“Don’t break the circle,” she whispered and walked to the ladder again and stepped down the rungs and left him hanging in the sky of her.
BUNKY FINISHED THE WOOD-CUTTING JOB
and got busy with regular farm work. It meant he was around the place every day and it was the pair of them now that walked his lunch out to him. They sat in the grass and made small talk while he ate and he fought to keep from looking at her with more than a furtive glance. One day after he finished his lunch Bunky and he walked the new fence line and the older man seemed pleased.
“I could lend a hand if ya needed it, Eldon,” he said.
“I took it on, I’d kinda like to finish ’er,” he said. “A dozen more posts and then pull the wire. I figure she can’t best me now.”
“Yer doin’ good. Yer a good hand.”
“Desperation’ll make a man work his tail off, I suppose.”
“Well, ya don’t look anywhere near so desperate now.”
He could only stare at his shoes.
He took to rising early and heading out on the tractor at first light and throwing himself into the digging before the sun came out and hit him with the full heat of the day. But it was more than that. Their kiss in the loft haunted him. He didn’t want to risk Bunky seeing it on his face. Guilt wasn’t a new thing to him. Dealing with it sober was. He felt as though every move he made in her company threatened to betray him. He was afraid to speak in case he blurted something that would draw attention to his discomfort and the reason for it. So he began to skip breakfast. One morning there was a sack on the seat with bannock, fruit, and a thermos of coffee. He grinned and ate it while he drove. Without drink felt as though he occupied his body for the first time in a long time and each day of work slaked the hard pinch of craving in his gut. He didn’t take wine with his supper. He didn’t take the beer Bunky offered on the porch when they sat out there late into the evenings. He could feel the older man studying him. He could sense questions in him but they went unspoken. Instead, they talked about the land and how it felt to them to be out on it with their back bent to some kind of labour.
“It comes to fill a man,” Bunky said one night.
“I ain’t much for poetry,” he said. “But I get what you’re sayin’.”
“Poetry’s nothin’ but a man feelin’ what’s there anyhow.”
“I guess. Never lent my head to it is all I meant.”
“You should. Opens a fella up doin’ that.”
“Ain’t exactly my strong suit.”
Bunky puffed on his pipe and nodded solemnly. “That’s poetry right there. You sayin’ that.”
“You’re startin’ to talk like her.”
Bunky laughed and tapped the bowl of the pipe on the
porch rail. “Funny how that’ll happen to a man. Never thought it’d happen to me. But I like it.”
He took to watching her when Bunky wasn’t looking. He found himself pulling tiny details into him; the smallness of her wrist when she stirred a pot, the young girl look on her face when she studied a hand of cards, joy eking when she won a hand and how she could fall so easily into contemplation when something was said that struck her, the depths of her spinning away just beyond his vision like a swirling eddy pulling him to its depths. She caught him now and then. She’d tilt her head. She’d give a small smile and then turn back to whatever she was doing and his gaze would drape her like a cloak.
He drank her stories in. He and Bunky would clomp in from the porch and they would gather in the living room and she would close her eyes and he’d watch her move into another place. She seemed to slip beyond time. When she opened her eyes again she was a totally different creature, and the words when they came were stunning in their flow. If he closed his own eyes he could see the details of the journeys she took him on and he was enthralled. He always felt lonely somehow when the stories ended, lessened abruptly, as if his sole contact with her had been severed, and he’d slump off to the loft in the barn, waiting for her to step out of the moonlight again and touch him. She never did. Instead, she’d look up and watch him leave, the feel of her eyes on him what he carried away.
The work took him sixteen days. He was pulling the last strand of wire when she appeared in mid-morning. Bunky had said he had errands in town. There was a breeze from the south and the sun was hot on his back and he’d taken the shirt off and flung it over the last post as a marker. His muscles were taut and hard from the work and he’d lost some of the drunk fat. He felt lean and strong. When she called to him he turned and watched her walk toward him and he wiped the sweat from his brow with a forearm and stepped away from the bundle of wire at his feet. He didn’t reach for the shirt. Instead, he stood and tilted the water jug back to drink and then splashed his hair with it and let the water flow over him.
“That’s the best part of watching men work,” she said. “The pleasure they take in it.”
“Yer gonna have to spell that out for me.”
She laughed. “Like when you see them half smile when something’s hard. When they have to strain with it. Or the look when something’s done and it’s plumb and square and right and they nod like kids getting coached at a game. Or like now, the splash of water. It’s fun to see.”
“It’s sweat.”
“It’s manly. I like that.”
“That why you chose to work in the camps? So you could be reminded of your father?”
She stared at him. Then she sat down in the grass and folded the flare of her dress close in around her. She traced a finger along the tops of the grass. Then she looked back up at him again. “I told you there was more to you,” she said.
“Sorry. Just thinkin’ out loud is all.”
“Don’t be sorry. You saw through something. You spoke it. There’s no wrong in that.”
“Don’t know if it’s right.”
“It doesn’t have to be right. It just needs to be said. People can sort out the right from the wrong together.”
“Ain’t had much call for that sorta talk.”
“Yet,” she said.
He sat down on the grass beside her. He crossed his legs and plucked a spear of grass and stuck it between his teeth and gazed up at the sky. “Mosta the big talk in my life got left unsaid. Ya get used to that. Makes it tough to say anything real or hard. After a time you come to prefer it.”
“Man talk,” she said. “Men think getting to the roots of things is trench digging. It’s not. It’s plain talk. Like a story.”
