by Katy Regnery
I need to do something. I need a release.
Shrugging angrily out of my flannel, I throw it on the floor, then pull my T-shirt over my head and step outside, into the cool morning. I cut down two trees the week before last, and both need to be chopped for firewood.
It feels good—relieving—to swing the ax again, the physical exertion welcome after three days of sitting by Brynn’s bedside and sleeping semi-supine last night beside her. As the steel blade splits the wood, I let myself think about last night for a few minutes.
The way it felt to hold a woman in my arms, the overwhelming feelings of protectiveness and gratitude that I have now experienced—it’s something I never want to unknow. She will leave someday soon, but I will hold on to those memories forever. I will be grateful for them, for the opportunity to relive the night I fell asleep with a woman, with Brynn asleep against my heart.
I flick a glance at the house as I lean down to lift another large, circular log.
She’s as weak as a kitten right now, and I’m still not sure she’s out of the woods in terms of infection. If all goes well and she manages to escape infection, the stitches can come out in seven or eight more days, but I wouldn’t trust them on the back of my ATV for another two or three weeks after that. Which means that we still have about a month together.
A month.
I swing back and bury the ax in the chopping stump, then reach down to collect what I’ve split, relishing the punishing texture of the bark against my bare forearms and chest. It’s a reality check I need. Walking over to the six-foot-high pile of logs behind the barn, I lift the tarp that keeps it dry and add the pieces I’m carrying.
A month with Brynn.
Why this hasn’t occurred to me yet is beyond me—probably because I’ve been totally consumed with her survival and haven’t had time to map out the immediate future.
If I feel like this about her after three days, how in the hell am I going to feel after four weeks? Lord, I need to come up with some strategies to ensure I don’t become any more attached to her. I need to figure out how to keep my distance.
I flex my muscles in the morning sun and reach up to the sky, appreciating the burn caused by an hour of chopping.
Hmmm. That’s one thing I can do: I can stay busy.
Really, I can’t even afford the time I’ve already lost sitting by her bed. The garden and animals need daily, constant tending, wood needs chopping, and I should be making those summer repairs to the house. The windmill behind the barn could use some maintenance, the solar panels need a good cleaning, and I should tinker with the brakes on the ATV a little. If there’s no time to sit and gaze at her like a lovesick pup, it’ll be easier not to develop feelings.
Another idea: I can stay out of the house. She can have the house for the next few weeks; it’ll be her domain. I don’t even have to sleep in my bedroom, at the end of the hallway, just past the bathroom. I can sleep in the sleeping porch back behind the house, piss in the woods, and use the outdoor shower. I’ll stay out of her way when I use the kitchen once or twice a day, or maybe I’ll go the extra mile, pack up meals for myself all at once and keep them in the root cellar under the barn. Then I won’t have to go inside the house more than once or twice a week unless it’s raining real hard. And even then, I suppose Annie wouldn’t mind a night of company in her small, leaky barn.
“You don’t want to get more attached,” I tell myself aloud as I head back to the stump. “Intense feelings can lead to changes in behavior, so stop being stupid. Does she need to be here? Sure. For now. But she’s not your houseguest. And she’s certainly not some potential love interest. She’s just a girl who got into some trouble and needed your help. Soon she’ll be gone.”
I’ll still have to interact with her, of course—especially over the next three or four days. She’ll need help cleaning and changing her dressings. And while she’s recovering in Mama’s bed, I’ll need to bring her food and drink. But once she’s well enough to tend to herself, I’ll make myself scarce until it’s time to take her down to Millinocket.
Feeling stronger, though undeniably melancholy, I pull the ax from the block and place another full-size log on the stump for chopping.
***
I shuck off my jeans and stand under the outdoor showerhead, grabbing a bottle of Dr. Bronner’s liquid soap from a small shelf affixed to the side of the house and pumping a handful into my palm. I work it into my hair, then rinse. It doesn’t make a lot of bubbles because it’s biodegradable, but it still does the job.
