely Chloe, brushed his hand, then disappeared into a hole. An instant later, something tiny writhed against his fingers. A kitten. Kent understood. The mother cat had brought him here to save her litter. If he took possession of them, perhaps she might lead them all to safety.

  Kent placed the kitten in his pocket with the first one, and then reached beneath the pallet. His hand fell on a mass of tiny, squirming creatures. One by one, he loaded them into his pouch pocket. Then, finding no more, he sat back on his haunches. “That’s all of them, Chloe.” His voice emerged scratchy, weak. His mouth felt as dry as pulverized bone. “Get us out of here!”

  As if in answer, the cat let out a loud meow. Kent scrambled toward it on hands and knees. Smoke funneled deep into his lungs. He coughed wildly, struggling to find something breathable as the taste of ash and soot became his only noticeable sensation. The concrete beneath his palms and knees grew unbearably hot. He crawled faster, following the cat’s noises, until he saw flashing blue and red lights. At the door, men seized him, dragging him away from the fire. His eyes felt singed, his skin burned, his lungs gasped for air, beyond his control.

  A mask was clapped to his face, and he felt sweet, moist oxygen rush into his mouth and nose. He breathed deeply, savoring the feel of its cool damp as much as the air itself. He had never felt as grateful for winter’s chill as he did at that moment.

  Kent sat where they had bundled him on the seat of a fire truck. At least three other vehicles were parked on the grass and gravel driveway, their hoses spurting, sirens blaring.

  Judy clambered up beside Kent. “Are you all right?”

  Kent removed the mask. “I’m fine, honey. Just fine.” He realized he spoke the truth. Just a few moments in the fresh air, a bit of oxygen, and he felt nearly normal again.

  “Good.” Judy slapped him. “What a stupid thing to do. You could have been killed! What was in that barn worth killing yourself for?”

  Kent blinked. Despite the heat and smoke, despite the panic of blindness and pain, he had never truly considered the possibility that he might die. “These?” He pulled two kittens from his sweatshirt pocket.

  They squirmed and stretched, making tiny noises. Aside from the heads, clearly feline, they looked more like mice than cats. One had both eyes open, while the other had only one. Cobwebs clung to their whiskers.

  Judy melted. “Awwwww.” Gently, she took them from his fist and examined them. One was mostly jet black, the other a ginger tabby.

  With a meow of protest, Chloe sprang to the seat of the fire truck, sniffing over the kittens and purring slightly.

  Judy lifted up the edge of her jacket to make a pouch and placed them inside. When she finished, Kent held two more kittens, one gray and another black with white markings. She added those to the others. The last two were a gray and white and another orange tabby. Judy put them all together. “Is that everyone?”

  Kent nodded. The chill had finally reached him. His socks had turned black, and he had left sooty prints in the snow. Their prior soaking had probably rescued his toes.

  “I’m going to take these inside and find them a soft, safe box.” Judy started toward the house. Chloe hopped down and trotted after her, meowing all the way.

  A fireman draped a coat over Kent’s shoulders. “We’ll get you to the hospital, sir.”

  Kent let out one more cough. He felt a bit sore around the mouth and throat. Ashes coated his hands and knees. His ankle throbbed slightly, and his burned fingers stung. Otherwise he felt fine. “No, thank you. I’m all right.”

  The fireman’s face pinched. “Are you sure? You really should go. For safety’s sake.”

  “I’m fine,” Kent insisted. “Can you save the barn?”

  The fireman shook his head. “Not a chance. It’s a total loss.”

  Tears stung Kent’s eyes. He and Judy had bonded with their animals. The cows, Daisy and Delilah, had cost them over a thousand dollars each. They had bought the geese, chickens, and goats for considerably less. Instead, he had risked his life for a freebie barn cat and its week-old kittens. “I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble. We have animals on the south side of the barn. If there’s any chance . . .”

  The fireman put his hand on Kent’s shoulder. “We’ll try our best, but I’ll be honest. The fire clearly started there. I don’t think anything survived.”

  Kent nodded and wearily clambered from the truck.

  Kent waited until after dinner the next evening to discuss the situation with his wife. They sat in the living room, he in his favorite La-Z-Boy, Judy on the matching loveseat. Chloe perched on her lap, purring loudly, the kittens in a blanket-lined basket beside the coffee table. They lay in a fuzzy heap, emitting little grunts and mewing sounds as they twitched and rolled in their sleep.

  Kent let his head flop back on the rest. “We’re not covered.”

  Judy stared. “What? What do you mean ‘We’re not covered’? They take the premium directly from the account every month. Like clockwork.”

  Kent knew she spoke the truth. “We hadn’t updated in a while. Not since before we built the barn.”

  Judy’s face went pale. “No.” She looked at the ceiling. “Don’t tell me. The shed, that’s covered.”

  Kent only nodded, not caring if she saw. On the north side, the shed had come with the property, a poorly constructed, decaying piece of junk with multiple holes in the ceiling. They had not used it in years. “I’m afraid so.” He buried his face in his hands, suddenly feeling old and tired. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

  “So if the house had burned down?”

  “We’d be covered.”

  “The shed?”

  “Covered.”

  Judy said nothing more.

  The silence got to Kent. He finally dared to glance at his wife, expecting a deserved explosion. Instead, he disc
overed her softly crying. Leaping to his feet, he rushed to kneel in front of her and clasp her in his arms. “I’m so sorry. Please, what can I do to make it better?” They formed a tent over the cat, which yawned, stretched, and jumped to the floor. Chloe hopped into the basket, greeted by tiny mews of welcome.

  For several moments, husband and wife clung to one another, Kent feeling helpless and foolish. They had purchased the insurance at the same time as the acreage. Year after year, they had paid the premiums and believed themselves fully covered. It had simply not occurred to him to update as the years went by, while the structure and function of the property had changed from home to farm. “They’ll cover the personal property we had stored in the barn: my tools, the lawnmower, the spare lumber in the loft. Also the cleanup. But the barn itself, the animals, the hay and feed.” Kent shook his head. “Nothing considered farm-related.” It seemed insane, especially since the insurance company even had “farm” in its name.

  Judy sighed deeply. Gently disengaging from Kent’s grip, she sat up and wiped her eyes. She had a strong, rational side that Kent had always appreciated. “The dream is over.”

  “No.” Kent refused to accept that possibility. They had shared it too long, justified difficult bosses and long hours with the image of that one perfect future. A day had to come when they could retire onto the farm, raise their own food, and make enough on the side to live out their days in reasonable comfort and still leave something for their grandchildren. “Just delayed a few years.” A decade at least. Kent refused to say those words aloud.

  But Judy knew. Practical to a fault, she had to realize that a barn as nice as the one they had had would cost $25,000, at least. They could live on nothing but ramen and chicken hindquarters, and it would still take many years to put away that much. The loss of the animals, hay, and feed pushed it up to $30,000. And, by the time they saved enough, inflation might nudge the cost upward another five to ten thousand.