Evenfall

by Liz Michalski

  The exhaustion she’d felt at Gert’s house returns. She cuts her exploration short and climbs the stairs, fingers trailing along the banister. She stops at the back bedroom, the one she’s always called hers, even though she’d only been able to claim it a few months out of the year. Inside Gert’s bag are soft white bed linens, and when Andie unfolds them, the scent of lavender wafts through the room.

  As soon as the bed is made, she strips off her jeans and crawls between the sheets, the cotton cool against her skin. In the instant before unconsciousness, she thinks she hears a voice saying her name. The voice, dry and soft, is oddly familiar. “Night, doodlebug,” it whispers. Before she can respond, she’s asleep.

  WHEN Andie wakes, sunlight is streaming through the windows. She yawns, wiggling her toes at the end of the bed. It feels like the first day of summer vacation, when she’d slip into shorts and a T-shirt—heaven after a school year of plaid jumpers—and run outside, ignoring Clara’s call to breakfast.

  She couldn’t wait to feel grass tickling her feet and legs, to splash in the cool water of the creek. Like a puppy confined for too long, she used that first morning to burn off energy, racing about the farm for the sheer joy of it.

  Uncle Frank usually found her about the time she’d thrown herself down on the bank of the creek to rest. He’d settle beside her, all elbows and knees, resembling nothing so much as one of the long-legged water beetles that skimmed the creek’s surface. He’d draw a foil-wrapped package out of his shirt pocket, and the two of them would munch in companionable silence on strawberry Pop-Tarts.

  Thinking of food reminds Andie of her dream. She’d been sitting at the kitchen table with Gert. At the center of the table was a blue bowl, banded by a ring of silver. It was piled high with apples, and when Andie reached past Gert to take one, the bowl shattered. The falling blue pieces became the cool rushing waters of the creek. It swirled through the room, stranding a school of little silver fish at Gert’s feet.

  Andie frowns, stretches again. There’s something she’s forgetting, but the dream won’t come back to her, so she lets it go, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Sitting there, she’s eyeball to eyeball with the pictures lining the dresser. She knows them by heart—they’ve sat there since she was a child—but today they’re covered with a slight fur of dust.

  She picks up the first frame and gently polishes it with the hem of her shirt. The photo inside is of her mother, fragile and lovely in her wedding dress. Growing up, Andie studied it so often she knew the tiniest details: the way her mother’s veil twists slightly near its end, the way her eyes shine and her slender fingers are wrapped tight around the bouquet, the way the flowers are positioned to hide her stomach. Seeing the picture now, what Andie notices most is how young her mother was. A baby, really, a whole decade younger than Andie is now, forever frozen in time at the age of twenty-three.

  When the frame is clean, she replaces it on the dresser, then picks up the next photo. In it, her father, looking as if he could use a cigarette and a drink, cradles Andie, who is pink and wrinkled and wrapped in a pale blue blanket. Andie remembers the blanket. It had a satin edging, and she carried it with her from New Hampshire to New York to Florida and back again, following her father, who was following the ponies in their endless cycle. The satin edge wore out, rubbed between her fingers until it was threadbare, but the blanket went with her to college, stuffed in the back of her underwear drawer.

  The third photo is the most recent, although it’s more than ten years old. Taken at her graduation from boarding school, it shows an eighteen-year-old Andie with big hair and dramatic eye makeup. Clara’s hugging her on one side, Gert has an arm about her shoulder on the other, and Frank stands behind all three of them, his head just above Andie’s. All four wear broad grins. Her father is to the left and slightly blurry, just beyond the camera’s focus, though Andie can picture his expression perfectly well. She puts the photo down.

  As she’s rummaging in her suitcase, she hears a voice outside her window. Quickly she strips, pulls a clean white T-shirt over her head, yanks on the same jeans from yesterday, and looks outside. There’s no one there.

  An instant later, a power mower roars into being. It’s coming from the front of the house, and Andie can’t see it from her room. She hurries to the bathroom and brushes her teeth, then heads downstairs.

