by Lisa Samson
Claudius cleared his throat, pinched his lip. “Ever think about looking up some of your old friends, May-May? Probably some folks wondering what’s become of you.”
She waved that away. “Oh, I can hear them now. ‘It’s time to move on, May. I mean, you can’t wallow in this forever. And have you gotten counseling? Maybe a psychiatrist could help you process.’”
“Process?” he asked.
“I hate words like that. As if you follow ten or twenty steps and Bingo! You’re better! Is it really that easy?”
He didn’t know. He doubted it, but he just couldn’t say. He shook his head. “They might surprise you is all I’m saying.”
She stood up. “But smelling squash casserole and cinnamon apples, surely that’s a sort of therapy, isn’t it? And knowing which tree they came from, which patch of dirt they sprang out of ? Knowing, I mean, like really knowing they came from a little seed with everything inside it would need to become a plant that would bear fruit? Surely that reminder is enough to tell me life goes on!” Her voice rose slightly with each word, and gained in intensity too.
He sighed deep down where she couldn’t hear. He thought she was right, but he just didn’t know. What did Alexander Dumas ever say about this sort of thing? Nothing, that’s what. And the chickens, if they knew, weren’t uttering a word.
After dinner she knelt down in front of a basket of yarn his mother had collected over the years, leftover yarn from a lifetime of knitting scarves and sweaters. Oh, she’d knit some beauties that Claudius only wore on Sundays to church.
May held up the basket. “Can I use this?”
“Be glad if you did. Just can’t bring myself to throw that sort of thing out. Needles are in the bottom there.”
She pulled out a set. “I only know how to knit and purl.”
“Two more stitches than I know!”
He watched her cast onto the needle, then slowly begin. The repetitive motion seemed to soothe her despite the uneven stitches.
Then, “Ugh! Look how terrible this is.”
“I like it.” He offered nothing more for several minutes, then said, “Some of the most imperfect fruit is the sweetest.”
He’d said it again and again as they examined his harvest, saving the more perfect specimens for the grocery-store denizens of Lexington. The people in Beattyville weren’t so picky. They knew better.
“You should come into town with me sometime, May-May.”
“Maybe I should just try getting the mail first.”
“Well, all right, then. You can walk down to the road with me tomorrow.”
“That would be a good start.”
“You ready?” Claudius asked May as they stood at the top of the driveway wearing their heaviest sweaters.
She nodded, looking like she was about to cry, her cheeks blotched, her lips white.
Oh Lord, he thought, offering up that simple prayer. This was teaching him so much, particularly, what comes so easy for some people doesn’t come easily for others.
—I’m so sheltered. I’m an old man who doesn’t know people.
He took her hand. “Wanna get it over with quickly, or just take our time?”
“Let’s take our time.” She squeezed, tightening their grip to one another.
“Now, then …”
They stepped forward, hand in hand, the gravel road looking longer than it ever had before, the downward path steeper too. “You all right?” he asked.
She laughed. “We just started, Claudius.”
He laughed too.
“What was it like growing up for you?” she asked. “In case you’re wondering, I’m trying to get my mind off things.”
He liked her directness. At least with May you didn’t have to guess.
“Well, you can imagine a patchwork quilt like me wouldn’t be much accepted in these parts. I got beat up so much in the first grade Mother brought me home and gave me an education here for a time.”
“So you must have trouble going down this driveway too.”
He looked up and realized he needed to trim that beech tree a little. “Not anymore. Those kids grew up, and I didn’t leave, so I guess they figured I was here to stay and I wasn’t going to bother nobody.”
“That’s sad.”
He’d never really thought so. He had everything he ever needed on his farm.
“And I have my church. They’ve always accepted me. Church should do that.”
“It should. It doesn’t always, though.”
“Maybe I just got lucky.”
“Father Isaac, in Rwanda, he had a good parish there. But most of them died. One of his deacons was Hutu, and he turned into one of the murderers. Later, I saw him with the gang who came through every so often. Father Isaac didn’t live to see it, though, and I’m glad. It would have broken his heart. He thought the man escaped into Burundi.”
“I can’t imagine it.”
“Who can? So religion sure did fail in that country, if it didn’t keep people from butchering their neighbors.”
“People will kill others when they’re scared and think God’s fine with it. I’ve at least read enough to know that.”
“I never much liked war, Claudius, but now I hate it.”
“Here we are!” He touched the mailbox. “Go ahead and open it, May-May!”
She reached out, and as she did, he thought about mailboxes, and this large network of paper veins that holds people together. Lots of people. People you don’t know, like the folks who do replacement windows or siding, and people you’re more connected to, like the billing department of the utilities company, or best of all, a friend or relative.
He saw a familiar scrawl of handwriting on a letter-size envelope. Eli always did write like you’d imagine a spider would if able to hold onto a pen.
“Look, from Eli!” She handed him the envelope, then reached in for the rest of the mail. “How’s he doing?”
Claudius hadn’t told her about the wedding and all. “I’ll tell you over a glass of tea.”
“Here you go.”
But when he tried to take it from her, she held on.
