by Lisa Samson
“Then you’ll take more pictures to replace them. You can’t just keep that camera around with no more pictures left.”
“It just seems so permanent a decision.”
Ruth laughed and pulled up another screen. “See here? This will help you organize your pictures, and someday you can edit them.”
“Like how?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Brother Ben does great stuff with his. Special effects, words, and when the skin is too dark and the shirt is too white, he can balance it out.”
May thought of all her hours in the darkroom, the quiet there, the dim peacefulness of dodging and burning. “Well, there’s something to be said for developing photos without all those chemicals, I guess.”
“Well, you’re all set.” She kissed May’s cheek. “See you tomorrow, honey.”
May scrolled through her photos again and again and again. What a pretty little farm. How did she get the pictures off of the computer, though?
One step at a time, May-May. It was as if Claudius whispered the words right into her ear.
• 10 •
By mid-October the frost still hadn’t arrived, but she was ready for it. A local nursery had delivered a load of compost to put around the bottom of the rosebushes, and she’d raked leaves over there to dump inside the chicken-wire cylinders, providing a nice cozy winter coat for the roses.
Believe it or not, she looked forward to raking the leaves. The smell was worth all that work. The breathlessness. The sweat. Reminded her of those times after school when the kids in her neighborhood would get together for a game of SPUD, everyone out of breath and laughing, finally unzipping their jackets and throwing themselves into the leaves on the ground.
May was just closing the door on the yard around the chicken coop when Glen pulled up in the drive, but in his pickup, not his mail truck. He reached into the back and lifted out a large cardboard box. Little yips and yelps squeaked from inside.
May ran over. “What do you have there?”
“A couple of charity cases I’m hoping you’ll take in.” He opened the lid, and two heads popped up. “May, let me introduce you to the front-running contestants in this year’s world’s ugliest dog contest. Or they should be. They have one every year, you know.”
“I had no idea.”
And yes, they were the ugliest dogs she’d ever seen. “Oh. Wow.” She tightened the knot on the gray bandana she had tied around her hair.
He cocked an eyebrow. “They’re a mixture of Chinese crested hairless and dachshund.”
“They’re so little. Have you asked anybody else to take them in?”
“Pretty much everybody.”
May crossed her arms.
“I know you like bigger dogs. Scout is a hard act to follow,” Glen said. “Girlfriend, too, although she wasn’t big. Just had a big heart. And believe me, I know dogs. Too well!”
“Occupational hazard.”
But May’s heart melted when they both rose up, placing their sleek front paws on the edge of the box. Little fur covered their wiry bodies, more of a grayish-brown down, but from their ears and around their heads sprouted longer, blondish hair, almost like a monk’s tonsure. Their eyes shone like dachshunds’, Coca-Cola brown shot through with sunshine, and their noses were longer.
He touched the head of one. “This is the bitch.” Her coat, if you could call it that, was a warmer shade than that of the other dog. “And this is the male.”
May picked up the girl first, to honor Girlfriend. She was warm and wiggly and snuggled into May’s jacket. “Sweetie. That’s your name.” Then she picked up the other dog. He passed gas. “Oh my!”
Glen waved his hand in the air. “Ugh! That’s nasty!”
“You’re Stinky, then. Sweetie and Stinky.” She cocked an eyebrow at Glen. “All right, call me a sucker, but I’ll take them.”
“Perfect!” Glen reached into the back of the truck. “Gotta get to work, May. Brought you a bag of dog food too.”
“Thanks.”
He carried the food and Stinky around back, and she let him into the kitchen, Sweetie in her arms straining to get down.
Glen whistled long and low, his gaze spanning the room. “This is like stepping back in time.”
“I know. I love it.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I do too. I like the stars on the cabinets.”
“Thanks.” May had made them a few Christmases ago and hadn’t taken them down yet.
The dogs skittered around the kitchen, their toenails clicking on the old linoleum, sniffing at everything. She laughed, couldn’t help it. “They’re as funny as the goat!”