  The scent of fresh-mown grass reaches her even before she’s outside, a smell so sweet and rich it clogs her throat and makes her head ache. She has to wait a moment before she can open the door, and when she does the scent is stronger. It crowds about her like a ghost, bringing with it the memories of all the other days that started just like this, with an open door and the summer stretching before her.

  It’s those past summers she’s seeing, not this one, so at first she doesn’t recognize the figure pushing the mower. She thinks Aunt Gert must have hired a landscaping crew and forgotten to tell her, and is unreasonably annoyed as she looks at the boy stripped to the waist, grass flecking his shoulders.

  But then the dog rises to its feet from the shadow cast by the house. It wags its tail, tentatively at first, then harder and harder as she strokes its head, until the air around her legs is fanned by a steady breeze.

  Cort catches sight of her and cuts the power. The mower idles, fades into silence. He wipes his face on the T-shirt draped across his neck, and Andie is mortified to find that she uses this time to stare at the long, flat expanse of skin above his shorts. As he approaches her, she averts her eyes.

  “Morning,” he says, and there’s no way she can look at him. She focuses instead on the dog, now leaning into her leg and panting madly, so that it looks as if it’s grinning.

  “Morning. Guess you decided to keep her.”

  “It’s more like she decided to stay with me, I think. She’s pretty smart, aren’t you, girl?” He squats, rubbing the dog’s head, and Andie is forced to examine him. His black hair is a little long, falling over his eyes and trailing down the back of his neck. His shoulders are wide, with just the hint of a sunburn. He glances up and his brown eyes meet hers.

  Andie blushes. For crying out loud, he’s just a kid, she tells herself fiercely. Get a hold of yourself.

  “Did Aunt Gert ask you to mow?” she inquires, and her voice is cool even to her own ears.

  “Nope. Looking around here yesterday, it just seemed like the thing to do.” He shrugs and stands up, so that she has to tilt her head to keep eye contact. “Your uncle always kept this place perfect. The grass looked a little high yesterday, so I figured I’d come back and take my chances. With Gert and the law, I mean.”

  “Well, thanks. We’ll pay you, of course.”

  “I probably should have called first, especially after yesterday.”

  “Probably,” Andie agrees.

  “I figured you’d be staying over at the cottage, though. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll finish up. It won’t take long.”

  He turns around and is almost at the mower when some impulse she can’t explain makes her call after him.

  “Cort!”

  He wheels around.

  “Have you had coffee yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, if I can find some, you want a cup?”

  “Sure, if you don’t think it will stunt my growth.”

  Andie eyes his six-foot-plus frame and can’t help but laugh. “Not much chance of that. Come in when you’ve finished.”

  Cort turns back to the mower, and an instant later the sound of his whistling is drowned out by the engine. Andie heads for the house, the dog following.

  Once inside, the dog makes straight for the kitchen. It’s as if she’s been here before, but Andie can’t imagine how. The dog sits in front of the kitchen cabinet and barks expectantly.

  “I don’t know what you’re looking for, girl, but you’ve come to the wrong place,” Andie tells her, wondering what she was thinking inviting
Cort in. “The cupboard is bare.”

  But when she opens the door, she finds—next to some cans of green beans and creamed corn—coffee filters and a small glass container of coffee. Tucked behind them is an almost empty box of dog biscuits.

  “Here you go.” She hands the last one to the dog, who lips it daintily from her palm and carries it under the kitchen table to eat. Andie opens the jar of coffee and sniffs. It smells okay, so she sets about measuring the grains into the ancient coffeepot. There’s nothing in the refrigerator, so they’ll have to drink it black, which is fine by Andie.

  She finds two mugs and rinses them before setting them out. She’s wondering what she can possibly serve with the coffee when she feels the lightest touch against her leg. She jumps, but it’s just the tip of the dog’s bushy tail. She’s finished her snack and is panting at Andie’s feet.

  “Sorry, girl, no more cookies.” The dog seems to accept this, staying still while Andie slides her hand to the animal’s collar. Made of faded purple nylon, it has a thin tag with the name “Nina” scratched in the metal.

  “Nina? Is that you?” The dog thumps her tail happily, licks Andie’s hand. “Well, Nina, nice to meet you.” Uncle Frank always had a soft spot for animals, Andie knows, and it’s just possible this one kept him company those last few months. She gives the dog a final pat, then straightens, and Nina scrambles to her feet.

