I
woke, finding myself not in my bed, but under the gaze of Andromeda and
Cassiopeia, with a breeze on the ridge, stirring the oak trees surrounding us
to stretch and moan lazily, only for them to whisper gently before going still
in the darkness. It was cold, and I was grateful for the sleeping bag draped
across us. I turned to see John peacefully sleeping with his arm tucked under
his head, his hair covering his eyes, which when opened, warmed my soul more
than a cup of fresh hazelnut coffee in the morning. I reached out, lightly
running my fingertips over his eyebrows and temples-- his dimples faintly
showed before his legs intertwined with mine. I pulled the sleeping bag over
our shoulders and moved into the crook of his arm, feeling his warm breath pass
over the crown of my head, a great contradiction to the cold metal under us in
the bed of his pickup truck.
I
lay there, hearing the trees stirring: a dog faintly barking from the neighbors
that were a mile or two down the road, it’s voice carrying across the hills--
without any sounds of traffic, as it was too late in the night and we were too
far from the road. The few cirrus clouds that covered the Sap moon
intermittently were translucent and added warm shapes to the cold, offsetting
the stars that were the only lights seen. We were too far from town to see even
the haze of light and smoke coming from the plants that fed the local economy.
On the opposite ridge you could see both towns, one east and one slightly
south-west, a spot visited for off-roading and July 4th to catch the
fireworks that rose above the tree lines in the valley.
The
field we were in was framed by two ponds: to the north of us was my second
favorite piece of the property, an area covered in large evergreens and rocks
with moss scattered amongst uncovered root systems-- the only picturesque piece
missing was a small stream, which had dried up when the property was farmed
with the first owner, John’s great-grandfather. The field we were parked in was
my favorite spot on the property, as it was the field we had decided to build our
home on. We envisioned a two-story home with a wrap-around porch, the upper
balcony leading to our bedroom with French doors, and quiet nights spent
watching the sun set from our bed. The morning sun would rise into our kitchen
window, framed by the rhododendron bushes and cardinals at the bird feeder.
Bare feet would tread across hardwood flooring into the living room, where the
hearth was encased with bay windows, bookshelves underneath, where I would curl
up with Hemingway until the coffee had brewed. Once John rose, as he would
never be a morning person, we would join on the porch for breakfast, next to
the railing where I could perch my glass pitcher to make his beloved sun tea.
“Sophie.”
“Hmmm?”
I turned to see John openly reading my expressions, a smile on his lips,
dimples showing. I came out of my reverie and realized I couldn’t feel my toes. “You have that hazy look in your eyes,
like you do when you are thinking, yet your eyes are sparkling rather than that
dullness, that void, that fills them when you are upset. What are you thinking
about?”
“I
was thinking about this field, with our home built upon it, and us sitting on
the porch in the cool of the shade drinking sun tea, made just for you.”
“It’s
too cold for tea, hunny.”
“Yes,
it is; I can’t feel my toes. What time is it?”
“It’s
almost one. Start the truck so that you can warm up. I’ll roll up the sleeping
bag. Let’s go home.”
I
scooted across the back of the truck, off the gate onto the ground, sliding my
hand against the side of the truck until I found the door handle, as it was so
dark that I couldn’t see in front of me. Postcards sold in the state often gave
a night scene in which the card was pitch black, a surprising truth in the deep
country when the stars and moon are hidden behind clouds. Opening the truck
door, the quick shine of the interior light was a shock to my pupils, and I
squinted as I hopped into the truck, leaning across the worn leather seat
covered in gray and plaid cloth. I reached for the keys in the ignition. The
truck turned over without hesitation, always a shock to me since it would be
classified an antique within the next few years. I leaned against the seat,
knowing the truck wouldn’t warm up enough to blow warm air through the vents
before we reached the house, grateful just to be out of the direct breeze. John
opened his door and I leaned forward, hugging the dashboard, giving him room to
fold the seat and place the sleeping bag in the compartment behind us. He
tucked it into place and I leaned back to apply my body weight to lock the
seat. He got in and swung his legs under the steering column. Our legs weren’t
greatly different in length, separated only by inches. His torso was,
nonetheless, superior in height, causing his head to almost graze the ceiling
of the cab. I moved to the center of the seat, placing my feet crossed at the
ankles on the right floorboard, so that if we should find any ruts in the dirt
roads crisscrossing the property, I wouldn’t interfere with his driving.
I
slid my hand onto his upper thigh, his worn jeans under my fingertips, his leg
cool to the touch, and gently squeezed as I looked at his side profile and
leaned into kiss his cheek. He turned and kissed my forehead before turning on
the headlights and putting the truck into gear, wrapped his arm around the back
of the seat and onto my shoulders.
We
crossed the field to the dirt road that was below us, hugging the hillside as
we snaked through trees, avoiding ruts in the road from the last rain storm,
staring down at the bottom of the mountain before we maneuvered around the
campsite, drove through the gate, and shut it behind us. The gate served no
true function, as the cows were long gone, but it was a simple gesture in the
country as all the locals know that when you come to a closed gate, you either
don’t belong there, or you need to respect the property and leave it as you
found it. With over one hundred acres beyond the gate, we wanted to ensure it
stayed as it was. It was unlikely that people would cross the property that
didn’t belong, as this gate was behind his parent’s home-- but two other gates
to the property lay off the main road, which stayed locked.
We
came down the hill behind the house, creeping down the driveway so that we
wouldn’t wake the household, and turned onto the main road. I buckled my lap
belt and lay my head on his shoulder, gazing out the window at the passing
scenery. Cabins, trailers, and split-levels, a ranch here and there, filtered
past us. We passed the old gas station, a one-room wooden A-frame that was
still open for sodas and gossip. Around the bend were the salvage yard, church
and grave yard, more farms, and to the right a paved driveway highlighted with
perfectly aligned trees and a house that was never seen from the road, no
matter what the season.
The
only signs of life were the trail of smoke lifting with the breeze, too late
for even the deer to stir along the roadsides, licking the salt or finding
water and shelter before retiring for the night. We crossed the intersection
leading to the vineyards and the radio station, around the dairy farm where I
first learned to milk a cow, and across the river by the new park. I stared at
the old train trestle, a rusted steel apparatus that in its heyday would have
been a lovely bridge, but was now a sad, yet oddly quaint, reminder of the
flood two decades ago-- the one that neither of us was old enough to remember. We
topped the road at the lumber yard, which growing up had been the drive-in
movie theater, and turned towards town.
On
the hillside was the mansion with the widows-walk that was haunted: an estate
that was left to the surviving family members, which everyone within the family
argued about, but no one really wanted. From the mansion you could see most of
town, a stretch of maybe two miles at most, less than a mile wide, sitting
within the valley of the mountain range, a river crossing in the midst and
running the length of it, shaping the layout of civilization. In the center of town
had been the mill, which was long gone-- replaced by a dam to keep future
floods from devastating the land. Next to this river are the industrial plants
that keep the town surviving; without them the economy would tank and my
hometown would be non-existent-- a ghastly image and as empty as the time the
whole area lost power for that ten hour stretch: nothing moving about, just
sheer darkness and stillness. I knock on wood that the plants don’t leave town
to take business elsewhere. I’m not normally a superstitious gal, but it’s
better safe than sorry when it comes to something as serious as that. There
isn’t much wood within this truck, this paneling and my notebook made of wood
pulp will have to do. I’m not a very religious gal either, but dear God, don’t
let our folks here lose those plants.
~to be continued~