He laughed. “May-May, what are you doing?”
“Can I carry it up the hill, then?”
“’Course you can.”
“What was the best letter you ever got?” May asked as they began the climb back up the drive toward the house.
“From my Aunt Cecily,” Claudius said promptly. “Said she was coming from West Virginia and bringing me a puppy from her dog, Peevy. First German shepherd I ever had. And have always had them since.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight. What about you? What was your best letter?”
“Hard to say. Let me think for a second.”
Well, he wasn’t going anywhere special. She could take all the time she needed.
Scout and Girlfriend found them halfway up the drive and made the second part of the trek with them. He knew dogs were dogs, and he never quite understood why people had to think of them as children when obviously there was a world of difference. But he had to admit he liked dogs better, for the most part. Maybe the good Lord was right in seeing fit to keep him plowing and planting.
“Mine was a letter from my father. He went to present a paper at a conference, and I was supposed to go with him and my mother, but I got strep throat and couldn’t go. He said all sorts of nice things, how much he missed me, how much better it would have been with me there. It was like a paper hug.”
They chattered, step by step.
“And here we are at the door!” he said.
May pulled down the striped glasses, set them on the counter of the hoosier as Claudius pulled the tea pitcher from the refrigerator.
“How old is that fridge?” she asked.
“1955!”
“Almost forty years old? Oh, my goodness.” She pulled an ice cube tray out of the freezer door inside the refrigerator. The first time she saw the aluminum contraption, she thought it was
one of the strangest things she’d ever seen and told him so.
She grabbed the lever running down the middle of the tray and pulled. The grids shifted, and the cubes were dislodged from the side. She put several into the glasses, dumped the rest into a bowl inside the freezer, then refilled the tray.
“So anyway, about Eli,” he said, sitting down at his usual place at the side of the table.
She joined him, taking a sip of tea, then pulling over her knitting. The scarf was going to be warm at least. He smiled. Couldn’t help himself. How wonderful to have somebody muscle through such a project on his behalf. Not that she’d muttered one word that it was going to be his Christmas present. He just knew.
“He’s still in the service. He’s a sniper now.” Her eyes widened. “Wow. He must be a really good shot.”
“And there’s something else you might find interesting.”
“Hmm?”
“He’s married now.”
“Oh?”
Well, good. She didn’t look that upset. Maybe he’d only thought there was more to their friendship.
“Yep. Before he left. Right after you went to Rwanda. He’s got a little girl now. She was born last February. Cute little thing. Name’s Callie.”
“I’ll bet your cousin is happy to be a granny.” The needles clicked away.
“Oh, Sassy dotes on her like crazy.”
“What’s his wife’s name?”
“Janey. She’s disappeared though.”
“So, the wedding was … shotgun?”
He nodded and took another sip. “Janey’s the mayor’s daughter.”
“Wow.”
“Into some bad drugs, so they say.”
“That’s sad.”
“So Sassy’s raising her. She’s a good woman.”
“I’d like to meet her sometime.”
Now that was good to hear. Maybe he could start inviting a few ladies to the farm. Maybe that would be a good next step.
The rest of the day May seemed a little quiet. Bundled in a quilt, she sat outside on her lawn chair until it was time to cook dinner.
They sat in the living room later, May knitting, Claudius looking through a seed catalog once again. So many possibilities.
“You seem a little troubled,” he said, leaving her room to wiggle out of talking about it.
“I was just thinking about Eli. He seems like a decent enough person. I’m sad things worked out like they did. I’m sad for their daughter mostly, I guess.”
“Sassy’s a good woman, though, May-May. Callie’ll know a lot of love, good strong love, for the rest of her life.”
“Yeah. That is a good thing, Claudius. It still makes me sad, though.”
Claudius couldn’t blame her. It made him sad too.
• 10 •
They wintered on the farm, huddled around the woodstove at night, taking hot water bottles to their beds, and sleeping in the way only a cool room provides. Well, yes, a cold room. May came into the kitchen one morning with the photo of Claudius’s mother in her hand. “Poor Violet there in her summer housedress and apron looks positively blue, and I’m sure those roses she holds are frozen. Let’s put her up on the cookbook shelf until spring comes.”
“That’s a fine idea. She’d get a kick out of you, May-May.”
Being around May made him wonder why he’d been so content to stay on the farm all his life. It was interesting to see a woman move about the kitchen, sidestepping from counter to stove, that movement so feminine, so fascinating. Fact was, he knew almost nothing about women. They liked to wear hats to church. He knew that. And Ruth just didn’t count any. She was more than a woman; she was a force of nature.
Oh, he and Ruthie did go way back. Her daddy’s place bordered the back of Borne’s Last Chance. They played along the creek during the summers, building little villages out of stones and sticks and string, making furniture and tiny cars.
Sometimes she’d come back to the house with him for lunch. His mother liked Ruthie. Showed her how to sew, and they’d sit up in May-May’s room for hours pinning scraps of fabric together to somehow form a three-dimensional garment. He had to admire that sort of know-how. Seemed women could see the dimensions in things he just couldn’t.