I’m still working through the last few cases of gallon bottles that Gramp bought. If I mix the concentrated Castile soap with water in a foamer bottle, it lasts ten times as long, and I only end up needing to use two or three gallon bottles a year. Sometimes it feels like I’ll never run out, and I wonder if that was Gramp’s intention—to stock me for life so I’d never have reason to leave.
I run my hands over my soap-slicked pectoral and abdominal muscles, which are hard and well defined. As my fingers slip over my nipples, I have a sudden mental flashback to Brynn’s, which were dusty pink and delicate. I only saw them for a moment before I forced myself to look away, but they were perfect, and seeing them with my own eyes was the most erotic moment of my life.
Suddenly, the blood in my head races down to my pecker, making it stiffen and grow. I close my eyes and flatten my hands against the house, letting the cold water run down my back while I give into the feeling of sexual excitement. It’s not something I experience regularly, and even when I do, I try to control it.
My father’s hobby of raping his victims prior to murdering them makes me cautious in my approach to my own sexuality. Even when I allow myself to feel some brief physical pleasure, I rarely allow myself to totally surrender to it.
Mama and Gramp never sat me down and discussed reproduction with me, though I had a crash course when I came across two of our goats—Hector and Dolly—one fall morning when I was thirteen. I watched in fascination as Hector mounted Dolly over and over again, sticking his pink, pencil-thin penis into her rear. I had no idea that Dolly’s kids the following spring were a result of this exercise, but I understood that the act of sex was something that happened naturally among living things.
A larger share of my education came when I was sixteen. Gramp returned from his monthly trip to the Millinocket post office with three magazines in a brown paper bag and handed them to me.
“I know you ain’t goin’ to meet a girl out here, but I figure every man should at least know what his pecker’s for.”
Inside the magazines were pictures of naked women—some in sexual positions with men and other women, and plenty of accompanying narratives about what was going on between them. I masturbated for the first time staring at the pictures in those magazines, though I felt guilty afterward, uncertain if what I’d just done was right or wrong.
I still have an ambiguous relationship with my own sexuality. I know I am heterosexual, and there are parts of me that long to be sexually active with a woman, but at this point my personal desires are so tangled up with my fears about turning out like my father that it’s a love-hate relationship.
Right this second, though, as cold water slips down my back, and my rigid length strains against my stomach? It feels more like love than hate. As I remember Brynn’s body while stroking my own, it feels like its own kind of worship, and I allow it. Letting my head fall back, I think of the gentle weight of her body on my chest, the sound of her laughter when I “knocked” on the curtain, and the touch of her hand on my arm when she apologized to me this morning . . .
I cry out, closing my eyes and coming in hot spurts against the side of the house, breathless and panting.
I don’t want to open my eyes.
I don’t want to feel bad about something that feels so good.
I don’t want to feel ashamed for touching myself and drawing pleasure from my body.
I don’t want to feel guilty about thinking of Brynn as I c
limaxed.
More than anything, I don’t want to be Paul Isaac Porter’s son . . .
. . . but I am.
I open my eyes, cup water in my hands, and throw it against the side of the house to erase any traces of my orgasm. Then I turn off the water, wrap a towel around my body, and head back inside the house with a heavy, unsettled heart.
***
After I chop wood, milk Annie, and shower, I go back outside to collect eggs from the girls—Macy, Casey, Lacey, Gracie, Tracey, and Stacey—avoiding a peck to the hand by Tyrannosaurus Rex, the lone rooster, who is protective of his hens.
I get eight eggs in all and bring them inside to the kitchen. The clock over the sink says it’s ten o’clock. That’s four hours from when Brynn took half a Percocet. Although the pills are supposed to have a three-year shelf life, I’ve kept the bottle in the cellar, where it’s cool and dark, and they appear to be managing her pain, though the pill should be wearing off right about now. I’m hopeful that when she wakes up she’ll be ready to eat something substantial. She hasn’t had a proper meal since I found her.