  Andie makes a quick survey of the rest of the cabinets. They’re almost empty. She finds a half-eaten jar of peanut butter, a dried-out squeeze bottle of mustard, and a few crumbly tea bags. She’s about to give up when she remembers the bag Gert packed for her last night. It’s unlikely, but there might be something edible there.

  Nina trails along behind her as she climbs the stairs. Quickly Andie makes the bed, snapping the crisp white sheets so they float in the air before gently settling back onto the mattress. Finished, she looks for the bag, but stops when she catches sight of the dog.

  Nina’s standing with her chin resting on Uncle Frank’s old chair, her brown eyes mournful. The chair is rocking slightly under the pressure of her great shaggy head. The pose reminds Andie of the nights when Frank would read her to sleep. Before sneaking onto the bed, the old Lab Max used to stand the same way, head pillowed on her uncle’s lap.

  There’s a lump in Andie’s throat, and she’s about to cough to clear it when she hears the front door open. Nina’s ears cock forward, but she doesn’t change her position.

  “Hello?” Cort calls.

  “Hey. Coffee’s made; feel free to pour yourself a cup,” Andie calls back. “I’ll be right down.” She rummages in the bag, pulling out a tinfoil-wrapped parcel. Inside is the meat loaf from last night.

  “I have just the thing to cheer you up,” she tells the dog. She grabs some soy bars from her stash and hurries downstairs. Cort is sitting at the kitchen table, two mugs of coffee steaming in front of him. He’s put his shirt back on, Andie’s happy to see. He stands when she walks in the room, but his first words are for the dog.

  “Made yourself right at home, haven’t you?” he says, but Nina ignores him. She’s too intent upon what Andie’s carrying. He laughs and sits back down.

  “What happened to man’s best friend?” he asks.

  “She’s been seduced by Aunt Gert’s home cooking.”

  The dog sits, rapt, small ribbons of drool pooling in the corners of her mouth, while Andie unwraps the blackened lump and puts it on a plate. To her surprise, Nina doesn’t wolf the food in one bite. She smells it carefully before taking a dainty mouthful.

  “And for the two-legged creatures…” Andie hands Cort one of the soy bars. He brings the wrapper to his nose and sniffs it suspiciously, his expression so much like Nina’s that Andie laughs.

  “I’m not a nuts and berries kind of guy,” he says. Nevertheless, he unwraps the bar and takes a dubious bite. He chews, washes it down with a swig of coffee, and looks glumly at the meat loaf Nina is rapidly polishing off.

  “What do you eat on all those camping trips you take?” she asks.

  “Mostly beef jerky. Sometimes venison.” At first Andie thinks he’s joking, but his face is serious. She’d been about to make some smart-ass comment, but catches herself just in time.

  “A week of Aunt Gert’s home cooking would turn you into a vegetarian,” she says instead.

  “I dunno, that meat loaf looked pretty good.” By now Nina is done eating and is lapping the plate. When she finishes, she butts her head hopefully against Cort’s arm.

  “Trust me. This time, I came prepared—I’ve got a case of these things.” Andie waves her empty wrapper for emphasis.

  “You’re welcome to them.” He feeds the last of his bar to Nina, who takes it enthusiastically and carries it underneath the kitchen table. “Well, if you ever want a change from rabbit food, a new restaurant opened in Franklin, in one of the old mills. I’d be glad to take you if you want to check it out.”

  His eyes are on the dog and his tone is so casual that Andie isn’t sure if he’s just asked her out or not. By the time she decides that he has, Cort’s already moved on.

  “Where’s Miss Gert?” he asks, looking around the kitchen as if he expects her to jump out at any second. As a child, Andie remembers, Cort lived in terror of Gert, who always made him scrub his hands and behind his ears after their forays to the creek.

  “She decided to stay at the cottage.” Andie shakes her head. “I tried to talk her into coming here. It would be so much easier, but you know how she is.”

  Cort snorts, runs a hand along the back of his neck. “Still, it’s got to be tough for her. Lots of memories in this place.”

