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Things were simpler back then, with no light bulbs or electricity. Everything you did, you did with your hands. Everything you ate was fresh from the farm. We had a milk cow that provided fresh milk, chickens to provide the fresh eggs, and a berry patch to provide fresh berries. Papa taught me how milk the cow and gather the eggs. He taught me how to pick the berries without getting stuck with the stickers. I miss that life, that slow existence. Now we have automobiles and trains that carry passengers instead of produce. We have light bulbs that light up the rooms of our houses and refrigerators to keep the food cold, so it doesn’t have to be fresh. Life has changed and I’ve had to keep up with the rapidly changing times, although I didn’t want to. My grandchildren urged me to learn to drive an automobile when I was in my late seventies, which I did for them, against my own better judgment. Now that I am nearing the end of my days, I look back upon life and realize how precious those early days were—my days with Charlie outside in the hot summer sun. We hadn’t a care in the world when we were young. Oh, how I miss those days.
Charlie was away for a few weeks, although I got to see him almost every day. He seemed to be getting nervous each day that would go by and I couldn’t figure out what was bothering him. The house next door was quiet, by contrast to most nights, and I wondered why Charlie was so worried lately. Things seemed much better for him at home with his Pa gone and he wasn’t having to run away from all of the fighting. I decided to ask him what was troubling him the very next time I saw him. Charlie didn’t come out and play for a few days after that and I started to worry that he wasn’t ever going to come back. When he finally was allowed to come outside he found me in our usual spot, drawing in the dirt with a stick.
“Hiya, Ida!” he said, cheerily.
“Hey,” I replied, a bit angry with him for not coming to play the past few days.
“What-cha drawing?” he asked, still cheerful.
“Nothing,” I said, hoping he would get the hint that I was mad.
“Oh, ok,” he said, and sat down in the dirt next to me.
I continued to draw circles in the dirt, trying not to give in to my desire to talk to him. I wanted him to ask me what I was upset about so that I could tell him I was mad. This didn’t seem to be working and eventually I gave in to the silence.
“I’m mad at you, Charlie,” I said, bluntly.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because you didn’t come out to play and I was out here all by myself with nothing to do,” I told him.
“Ma wouldn’t let me come outside,” he explained. “She said that Pa was back in town and she wanted me to stay close to her until she knew where he was at.”
“Well, that’s still no excuse,” I said, trying to sound stern.
“Well, it will have to do because that’s what happened,” said Charlie, with a sigh.
“Did your Ma ever find out where your Pa was?” I asked, curiously.
“Yeah, she found out that he was staying at the farm and wasn’t coming back over for a while,” he said.
“Did he come back a changed man?” I asked, remembering what Mama had said.
“What do you mean?” Charlie asked, a bit confused.
“Nothing,” I replied, deciding it was better not to tell him what Mama and I talk about.
There was a long silence between us before Charlie started talking again. He seemed unsure of what he was about to say and it took him a couple of tries before he could get it out without stuttering.
“I think Pa is angry with Ma and me,” he began. “I think he wants to hurt us in some way.”
“What makes you think that?” I asked him.
“Well, when Ma came back from the farm after finding out he was there, she told me that if anything ever happened to her, to come to your house and stay there,” he replied.
“Don’t you already do that when your Pa comes around?” I asked, not sure of what he was talking about.
“Yeah, but this was different,” he said. “She said that if Pa comes around and she tells me to leave, that I need to leave at once and hide inside your house.”
“That’s weird,” I said. “It’s probably nothing that you need to worry about. Your Pa won’t hurt your Ma. All they ever do is yell at each other.”
“I guess you’re right,” he said, with sadness in his voice.
We never talked about it again. Charlie would come over and play every day and things seemed to be getting better. His Pa didn’t come around for a long time, a month or so, and I could hear his Ma singing church hymns from the kitchen window while she cooked delicious smelling pies filled with fresh picked berries. Mama didn’t have much gossip about Charlie’s family since his Pa had been gone so long, and even Charlie seemed a bit happier. As the summer months were drawing near the end and the sun was setting in the western sky later and later, everything seemed to be right with the world. I didn’t think much about his Pa, and we never talked about him. I almost forgot that he even existed—almost. It wasn’t until a Sunday, late in the summer, that I even saw him again.
Cousin Elk: A Short Story Page 3