Resurrection in May

by Lisa Samson

  The crazies eyed her from where they lay by the woodstove. She eyed them back. What a life for them. It was bad enough for a human to live like this, but those little pups deserved better. She laid Eli’s letters on the kitchen table next to her cot and read them again and again. He’d switched from medieval history to funny stories about the various jobs he had in high school and college.

  Every time May got up she searched the yard for a sign of spring. Shouldn’t the crocuses be poking up in the bulb garden? Usually they took her by surprise, but she realized they’d slipped into the mode of that proverbial watched pot.

  —Just want a cup of tea, no more, no less.

  It was all she wanted. But hot milk was better than nothing, and it soothed her throat a bit, the length of it so raw from all the mucus dripping down.

  Her lungs contracted in a spasm of coughing.

  —Lordymercy, my chest sounds like rusty bedsprings.

  She burrowed down further into the sleeping bag as the day lightened the farm. There was enough food for the animals today. More than enough. Still getting deliveries from the feed store as usual, she’d just loaded it on the evening before. Knowing how it was packed with protein, she’d have been lying if she’d said she wasn’t tempted to try some of it a time or two. She really didn’t need to go out there. They needed water, though. And Louise needed milking.

  Heaving sighs, she milked Louise, then dragged the hose out to the chickens and made sure Flower and Louise had enough water too. Her coat flapped in the breeze. She just couldn’t button it. It was ridiculous, in that state, not to bundle up. But she couldn’t. She’d leave a note for Glen asking him to water the animals after he got off work for the next couple of days. Milk the cow too.

  In and out and in and out of sleep. Back and forth. Dream to home. Home to dream. Time liquefied, so did night and day. The most May could do was let the dogs out and drink a glass of water. And cough, the pain stabbing her.

  —I must have pneumonia. But it will be warm soon, won’t it?

  She eyed the phone. Who would she call? The feed store? Sister Ruth? She wasn’t going to bother Glen anymore. She heard him knocking yesterday, and anyway, she didn’t want to go to the doctor’s.

  Lifting her shirt, she viewed her abdomen. She looked almost like she did post-Rwanda, her stomach dipping below her hip bones as she lay there. Ridiculous. But she survived that, didn’t she? And she lived to literally tell the tale. What would that journalist think of her now? The pictures of her would be even better, more skeletal and dramatic.

  She threw some more wood on the fire. The pile on the stoop was getting low, but the thought of dragging herself over to the woodpile to get more?

  —I just can’t.

  Another spasm of coughing assailed her, and she wondered who lit the fire in her lungs.

  —I’m so cold.

  She burrowed down into her sleeping bag again.

  May dreamed she was dying. She dreamed she was dead. She dreamed she was walking through a land of walking corpses, some with missing limbs, yes, but others with gunshot wounds, or tumors; some had nothing showing, but May could only imagine. All she passed touched her sorrowfully and shook their heads sadly as if to say How sad for you.

  And Father Isaac appeared before her, but he was whole, and beautiful and full of grace, and said the words nobody else would. “You had people who loved you, a safe, warm place, good food, and the work of your hands.” He cried for her, weeping and wailing. “What more could God do?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I just … I can’t …”

  His eyes pierced hers. “You can. You must. It really is now or never, May.”

  She closed her eyes against his gaze, and he shook her lightly. “What are you waiting for?”

  May jolted out of sleep!

  A knock shook the back door. May jerked the bag off her face, cold air hitting her nose. Oh no, the stove had gone out. The dogs shuffled at her feet. She could barely lift her head. Her clothing was stiff from sweating and cooling and sweating again. It didn’t matter.

  She eyed the window. By the light she guessed it was midmorning. “Glen, is that you?”

  A coughing spasm hit her.

  “May!” the muffled holler filtered through the glass.

  “Come in,” she called, not very loudly, but she tried.

  She just wanted to close her eyes again. Just for a minute. She was so tired.