  The two of them fall silent, listening as the old house breathes around them, the weight of the empty rooms upstairs forcing a kind of sigh from the ceiling and floorboards. Even the kitchen where they sit seems curiously bare, the deep porcelain sink gleaming in the sunshine like bone.

  Cort stands, stretches, and carries his cup to the sideboard. “Well, I’d better be going. Thanks for the coffee.”

  “It’s the least I could do. What do I owe you? For the lawn, I mean.”

  “Aw, forget about it.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “All right then, when we go out to dinner, you can pay.” His smile catches Andie off-guard, and she feels her heartbeat pick up speed.

  “Deal,” she says, although a date with Cort is the last thing she’s planning on. She’s done with men for a bit after Neal; there’s no need to complicate her life with a boy.

  Cort whistles, and Nina goes to him, her brown body wagging with pleasure. But at the door the dog pauses. She looks around the kitchen and whimpers softly, and in the stillness the sound seems to echo back.

  Cort looks down at the dog, then at Andie.

  “It’s a pretty big house, to be staying in all by yourself,” he says.

  “Mmm hmm.” Andie takes her cup over to the sink and busies herself with rinsing it out. When she takes a step to reach Cort’s cup, the floorboard groans, and she has to suppress a jump. She can feel Cort watching her.

  “Tell you what,” he says. “I’ll take the dog with me during the day, keep her out of your aunt’s hair, then drop her back off at night. Joint custody. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” The dog’s bulk is comforting. But Andie’s never even been responsible for a goldfish, let alone a dog, so she hesitates. “What if her owners are looking for her?”

  “I’ve called the pound, and no one’s reported her missing. Even if they had, I’m not sure I’d turn her in.” Andie knows what he means. There are burrs in Nina’s coat, and her nails are long and twisted. When Andie runs her hands lightly over the dog’s furry sides, she feels ribs.

  “So what do you think?” he says again.

  “It sounds like I just got myself half a dog.”

  “Okay then. We’ll see you tonight.”

  Andie listens as the door shuts behind them. She hears Cort’s footsteps crunch
across the gravel, the slam of the truck door, and the slight rumble the engine gives before it turns over. When they’ve gone, the house is silent, but she finds she doesn’t mind. She pours herself more coffee, gets a pen and piece of paper from Aunt Clara’s old junk drawer, and starts making a list of the groceries she’ll need to pick up in town. Milk, dog food. She hesitates, then adds beef jerky to the list.

  Gert

  GERT can tell right away it’s not going to be a good day. For one thing, her back is aching before she even gets out of bed. Too much lifting yesterday, she thinks.

  She lies in bed and listens to the early morning ruckus the birds are making. The quilt that covers her was once blue and red, made by her sister in another lifetime. The red has faded to a rusty brown, the color of a nail in water. Gert rests beneath its weight and gazes at the picture propped up on her dresser across the room. Painted by Andie her senior year, it’s a tiny watercolor, no larger than a paperback book, depicting the woods surrounding the farm. Hidden in the branches is just the faintest suggestion of a doe and her fawn. Look quickly and you’ll miss it. Gert can’t see it from this distance, but she knows it’s there.

  When she can’t stand being idle a moment longer, she slowly slides out from under the sheet and leverages herself to a sitting position, the way she’s seen pregnant women do. There’s a glass of water on her nightstand, and in the drawer a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol. She takes two before setting her feet onto the floor and shuffling toward the kitchen.

  A yowling at the front door causes her to detour, and the metallic sound of a claw running down the screen quickens her pace. Buddy is waiting on the porch, nine pounds of sleek, muscular tabby.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Gert scolds, opening the door just wide enough for him to slip inside. He brushes against her legs, butting his head against her ankles before stalking off to the kitchen, long tail twisting in the air.

  Gert follows behind, admiring his sinuous grace, the way he doesn’t seem to care if she’s coming or not. She found him a year ago, a tiny, malnourished bundle of fur that fit in her palm. He was shivering on the banks of the deep, creek-fed swimming hole. Gert’s never particularly cared for cats, but fifty years of nursing wouldn’t let her turn away from a creature in need. Every now and then, when she passes the spot where she found him, she wonders how many of his siblings didn’t make it to shore.