by Ison, S. A.
She’d gotten the pair so she could eventually have chicks. The woman who sold her the pair had explained that many breeds had brooding bred out of them; the large chickens were for egg laying or meat, or both. Bantam hens made wonderful mothers, and usually became broody, meaning they wanted to sit a nest and hatch out babies, twice a year. She’d suggested the pair if Kelly wanted more chickens from her flock. Kelly had liked the idea, and enjoyed the little rooster’s crowing; except around 3 a.m., not so much. Smiling, her eyes tracked the chickens as they ambled around the yard.
Bright yellow butterflies—Delaware Skippers, she thought they were called—and Clayton’s Coppers, which were a sweet little lavender butterfly, flitted around her dark head, some landing on her plants and some alighting on her hair.
Kelly sat back on her heels and looked around her garden, taking in the freshly turned earth and the even rows in which she would plant her seedlings. A soft smile touched her lips, and her green eyes crinkled. It really was so relaxing connecting with nature.
Being a novice gardener, Kelly pored over books and Internet sites, and still felt stupid when it came to growing things, especially vegetables. She didn’t have a green thumb, and more often than not bought her vegetables at the farmer’s market. But she was determined to master this mystery. She really wanted to grow her own food and depend less and less on commercial foods. The amount of pesticides, hormones, and God only knew what else that was in the American diet was scary. Organic food was way overpriced, and by growing her own food she could at least control some of what went into her body.
Her last two years in the Navy had been difficult; she’d been in charge of the top-secret control room down in the dusty basement of CINCPACFLT in Pearl Harbor Hawaii. It was a job she’d come to hate. There, she’d learned some of the government’s dirty secrets. The things she’d read had made her afraid, so very afraid. She’d selectively read the message traffic coming and going, keying on specific code words. Week after week, month after month, she’d followed a horrendous tabloid that never stopped. She could tell no one, and, really, who would she tell? Who would believe some of the sick and weird shit she’d read? It was akin to a bizarre fiction.
When it came time to retire, Kelly had put in for Topsfield, Maine as the place where she wanted to settle—the military gave a retiree up to a year to choose a location anywhere in the country, and would relocate their belongings for free. Though she had no knowledge about the place beyond that it was 98 percent forested and the land was cheap, that was all she cared about. She wanted to be away from government, the military, and people in general. She’d found her haven after only a week’s exploration, off the beaten trail, but close enough to civilization for cell phone reception and internet.
Schrodinger’s Cat barked once, soft and low, interrupting her musings. Kelly looked up as dog stretched indolently and sat up, while the chickens scattered. Her broad head and kind brown eyes belied her training. Kelly had gotten the puppy at eight weeks—she had been so small then—and had trained the willful puppy into a potentially lethal animal.
Through the trees, she could hear the soft clops of a horse’s hooves. Schrodinger’s Cat had great hearing; she hadn’t heard the horse until now. It would be Tim Beranger, her nearest neighbor, who lived three miles down the dirt path that constituted their road. They were, in fact, the only two people in the area. Years ago, it had been a logging road, but had grown up over the years to near obliteration. It had no name, so giving directions was tricky. It was one of the reasons she’d chosen this location. It was rough terrain, but accessible via ATV, snow mobile and hardy 4-wheel-drive trucks—a hemi-engine didn’t hurt either and, of course, a horse if you had one handy.
Kelly thought Tim was in his mid-fifties, almost ten years her senior. He wore his pale blond hair long, kept in a neat ponytail. He was tall and slender, on the athletic side, and reminded her of a surfer. He was a nice man, if a little odd. But then, who wasn’t odd? Those who chose to live off the grid, on the fringes of society? And who didn’t go a little batshit-crazy during the long winters? Here she was, with a killer dog and guns and ammo out the ass, and a certain knowledge of how the world really worked. Yeah, she was one to point fingers all right.
***
Tim Beranger was mounted on the back of a soft eyed mare Kelly had named Butter. He’d been out hunting and enjoying the day. He’d set snares the day before, so had gone out to check them. He enjoyed the solitude and appreciated being out in the woods with his dog, Chance. He carried his Marlin 336, his favorite hunting rifle. He had several other long guns, along with his AS50 and TAC50, hidden on his property, along with his other firearms and ammo. The tools of his trade.