From the time he was five years old, he figured he’d someday marry Ruthie. She could punch harder than any boy in their Sunday school class, and he liked that about her. Shame Ruthie never figured it that way. But he’d never let on about his plans, and then it was just too late. She’d met Jordy, and Claudius would have never come in the way of love like that.
When Jordy died and Ruthie was only nineteen, he was the one to hold her as she cried. He had to admit, he’d been hopeful once again. Soon enough, however, he realized there was room for only one love in Ruthie’s life. And there was room for only one in his. Try as he might to explain his bachelorhood otherwise, if he was honest, there it sat.
Violet tried to introduce him to suitable young women.
Lordymercy, how that woman tried! He gave it his best shot, but never could overcome his overall shyness. That’s what his mother always called it, “his overall shyness.” And then, Ruthie. She was something! How could a fellow move on from a woman like that?
May began setting their places for breakfast. Just some oatmeal. So, a bowl and a spoon. “You really think your mother would have liked me?”
“Yes. Mother would have cried with you, and then she’d have taken you bowling or something.”
May laughed. “Your mother liked to bowl?”
“More than just about anything.” He ladled the porridge into the bowls. “I’m sorry I can’t be more to you, May-May.”
“You’re all I need right now, Claudius.”
They sat down; he said grace, thinking maybe it might be too soon to invite Sassy over.
The Christmas season arrived. May’s parents sent her a card and begged her to come home for Christmas.
“I can’t leave here,” she cried, throwing her head down on her forearm as they sat at the kitchen table one evening. “I can’t, Claudius.”
He didn’t need to remind her how much her absence hurt her parents, who made the trip as often as they could. But with her mother’s health, it wasn’t as much as they’d wish.
“I know. But paying them a visit … maybe it would be a good idea.”
“I’m not ready!” she practically wailed. Seemed she wanted nothing to do with her old life before they met, before Rwanda.
And May-May was an adult. He was here to help her heal, not pry, not take over her life.
Christmas morning she was thrilled with the rolling pin he’d crafted himself as well as a cutting board made of walnut, beech, and maple, each piece rubbed until it shone.
“I was wondering how you’d kept yourself occupied in the barn so much during the day!” she cried, hugging him for the first time.
“It was fun. I liked having a good excuse to do some woodworking. I used to do it a lot more, you know.”
“Apple dumplings!” she hollered. “I’ll make us some!”
“Just the ticket. I’ll get some apples out of the cellar.”
“Okay,” she said once the apples, four of them, were sitting in a bowl on the kitchen table. “Don’t you do a thing. Just sit with me.”
“I have an idea.”
He shuffled into his bedroom. He hadn’t done this since his mother died, and it had been one of the three or four rock-hard Christmas traditions in his family. It would have seemed silly to carry it on by himself, just he and old Scout. Just plain silly. But not anymore. He pulled a book down from the shelf over his bed, the shelf his dad put up when he was about five years old. The room hadn’t changed much. New curtains and bedspreads at various intervals. But the furniture remained the same, and in the same arrangement. He figured he had to move his crops around so much, let the furniture stay put. Nothing wrong with that.
Sitting down at the kitchen chair, he opened the book and read aloud, “ ‘Marley was d
ead, to begin with.’”
“Wonderful! A Christmas Carol and apple dumplings.”
“Too bad I didn’t shoot us a goose, May-May.”
Girlfriend and Scout dropped down for a snooze by the woodstove in the corner.
As he read, a light snow began to fall. It thickened gradually. The temperature dropped, and large flakes like tumbling Queen Anne’s lace turned to something finer and more delicate, pinging lightly against the panes of glass.
He looked up from his pages every so often, watching May work, listening to his own voice. With each quarter hour that passed, with the increase of snow upon the grass and the tin roofs, the trees and the shrubs, her shoulders seemed to relax a little more.
She felt safe, he realized. Surrounded by the snow, his voice, the warmth of the stove. He did too.
The winter progressed, the chill settling in over the hills and between the trees. The chickens huddled in their nesting boxes at night, and Claudius explained over and over again to May that they were fine.
“God made animals to live outside, May-May.”
But every night, May would sneak out and turn on the warming lamp just in case.
February came and went, May’s father writing frequently, explaining how hard the cold seemed to be on Elisabeth.
But in March they prepared for the first visit in months.
“I want them to think I’m doing great, Claudius. That I’m choosing to stay here now and help you on the farm.”
May scrubbed the place, Claudius tidied the winter lawn, they prepared a coconut custard pie and percolated coffee. They set the table with Violet’s fine china and waited, both dressed in their best clothing.
Claudius wore his church suit, and May wore a bright green dress Sister Ruth brought her from the thrift store. Her hair just brushed the tops of her shoulders now and had grown back thick, but with a duller sheen than he recalled. And of course the strands of white, now longer, wiry and prone to do their own thing, were a recent development too.
May played the part well, sunny and chatty. She chatted more in that time than she normally did in the course of a week. So much to say about the crops, the animals, the seasons, the sun, the wind, the rain. So very much to say.