  The door swung open in a gust of cold air.

  May gasped.

  “May!” Glen threw the door shut and ran over. He knelt down beside her, took one look at her, and said, “I thought something was wrong when you didn’t even pick up your mail for the last three days.” He touched her forehead. “You’re burning up.”

  May shook her head from side to side. She wanted to talk, but it was just too much effort. So she moaned a little. And the coughing began as she took a deep, painful breath.

  “The animals?” she whispered finally. “Go check.”

  “They’re fine. I’ve been taking care of them like you asked. Come on. Let’s get you to the clinic.”

  “Okay.” More coughing.

  Glen scooped her up, sleeping bag and all, and carried her to his truck. The heater blew hot air into the cab. Oh, so nice. He gently arranged her on the seat, hurried around to his side, and turned up the heat full blast. “Oh, May. What’s going on?”

  She laid her head against the window and closed her eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

  • 15 •

  Lynn Richards entered their yellow guest bedroom, holding a tray balancing a cup of tea and a saucer of toast. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to go to the hospital, May.”

  “I don’t have health insurance.”

  “Any other reason?” She arched a brow.

  —She doesn’t seem like the wife of a clergyman.

  But she didn’t not seem like one either. Dressed in loose jeans and a mint green pullover fleece, her clothing told May absolutely nothing about her, other than she wasn’t flamboyant in nature and she liked to be comfortable. And warm. May appreciated both of those things.

  “Has John said much about me?”

  “Only what he thinks he can without breaking your confidence. But I fill in the missing spots. He says your farm is lovely.” She handed her the cup, a deep blue china teacup with roses painted on the white interior. “Plenty of honey.”

  May laughed. And erupted into more coughing. “Ouch.”

  “I know. I had pneumonia once. It’s painful. But I’m glad you agreed to come here.”

  May calmed down and took the tea. She breathed in the lemony scent, then sipped.

  —Oh, boy.

  Tea! What she had been wanting for almost two months. The dark liquid, sweet with honey and lemon, slipped down her throat; it didn’t ooze down like milk or race down like water. Perfect. Thank you, thank you, thank you thrummed through her mind.

  Lynn sat on the side of the bed.

  May came up for air, then settled the teacup on her lap. “Glen called John right away.”

  “Glen felt terrible. You’d been talking to him at your door, and he thought you were okay.” She lifted her arms and began redoing the barrette holding back the front of her auburn hair, which in the light shone strawberry. May could see her as a little girl on roller skates who probably skinned her knees a lot and wasn’t afraid to fight with the boys. “Ruthie probably told him to check.”

  “You know Sister Ruth?”

  “Darlin’, everybody knows Ruthie.”

  May wasn’t surprised.

  She sipped again. This tea was the best tasting thing to ever go in her mouth, better than anything she ate when her parents took her to France for one of her dad’s academic conferences when she was fourteen. Better than Denny’s at two in the morning with friends after a lot of beer. Better than good chocolate, not that she really remembered what that tasted like. “Oh, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now yo
u just rest. John called one of the parishioners who’s going to take care of your animals every day until you recuperate. I told him to bring your dogs over.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I hear they’re quite … unusual.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  She stood and brushed the creases out of her jeans. “Well, finish your tea, and if you need anything just holler, or clap your hands or something. I’d give you a bell to ring, but my maidservant is polishing it. Do you want something to read?”

  “Not right now. I’m tired.”

  “You’re on quite a heavy round of antibiotics. Okay, I’ll leave you be.”

  May drained the tea, then pulled the white down comforter up around her neck and turned toward the nightstand. The martyr’s stole rested by the lamp.

  She decided John was her man of God. Eugene Damaroff was right. How he knew, she couldn’t fathom, and didn’t care. Closing her eyes, glad for the warm bath she’d just had, the cup of tea, and a soft bed with an electric blanket, she slept.