He liked visiting Kelly; she was intelligent, and pretty to boot. A soft smile played on his strong features as he thought of her. He waved absently at the gnats that followed him. Maine was notorious for its biting insects. The infamous no-see-ums were the worst, because they were nearly invisible, but had the bite of a horsefly—the midges too were vicious little bastards, and sneaky as hell.
Tim was a quiet man; he’d seen a lot of bad things in his life, had done a lot of bad things for his country. He had been a sniper during the Gulf and Iraq wars. Being given the go-ahead to kill didn’t make it any less difficult for his conscience, though he knew he was taking on a necessary evil. Tim wasn’t a violent man, but had believed it was his duty to protect his country with his skill.
He had retired from the military nearly ten years ago, and now lived off his pension. From time to time he was hired by the government for jobs. They didn’t come around often, but they were very lucrative, and enabled him to live out in the woods. The thought of doing any other job had never occurred to him.
That said, he was now at a place in his life where even a contract held no lure. It was over a year since his last job. He had been contacted six months ago, but had refused the job. The government agent hadn’t been pleased when Tim told the twerp he could shove the job up his ass.
He lived simply, and for the most part, peacefully. He didn’t have bad dreams or flashbacks, and he didn’t feel guilt. He’d simply done his job. Here in the woods, it was quiet, which helped him keep his world in perspective.
Tim slowed Butter as they rounded a stand of birch, the leaves making the dapple dancing shadows play over his face. “Ho the house, anybody home?”
Coming around the tree line, he saw Kelly standing in her yard, wearing bright pink garden gloves. His smile deepened, and he waved. Butter ambled into the yard without much prodding. He slid from her back, then pulled a couple rabbits off the saddle and handed them to Kelly.
“Thanks Tim. Where’s Chance?” Kelly took the rabbits, looking around for Tim’s Irish wolfhound.
“He’s off sniffing around in the woods. Caught some scent and left me in a cloud of dust. Figured I’d let him. He’ll be back once he smells the rabbits.”
“You’re too right about that. Make yourself comfortable; I’ll get these rabbits fixed right up.” She would cook them up for dinner that evening.
Long ago, she’d joked that if he did the hunting, she’d do the cooking. He’d taken her seriously, and so a tradition had developed. It helped that she was a good cook, and his stomach growled in anticipation.
His light blue eyes followed Kelly’s movements around the yard. She must have either Spanish or Mexican blood; her hair was dark, and he saw a few silver threads weaving through. Her skin held an olive tint, and the sun made it rich. Her lively green eyes always held humor and kindness, and she didn’t talk too much, or expect him to talk either. It made him feel peaceful and comfortable.
Tim watched as Kelly’s neat form moved about the homestead. She took the rabbits to her outdoor kitchen, and laid the carcasses on the beat-up wood table. He knew that during the summer she did the majority of her cooking outside, as she found her small kitchen too cramped and, at times, too hot. He watched her skin the carcasses with quick and efficient hands. T
hanks to his guidance, she was becoming quite proficient.
His mouth twitched with humor as the memory of their first lesson for dressing out an animal slid through his mind. She’d puked. He’d tried to be kind, patting her gently on the back, telling her she’d get used to it. She had done, and he was proud of her, glad to see it didn’t bother her any longer.
He followed her into the house. It always amazed him how wonderful her home smelled, a mixture of floral and spice. He watched as she gathered up the ingredients to fry up the rabbit. She placed them into a large metal bowl, then picked his mail up from the counter. He held out his large rough hands, and took some of the ingredients from her along with his mail.
He rarely left the woods, and when she’d suggested she would pick his mail up, he was grateful. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship. Living in the woods, it was nice to have a neighbor who respected you and was helpful. Both were quite aware that it wasn’t always the case. Sometimes there were dirty dealings between neighbors.