I crack all eight eggs into a bowl and add some of Annie’s milk. She’s a LaMancha goat, so while her milk isn’t creamy, it’s a decent approximation of whole cow’s milk in consistency and sweeter than milk from Saanens or Oberhaslis, both of which we’ve kept in the barn at different times.
Whisking the eggs, I add a little salt and pepper, then place Gramp’s old cast-iron skillet on one of the burners. The twenty-inch stove has a battery ignition but cooks with propane, and if I’m sparing—using it once a day—I can go for months without needing to refill the tank.
I pour a drop of olive oil in the skillet, then add the eggs, inhaling deeply as they sizzle and scramble. Taking two plates from the cabinet, I place them side by side on the counter, marveling at them for a quiet moment. I am cooking for two people today, something that I haven’t done in such a long, long time.
“What’s for lunch, Mama?”
“Fetch two plates for me, Cass. I’m makin’ grilled cheese.”
I pull a chair to the sink and climb up so I can reach the cupboards.
“Mama, when am I goin’ back to school?”
It’s been a year since the incident with J.J. and Kenny in the bathroom, and I keep waiting for her to tell me we’re moving back to town.
I open the cabinet and pull out two stoneware plates, holding them in my hands as she inhales sharply enough for me to hear.
“Never,” she finally says, buttering the four pieces of bread on the cutting board roughly, angrily. She clears her throat, looking up at me. Taking the plates from my hands, she lowers them to her sides, which makes her hands look like big white Frisbees. “You remember yore . . .” She pauses, looking at my face carefully. “. . . daddy?”
“Not so well,” I say.
I have some memories of him, but they’re few and far between, and none of them makes me feel happy. He was just someone who appeared every so often and then left again. I never knew him. Not really.
She nods, looking down at the floor. “Come on down from there.”
I hop to the floor and drag the chair back to the table. When I turn back to the counter, Mama has tears running down her face. Suddenly she raises the plates over her head and drops them to the floor with a furious scream.
Openmouthed with shock, I stare at her, wondering what to do. Shards of broken white ceramic are scattered across the floor, and she sobs softly, her shoulders trembling, her lip quivering.
“He’s gone, Cass,” she whispers, raising her eyes to mine. “Someone . . .” She whimpers softly. “He’s gone now.”
I know that my father was arrested and found guilty of hurting some ladies me and Mama never met, and I know that he was set to die at some point. I figure that point has now come and gone.
The thing is? I don’t much care. I don’t care that he’s gone. If anything, I’m glad. He scared me more than I ever loved him, and I much prefer living here with Mama and Gramp. But seeing Mama this upset makes my guts tighten.
“Mama?”
She turns to me, placing her hands on my arms and looking deeply into my eyes. “Am I the stupidest person livin’ on God’s green earth?”
I shake my head. “No, Mama. You’re the best person livin’ on God’s green earth.”
She yanks me into her arms, hugging me tightly as she presses her lips to the top of my head. “You’re good, Cass. Remember that. Always remember that. You’re a good boy. Be good. Stay good, Cassidy . . .”
“. . . Cassidy? Cass?”
Someone is calling my name.
“Coming!”
I turn off the burner, pull the eggs from the heat, and go check on Brynn.
Brynn
When I wake up, my hip hurts. Sharp pains alternate with a dull, burning throb, but I suppose pain is to be expected when you’re healing from injuries like mine. Don’t be a baby, Brynn. Be strong. To distract myself, I breathe through my nose, and my mouth waters. Someone is making food, and it smells beyond delicious.
“Cassidy?” I call as my stomach growls loudly enough to wake the dead. “Are you there?” No answer. “Cassidy? Cass?”
“Coming!”
I brace my hands on either side of my hips, lift my head, and slide back a little into a sitting position by the time he pushes the curtain aside.
I have seen his face several times now, but I am struck by its singularity all over again. It’s not just his fascinating mismatched eyes, or those three beguiling beauty marks that tease me. It’s not even how tall and strong he is, though he’s wearing a T-shirt that shows off his insanely toned arms, with the muscle definition of a lumberjack.