“Crazier, that’s for sure.” He nodded. “Okay, I’d better get. See ya, May.”
“Thanks, Glen. I appreciate it.”
“No, thank you for taking them. I just knew you loved dogs. Now, you know they aren’t going to be able to be left outside for long when it gets cold.”
“Stands to reason.”
She watched from the front door as he walked to his car. “Glen!”
He turned.
“Thank you. I mean it. I know what you’re doing. Or at least trying to do.”
Lifting his hand in a wave, he said, “Here’s hoping.”
After he left, May poured food in their bowls, set out water, and fixed a pot of coffee. She watched those two crazies all morning as they zipped around the bungalow, up and down on furniture, still sniffing up a storm. And May had the time of her life.
So how sad was it that “the time of her life” had been reduced to that? And it got worse. For the next two weeks she knitted Sweetie and Stinky sweaters for the winter. And truthfully, it was already a little cool in the house. At least sixty degrees. Gray and navy blue for Stinky. Gray and red for Sweetie. She looked like one of those weird sock monkeys when May tried it on her. Maybe the winter wouldn’t be quite so bad.
October 26, 2003
Dear Eli,
Well, I’ve got two dogs now. Sweetie and Stinky. They’re uglier than a pile of worms, but I like having them around the house.
I’ve read about your case a little more. Sister Ruth brought me some copies of newspaper articles. She also told me that the family of the people you killed don’t want you to die because they figure if you want to die, then you don’t deserve that out. Sister Ruth said your mom wants me to try to talk you into appealing, so that’s why I told you about that. I can at least say I tried. Maybe you’ll just decide to live on in misery for their sake. Then you’ll still be alive and I’ll have done my job and Sassy will be satisfied.
Sister Ruth, by the way, takes care of me in many ways, and has ever since Claudius died. I guess I am somewhat of a hermit, though I’d never use that term exactly. Recluse is my title of choice. Anyway, she brings me supplies from Beattyville, groceries and whatnot, and she delivers the flowers from the farm to the market.
My father sent me a camera for my birthday, and I bought a laptop to download the pictures onto, but I have no way of getting prints or I’d send you’d some so you could see this pretty place. And Stinky and Sweetie might make you laugh like they make me laugh.
Regarding your theological questions, I have no idea. I asked Sister Ruth about it, and she says since you all are Baptists you believe in eternal security, whatever that phrase means. I asked her to show me all this in the Bible, but every time she’s here I never remember to get out Claudius’s old Bible. Anyway, I’d just go with what you’ve been taught. I don’t think Catholics take that view, but don’t quote me on that. Sister Ruth says Methodists don’t think that way either. Presbyterians do. To be honest, she’s confusing the dickens out of me. And all that to say, I’m no help. I have to wonder about the whole thing (Christianity/God/the Universe and Everything) anyway, so a particular like that isn’t even at my level of questioning at this point.
Now, with the suicide factor, and would it be suicide or not. I don’t think so. Wouldn’t that be like telling a cancer patient who refuses tr
eatment they’re committing suicide? But something you might want to take into consideration is the nurse who’s going to put the IV in and the executioner who sets the machine in motion. Even if they think they’re not committing a sin with what they’re doing, they still will lie awake at night knowing they ended your life. That’s a heavy load to put on someone if you don’t have to. Just something else to consider.
Sincerely,
May
May set down her pen and reread the letter. Death and life, so clinically discussed. That’s all she had. If it wasn’t enough for Eli, oh well. If she started ranting and raving she might never stop.
The first frost finally arrived, so May set to work. She steered the wheelbarrow toward the compost pile and loaded it up. As glad as she was to get the roses to bed for the winter, she always felt a little sorry for them, having to weather several months of cold out there.
First she pruned off the roses that had dried up like little brown paws. That took a few hours. Then she mounded a few handfuls of compost around the roots. Another hour. Finally she filled the chicken-wire cylinders half-full with the leaves the trees provided. As Claudius always said, “Nature takes care of its own.”