  May had been recuperating at the rectory for a week, given love and good food and time. The kids, Julia and Luke, entertained her when they came home from school. Lynn drank tea with her and taught her how to crochet. The dogs loved it there too. Her body was getting stronger and stronger; each day something inside mended just a little.

  May was sitting outside watching the crocuses bloom near the back door when John came out and handed her a piece of hot apple pie. She was beginning to suspect the iced tea business had been a ruse to put her off her guard. She told him so.

  He laughed. “It wasn’t then, I assure you. But I guess Lynn realized with all the stresses of the ministry, and loving my sweets like I do, she needed to give it a rest.”

  “I’m glad for you. And you’re not really heavy at all.” She stabbed the pie and lifted a forkful to her mouth. “Oh boy, this is good. Lynn sure can cook.”

  “Why do you think I married her?” He pulled up a black metal chair, the feet scraping along the cement.

  “I hope it was more than that.”

  “Oh, it was. Believe me. She was the kindest, calmest person I’d ever met. I knew I’d need her.”

  “For your parishioners?”

  He shook his head. “For me.”

  “That’s nice. So what do you bring to the table?”

  “My charm and good looks?”

  “Try again.”

  More pie. The apple slices perfectly tart and sweet and soft melded with the golden crust as she pressed the bite to the roof of her mouth to spread across her tongue.

  “Maybe you should ask her that. I’ve been wondering for years. I completely got the better end of the deal.”

  “I’m thinking you’re right about that, John.”

  He ate his pie, too, and they sat in silence for a while, Sweetie and Stinky rolling around on the lawn and chasing birds almost as big as they were, having a great time.

  —Must be nice to be that free.

  Finishing, Father John set his plate beside his chair and reached into his jacket pocket. “I brought your mail.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You got a letter from Eli Campbell.”

  “Oh, good. He wants me to take a picture of the Purple Cow in town. He said he used to hang out there.”

  “Want me to bring over your camera?”

  “Thank you. I think I might be able to venture out a little bit.”

  “You look so much better.”

  “And I feel a lot stronger. Thanks for bringing me here, John.”

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better. We love having you.”

  —What a nice thing for him to say.

  “It’s about more than the pneumonia, you know,” she said. She picked up the outer edge of piecrust.

  “Just getting off the farm?”

  “Yes. And it only took starvation and near death to do it!”

  “But you came. You took the first step, May. That’s important.”

  She couldn’t rest in that for long, though, she knew. If she was moving forward, she had to keep going. “Now I really have to consider what I’m going to do come June. I can’t wait any longer.”

  “Good thinking, May.”

  —Well, finally.

  Dear May,

  It sounds pretty bad there. You need to call someone. I know you have a phone line now. You’ve met Sassy, my mother. Call her. Her number is 555-3579. I know she’ll help you out.

  Father John visited me again a couple of days ago. I asked about you running him off, and he was pretty good-natured about it. I think, if you’d like to repair the relationship, he’d return. You probably need to have a spiritual person in your life. We all do really. I know after Rwanda you have trouble viewing God as merciful. I did, too, for a long time. Unfortunately I didn’t ask questions of why evil happens. I know why firsthand being the evildoer. But I wondered why God didn’t stop me. Why Roger and Faye had to come through those glass doors at that precise moment.

  Write when you can. I’m sure you’re glad it’s finally warming up a little.

  Warmly (ha, ha),

  Eli

  No better time than the present. Her heart sped up. She willed it to back down. Her life depended on this.

  Heading down River Street toward Main, the breeze blew warmer than it had yet that spring, bringing with it a hopeful shimmer as it moved the bare limbs of the trees that filtered the sunlight onto the grass. All those walks she had taken with Girlfriend in Lexington! May would be dressed so cute, her legs bare and shaved and tanned. Honk! Honk! There’d be plenty of that.