It’s a lot more than how he looks. It’s that my heart has been moved by his kindness to me—by the fact that he has saved my life multiple times and continues to take care of me, a stranger. When I think of him carrying me on his back for hours and hours on end through that unforgiving rain, I want to cry until all the tears in my body are spent. I can’t remember the last time I met someone so selfless. It makes my heart ache a little.
“Hi,” I say softly.
“How’re you feeling?”
I take a deep breath, and the burning in my side flares to an almost unbearable place. I hold my breath until it subsides a little. “It hurts . . . but I’m okay.”
“I guess it’ll be sore for a while.” He tilts his head to the side. “Up for some eggs? They’re fresh.”
“Sure,” I say with a grateful smile. “They smell delicious.”
He disappears, only to return a moment later with a plate covered with scrambled eggs. My mouth waters as he sets the dish on the end table beside me, but I stop him as he turns to leave.
“Wait! Aren’t you having some?”
He hooks a thumb toward the kitchen. “Yeah.”
“Do you want to bring yours in here?” I ask, my voice hopeful.
He holds my eyes for a second, then looks away. “Thought I’d just eat quick. Lots of work to catch up on.”
“Oh,” I murmur, surprised by how disappointed I feel.
“Hey,” he says quickly. “Sure. I can . . . I can take a break. I’ll bring mine in here with you.”
His jeans are worn, and he wears them low on his hips, I notice, as he walks back toward the kitchen to grab his plate. When he moves, I can see a strip of tanned skin between the jeans and his shirt, and I feel my cheeks flush as he turns around and catches me gawking, though there’s no look of teasing or triumph on his face. It’s almost like he didn’t notice, or that he’s so modest, he didn’t correlate my ogling with his muscular body.
I pick up my plate and am digging into the eggs when he returns and takes a seat in the rocker on the other side of the end table.
“This is, oh . . . mmm,” I say, swallowing a mouthful.
“The girls do good work,” he answers, taking a smaller and more polite-size bite of his own.
The girls? “What girls?”
>
“Macy, Casey, Lacey, Gracie, Tracey, and Stacey.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth, loaded with fluffy yellow goodness. “Who?”
“Macy, Casey, Lacey, Gracie, Tracey, and Stacey.” He chuckles softly. “The hens.”
My brain acknowledges that he’s talking about chickens, but my heart is completely distracted by the soft, low rumble of his laugh. Do it again. For the love of all that’s holy, please laugh again.
“The girls rhyme,” I observe, taking another bite.
“Yes, they do,” he agrees, but he doesn’t laugh and I feel cheated.
“Did you name them?”
He nods.
“Very interesting.”
“How so?”
“You don’t look like the type to name your chickens all rhymey and silly.”
“Are you saying I’m no fun?”
I shake my head, grinning at him. “Just serious.”
“Is that bad?” he asks, looking at me closely, like he expects an honest answer.
“Not to me,” I say. “I like serious.”
He turns back to his food, but I think I see the corner of his lip twitch like maybe he approves of my answer, though he doesn’t say so. I shovel the last of my eggs into my mouth and put the plate back on the table.
I think I’ve been here for about four days now, but I’m not sure. Either way, I should probably call my parents and let them know I’m not dead.
“Cassidy, can I use your phone?”
He jerks his head to look at me. “Telephone?”
I nod. “Landline or cell. Whatever you’ve got handy. I want to call my parents and let them know I’m okay.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t have a telephone.”
I feel my face go slack. No phone? I’ve never heard of such a thing. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t . . . I mean, I don’t have anyone to call,” he says simply, spearing another bite of egg.
“No family?”
“Might still have a great-uncle over in New Hampshire, but we lost touch a long while back.”
No family? No friends? I’m about to pry, but force myself not to. Maybe he’s taking a break from the world for a good reason. Didn’t I live like a hermit in my apartment for two years? Pot, meet kettle. I have no right to pick at him.