“Have a nice sleep, lovelies.”
She wiped her hands on her jeans, turned her back, and headed to the pumpkin patch. No Bill to hitch to the wagon anymore, the wheelbarrow just had to do. She’d get several barrows full, use some for the ritual jack-o’-lantern arrangement for the front porch and the rest for the year’s batch of pumpkin butter. The house would smell like cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves for days.
• 11 •
November 2, 2003
Dear May,
I guess the best part about a letter from you is that you never hold anything back. That’s a good thing, believe me. You sound so different from the person I knew in college. Mother says Sister Ruth tells her you’re still sweet, but I guess it’s hard to hear certain things in letters.
Not to mention I’m a murderer now, and you were around murderers in Rwanda. Believe me, I get the connection. One more way to realize the depravity of what I did. I’m no better than those machete-wielding monsters. Boy, that can’t make the needle come fast enough.
Regarding the photos. You’ll either have to buy a photo printer to hook up to your laptop or just go on the Internet where you can upload the prints you choose. Then they’ll print them off and send them to you by mail. That would be my advice. Unless you get a high-end printer, it’s probably going to spit out two pictures and then break down. Stuff is made so cheaply these days.
The dogs sound crazy. I always thought dogs would be fun to have around, but my mother had allergies. It must be nice to have them around, though. There isn’t a day goes by that I don’t wish for a pet. Even a fish would do.
Maybe Roger and Faye’s family think they want me to stay alive and miserable, but I know they’ll be relieved deep down when I am dead. To use psychological jargon, their need for closure is most likely greater than their desire for justice, even if they don’t realize it. I want to give that to them. It’s the only thing I can do for them now. I’m not under the delusion this will make up for what I did to them, and it doesn’t give me even a small measure of personal peace. I simply believe it’s the honorable, even the right, thing to do.
I’m still pondering whether or not this is actually a suicide. I probably think about that too much, but what else have I got to do? I try to read a lot, but it seems a little ridiculous to further myself that way. Kind of like a ninety-year-old getting braces. But I’ve got to pass the time somehow. If you have any books you want to get rid of, send them on over. The more inane the better.
Anyway, thanks for the letter. I appreciate it.
Sincerely,
Eli
P.S. Nice reference to Hitchhiker’s Guide. I love Douglas Adams.
Sister Ruth read the letter as May peeled the rind off a slice of pumpkin. “At least the man has a sense of humor.”
“I thought so too.”
“He’s right about the Internet and your photos.”
“How do I do that, then?”
“You have to get a phone line, honey.”
Great. Another bill to pay. That free camera was costing her a fortune!
“I don’t know, Sister Ruth. Would it be worth all that?”
“Sure it would. You can upload your work on various Web sites, and you might even make some money from them.”
“Really?” Now she was interested.
“Uh-huh. And to be honest, with a phone, you could take care of your accounts yourself, arrange for deliveries from the nursery and such, order from seed companies. You could do all that online.”
“On the phone line?”
“On the Internet. That’s what ‘online’ means.”
“I can see the Internet has come a long way since I left college. The last thing I remember was CompuServe.”
Sister Ruth fished in the knife drawer and slipped out another paring knife. She started peeling off the bright orange rind of a sliver of pumpkin. “Oh, yes. You can do everything online. You can even order pizza, and you don’t have to talk to a soul until the delivery person comes to your door.”
—Sign me up!
“Would you mind setting it up with the phone company?”
“Not one bit. Then, honey, you’ll be on your own.”
Nice. Hadn’t she been since Claudius died?
Sister Ruth crossed her arms. “At least in who you can persuade to deliver. I still wish you’d get that Galaxy repaired. It would make my life a whole lot easier if you could run your own errands.”
May cut the pumpkin meat into cubes. “Watch it, Sister Ruth. You know what they say about too much too soon, don’t you?”