Plenty of stories of people burning down their neighbor’s camps, or poisoning their animals, floated through town. Accounts of theft and drug use were rampant, as well as out and out fighting and brawling with one another. Some feuds lasted years, going from generation to generation. Bad blood. He and Kelly were not locals, and though they did know a lot of folks from the nearby town, they tended to keep to their own business.
Tim cradled the bowl with spices and flour, his stomach once again growling in anticipation. Kelly followed behind him, carrying the oil and cast-iron skillet, her footsteps light and quick. He slowed his pace so she could catch up. She kept a fire going all year in a brick-lined pit; he thought it was handy, as it kept a lot of the bugs away, and hot water was always available. She’d rigged an iron tripod over it, and below that was a grate above the fire. He’d found the old iron tripod at a yard sale and had bought it for her, replacing the rickety set up she’d had before. Tim had watched her prepare many meals, from stews, to soups, and they were all delicious. She left baking for the winter. As she put it, “It’s too damn hard to regulate the temperature, and I won’t eat raw bread.”
It had been trial and error, Kelly learning to cook on the open fire, and Tim had imparted his meager knowledge of cooking al fresco. Many meals had been eaten near burnt to a crisp or damn near raw, but he hadn’t minded, since he was spending time with her.
While she prepared their meal, Tim went over to the woodpile and began to split logs. In the woods, chopping firewood was a summer-long endeavor. He could split wood easily, so helped Kelly out on his visits. Dividing his attention between chopping the wood, and watching Kelly as she prepared the food, he admired her form.
He knew she was also ex-military; it was a bond they shared. She knew he’d been a sniper, but never asked questions.
“Any news from town?” he asked, as he got into the rhythm of chopping.
“No, not much.” Kelly said as she laid the battered meat into the sizzling oil. “Kalvin got arrested again for drunk driving. I don’t know why they don’t lock him up and throw away the key. He is going to kill someone one of these days.”
“He’ll end up killing himself. I think that’s what he wants, and he’s just too chicken shit to do it,” Tim replied harshly.
“Well, I wish he’d get it over with. He’s a danger on the road. If it weren’t for his family being so rich, he’d be in prison for the rest of his life.”
“Yeah, the rich do seem to get around things that would put the rest of us in jail for life.”
“Don’t they just.” Kelly snorted derisively.
24 May
Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina
The warm, salty wind was gusting quite a bit, causing the coastal waves to white cap. Randal Hodges was knee deep in the water. It was cold, but not numbingly so. The sun warmed his body to give a nice tingly feeling, the clash of cold and warm. The sixty-year-old was in his element. He loved the beach, being a retired surfer and electrician, and it was here that he thrived.
These days he spent his days in the surf at the far end of Sullivan’s Island, off the South Carolina coast. His face was tan and fine lines curved gently around his hazel eyes and mouth. Though caused by age and the sun; they were also embedded by years of laughter.
The wind was blowing from his back, and he could smell the brackish water from the thin inlet and wetlands some miles away. It clashed with the scent of salty seaweed and warm sand. He’d lived within the scent of the ocean all his life. Behind him, on the dunes, the sea oats swayed in the breeze. He could hear their soft rustling even at this distance. He’d grown up on Sullivan’s Island, and now lived not far from the house where he had been a youngster.
He’d spent the last twenty-eight years commuting back and forth to Charleston and the surrounding area, until his wife had put her foot down—he was retiring, or else. Pearl held him hostage by his heart and he couldn’t deny her. Her words were his commands, and he gladly did her bidding.
Retirement wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, and he spent most of his days wading out into the surf with a line and chicken neck attached. From his empty belt loop, a thin nylon line held a plastic bag of chicken necks. The bag bobbed merrily in the water at his side. His rolled-up cargo pants were wet. He wore these whenever he went fishing or crabbing, as they could hold a lot of what he needed.
He used to put the raw chicken necks in one of the pockets. That was, at least, until one day he’d been out in the sun too long. When he’d pulled one out to tie to his line, it stank of rot. He had used the neck, but when he got home, he held his fingers under Pearl’s nose and asked if his fingers smelled of rotting chicken. Pearl’s head had rocked back, fire glittering in the dark orbs.