  Now she resembled something like a bag lady benefiting from a morning shower. She passed Jack’s IGA, thinking how much food she’d eaten from that place and never stepped a foot inside; didn’t know where the milk cooled or the bread loaves lay in stacks on shelves. How weird. Then Rose Brothers Department Store where the clothing she was wearing came from—which, she had to admit, was a bit more fashionable than when Claudius bought things for her. The thrift store too. She liked the olive green and orange lamp in the window with tassel fringe on the burlap shade. How groovy would that be in a college apartment?

  The camera bag bumped on her hip, and nobody looked at her askance. It wasn’t like Beattyville was Fashion Central or anything. She was just another backwater country person who rarely got off her farm.

  —My farm?

  That Marlow!

  There was the joint. On the corner of Circle and Main. Dooley’s Purple Cow. Who thought that was a good idea? And where did a name like that come from? The children’s rhyme? “I never saw a purple cow …”

  And what does that have to do with hot roast beef sandwiches, cheeseburgers, and meatloaf ?

  Nevertheless, she stood on the far corner and snapped off some pictures of the low-slung brick restaurant with the large plateglass window looking out onto the sidewalk. Stepping across Main she snapped more … some close-ups of the sign proclaimed that inside she would find “home cooking at its finest.”

  Sign her up for that! Maybe next year or so.

  A boy, about fourteen, pushed through the door and onto the sidewalk. “What you taking pictures for?”

  “I’m a journalist,” May said, the words falling out of her mouth. “I might write a story about this place.”

  “Okay. Just so long’s you’re not doing anything shady.”

  “Not even a little bit. Can I take your picture by the door?”

  “Will I be in the paper?” He scratched his dirty-blond crew cut.

  “Maybe.” It could happen, right?

  He puffed out his chest, looking proud of himself there in his jeans, long-sleeved UK T-shirt, and a white apron. She fired off several pictures. He was a great subject.

  “Thanks. Wanna see?” She turned the camera around and showed him the pictures.

  He grinned. “That’s cool.”

  “You take a fine picture. What’s your name?”

  �
��Wayne.”

  “Okay, Wayne. You want me to bring you one by after they’re developed? I live just up the way.”

  He nodded and headed in as she turned around and walked back in the direction she had come. In a manner of speaking.

  May stopped along the way, taking pictures of whatever took her fancy. So much to see. So much to make her own.

  —Is that what I’m doing?

  The pool joint, the town stage, a butcher shop, a gas station, a big brick church, and yes, a lot of places closed up and rotting, sad to say.

  It felt like a little dying town, but to May it throbbed with life.

  Yes. This was her town. And Marlow wasn’t going to take it away from her.

  • 16 •

  May sat at the tile-topped kitchen table with Lynn, peeling potatoes. It felt good to use her hands like that again. All the potatoes she’d peeled with Claudius! Lordymercy!

  “Please let me give you some money for the food you’ve given me. At least the tea,” May said. “I bet I’ve used up three boxes’ worth!”

  “Not at all necessary. Although I was going to use that extra grocery money to go have some Botox injections.”

  “What’s Botox?”

  Lynn laughed. Then told her.

  Oh good, she wasn’t serious. It felt weird not getting the current jokes. But botulism? People injected botulism bacteria into their faces to make their wrinkles disappear? May realized things had gone absolutely over the top out there. It was like smoking a cigarette to keep your bowels regular.

  It was like hiding on a farm for a decade to keep sane.

  “I need to go back home,” she said.

  “You sure you’re ready?”

  “Yes. I’ve got work to do.”

  Dear Eli,

  I’m going to fight to stay on the farm. It’s my farm. That man has no right to take it out from under me.

  Can you see the spring flowers from your window? I doubt it, but I thought I’d ask. I thought I’d tell you I hope so.

  May

  She’d been dreading this day and yet looking forward to it for a long time now. Out for the afternoon stroll that Lynn named “May’s Camera Constitutional,” May walked up the hill to St. Thomas church and followed the signs to the church office.