She cast her a glance filled with good-natured scorn. May didn’t know how she did that sort of thing.
The crazies were sleeping in a basket near the woodstove that May had going at a muted, gentle heat. Glen split wood for her and kept some for his fireplace, so he was coming by Saturday after work. May was wondering if she should put on real clothing, try to look at least mildly attractive.
“How’s the lottery going, Sister Ruth?” She filled a pot half-full with water and set it to the boil.
“I won two hundred and sixty dollars yesterday! I’m getting luckier and luckier.”
It was the woman’s only vice. What could May say? Sister Ruth could be doing a lot worse.
“How about if I go in on a ticket with you sometime?”
“Oh no, honey! You’ve got some of the worst luck of anybody I’ve ever seen. I might as well just throw my money in the garbage can.”
Glen came in from chopping wood. Despite the fact that it was only fifty degrees, he’d removed his shirt for a while, and May was glad to see she could at least still find a man attractive. Really attractive.
But he slipped back into decency as she poured him a glass of iced tea.
“Thanks for doing that. I can do a lot, but some things still hurt me.”
“No problem. The deal works for me.”
She’d just labeled the last jar of pumpkin butter. Three hundred jars at six dollars a piece. About four dollars profit each. That would keep the lights on a little longer.
“Would you like to stay and have a bite of supper?” she asked. “Just in thankfulness for bringing me the crazies.”
He laughed. “Normally I’d love to, May. But I’ve got a date tonight.”
“Okay! Just thought I’d ask. It probably wasn’t going to be that great anyway.” Just homemade biscuits and homemade jam, fried chicken, green beans, and mashed potatoes, was all.
He slugged back his tea, and after he went May decided every dog needed at least two sweaters. And she’d make the fried chicken for herself. So there, Glen.
• 12 •
Alight snow fell during the night, a little early for that time of year. May hurried out with her camera before the sun rose completely and melted it a
way. The cold immediately nibbled the tip of her nose as well as the tips of her fingers, but it was worth it the way the light dusting on the coop, the barn, and the toolshed looked like powdered sugar and the low rays of the sun sparkled it up. It looked like a gingerbread farm.
One thing she’d learned in the first photography class she took at UK was that the shot was the thing. Or something like that. The point was, you had to do whatever it took to get a good one. They usually didn’t happen by accident.
By the time she was almost finished, having knelt on the wet ground, sat, and even laid down on her stomach and her back, she was a mess. But it didn’t matter. It was nice quick hit of achievement.
Remembering an old wreath in the toolshed, she grabbed it and took a few more shots with it in the frame. She’d upload the photo and see if anybody wanted it for Christmas cards or something.
Last week she’d made ten dollars on some photos for some country magazine publishing an article on chickens. It helped to enjoy your subjects, and when you appreciated them, it was even better. Those feathered ladies fed her like she fed them. Hard to take a bad picture of your food source.
If she could sell ten pictures a week, that would make the difference she’d need to use some heat this winter, and she could put a little away to save up for first month’s rent and security deposit for her coming life.
She couldn’t picture anything about that new life. Not an apartment, not a job, not a city, not a person beside her. Not a thing.
After throwing a couple of logs into the woodstove, she uploaded her pictures onto the computer at the kitchen table, then logged onto iStockphoto and selected the pictures she wanted to put up on the site. Three of the wreath shots, with the sun rising and that warm light, were filled with holiday sentimentality. In a good way. Had she kept those buildings painted and pristine, they wouldn’t be nearly as good.
Yep, that’s what she’d tell herself. And honestly, she wasn’t about to go painting them now for Marlow.
In her bedroom, she peeled off the damp clothing, her skin rising with goose bumps, covered herself in a robe, and ran down to take a shower. The water heated her fingers and her nose, and she took an extra couple of minutes in the stream. It felt so lavish. She had more in common with her dad’s austere community life than she realized. May just didn’t do it for God.