Randal had been commanded to go wash his hands. For the rest of the day, he had sniffed his fingers, and after the fifth time washing, he’d asked her to smell his fingers again. She had smacked his narrow rump with a wooden spoon, and told him to get out of her kitchen or she’d cut off his stinky fingers. That was the last time he kept raw chicken necks in his cargo pants pockets.
He hauled in his fair share of crab, and even small sharks from time to time. He fished in a secluded inlet, his own private fishing hole. Most of the kids in the area didn’t know a whit about fishing; they had their noses buried in their techno phones. One would swear they were born with an umbilical attachment to the darn things. Maybe that was the U in USB—umbilical cord—he laughed to himself. His own kids and grandkids were the same—too many gadgets. Pearl simply rolled her eyes at him when he complained, so he kept his grumblings to himself.
They had a tidy little beach house, built up on sturdy Cyprus columns painted Caribbean blue to match the hurricane shutters. He’d paid it off fifteen years ago, and since then he’d built up a tidy nest egg, which meant he and Pearl traveled from time to time, enjoying the fruits of his labors. They had gone to Japan for their 35th wedding anniversary, up north to Misawa, in the Aomori prefecture, where Pearl’s mother had grown up.
They had gone in spring to catch the cherry blossoms that bloomed throughout Japan; the heavenly scent of the blossoms had permeated the air around them. Soft hues of the flowers blurred the edges from tree to tree, creating a fairy land. They had visited the Oirase Gorge, which was nestled in the mountains. The hills were covered with pink and white cherry blossoms, and the waterfalls were breathtaking. It was a trip they would never forget.
Pearl would be in the back yard right now, he knew. She spent every waking moment in the back yard, cultivating her roses and vegetables. Her honey-do list was long, and he had dug up a very large percentage of the back yard to please her, bringing in truckloads of loamy topsoil to cover over the sandy soil in order to grow her plants. As long as he got out to his beach, he didn’t mind. Fresh vegetables were always good, and they were free. Who didn’t like free?
Late spring meant warm days and cool nights; it wouldn’t be long before summer came, and with it the heat and hot, mugg
y weather. Living a block from the beach had its perks, as their home caught the sea breezes. When the boys were small, Randal would set up a tent out in the back yard. He and the boys would make a campfire, roast marshmallows and make s’mores. Then they’d listen to the surf, its undulating rhythm putting them to sleep. Pearl said she preferred her bed, but Randal knew she wanted him to spend time with the boys.
Pearl had also started to can her produce; she’d put up sixty jars of peaches last year, and they were still eating them. She’d gone and bought bushels of the sweet things. She had also put away tomatoes, green beans, and a carrot and pepper medley that wasn’t half bad.
Pearl also did food drives for the food pantry over in Mt. Pleasant, which serviced the surrounding area. The garage had large containers of canned goods, boxed foods, toiletries, and so on and so on. She was a giving woman, always helping others, and he was proud of her. He loved his little Pearl; she had more energy than ten women. She was never still, and didn’t seem to be slowing down either.
She was four years older than he, and she’d used to kid him that she’d robbed the cradle when they married. His Pearl was a dynamo; she was crafty as hell, and had turned their garage into her own personal warehouse of handmade soaps, pantry, and sewing room. He didn’t mind parking his car in the drive. What the heck; for his little Pearl, he would do anything.
***
Pearl rolled her dark, almond-shaped eyes at her husband; he was wet to the brow but nearly vibrating with happiness. She sighed mentally; she’d have to break out the vacuum again. She didn’t want to bruise his joy, so she smiled. She put a hand to her wavy jet hair—there were swaths of silver that ran through, but she was proud that her hair still remained nearly black.
Her skin showed the fine lines of age, and also of years in the sun; it was a dark buttery brown, smooth and soft. Her knuckles were starting to show old woman’s knots, but she had strong, busy hands. She’d just come in from pulling weeds from around her precious vegetables. It was soothing and so peaceful, working beneath the sun, feeling its warmth penetrate her pink and blue gingham cotton shirt.