“I never told no stories.”
“You should. When you share stories you change things.”
“Says you,” he said.
“If you told me one of your stories, you’d get lighter.”
“Don’t know as I have any worth the tellin’.”
She smiled at him and touched his leg. “You could let go of something maybe you carried for a long time. I could know more of you. Get bigger with the knowing of you.”
“You’re sayin’ you want to know me.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t see why ya would.”
She took his hand, held it to her face. He watched her breathlessly as she kissed the palm of it. “I don’t know why,” she said. “I just do.”
He reached out and pulled her to him and cradled her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. There was surprise there, wonder. When he bent his face to kiss her she closed her eyes and opened her mouth. She laid a hand on his chest as he eased onto his back in the grass. He rolled over and she
lay on the grass with her hair fanned out around her head and he was on his knees looking down at her. She smiled and trailed a finger down his chest. He kissed her again and she wrapped her legs around him and pulled his head to her shoulder and he lay clutched by her with the smell of grass and dirt and stones at his face and knew he would never see the land the same again. When they made love it was gentle and sweet and brought them both to tears. He held her after. He had the scent of their loving in his nose and it mixed with clover and wild raspberries and the breeze. When she rose and arranged herself he could only lie there looking up at her.
“I need to go.”
“Bunky,” he said, climbing to his feet. “What’ll we do there now?”
“I don’t know. Yet.”
He put his arms around her. The fragrance of her hair. The rim of her ear at his lips. She drew back and looked at him, squinting with the sun on her face. “This was a good thing,” she said. “Don’t let yourself tell you any different.”
“I won’t,” he said, and she walked off.
“Well, this here’s the last meal we’ll share. Here anyways,” Bunky said. “Dig in, Eldon. You earned it. That was some fencin’ you done. Proud of ya.”
“Thank you,” he said. She’d roasted moose Bunky had killed the previous autumn. There were turnips, corn, and mashed potatoes and he ate slowly, enjoying it, making it last. She hovered around the table, adding portions to their plates. He eyed her. The memory of her body under his. He looked at Bunky, who ate with his head down. After a while
Bunky looked up across the table and set his utensils down. “You ain’t looked in the pay envelope,” he said, easing his chair back. “All these days in the sun’n the dirt, that’s the pure sum of it. Yer ticket.”
“Not real sure what I need most right now,” he said. He reached out and pulled the envelope to the side of his plate.
“Well, she’s a good haul, I figure. Get ya anything.”
“Don’t want much,” he said. He thumbed open the flap and looked at the wad of bills crammed there.
“No matter. A man’s got cash in the hand, his mind’ll sort what to do with her.”
He scratched at the back of his head and looked across at the older man. “I thank ya for this,” he said. “I ain’t felt better in a long time.”
“Ya done good for yourself. All’s I did was give ya work.”
“That’s lots,” he said. “Most don’t.”
“Man’s past ain’t his measure.”
“Most don’t think that neither.”
“Well, I’m a different sort. Kinda always have been. Me, I figure ya prove who ya are in the day yer in.”
“Thanks for that too then.”
“Ain’t nothin’.”
“It’s lots.”
They bent to their plates again and he stuffed the envelope in his chest pocket. She came and joined them at the table. She had a small bowl and she picked at it.
“You ain’t hungry?” Bunky asked.
“I nibbled all the while I cooked,” she said.
“Get you a cook’s belly,” he said with a laugh.
“Hopefully not,” she said and reached a hand out to touch his. They shared a look across the table.
“What say we have us a smoke, Eldon,” Bunky said.
“No,” he said. “You two go on ahead. I wanna clean up.”
“You ain’t paid to do that.”
“Don’t need payin’. Something I just wanna do is all.”
She stared at him and he picked up his plate and took it to the sink. “Well, I’m never the one to argue with a man wants to do extra,” Bunky said. “Let’s us smoke then, girl.”
He could hear them stand and walk out to the porch and when they were gone he gathered the other plates and scraped them into the bin and stowed the food stuff in the fridge. There was a feeling in him like waiting for a punishment. It felt better to keep moving and he ran the water and held his hands under and let the heat calm him. He took his time washing the dishes and he could hear them talking in low tones. He wondered if she was telling him what happened between them and then he heard him laugh and tap the toes of his boots on the boards of the porch. He dried the dishes. Then he used the soapy water to clean off the counter, the cutting board, the stove and fridge, and finally the sink itself. He towelled the tap and faucets to a sheen and set the towel on the rack to dry. He craved a drink for the first time in days. His gut was agitated. His head was full of thoughts that sped past each other. Trapped. He was shifty-footed and it scared him and he walked out to the porch and leaned on the rail and faced them.
“Think I’m gonna walk,” he said.
“She’s near to sundown,” Bunky said.
He couldn’t lift his gaze from his shoes. “No matter. Feel like a walk is all.”
“Do you want company?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Thanks, but no.”
“Well, come in when yer done. We’ll play some cards and maybe have one last story,” Bunky said.
“I think maybe not. I think I’ll just book in. Kinda tired.”
“You should be. That was some work. You okay?”
He puffed out his cheeks and looked around at the barn and the fields and took his time speaking. “Feels good out here,” he said. “I kinda feel like walkin’ it some.”
“Kinda suck at goodbyes myself,” Bunky said. “This was nice. Havin’ you here. Yer a good man.”
“Am I?” he asked and risked a look at the older man.
“I got no call to argue the fact,” Bunky said. “Hire ya any time. Tell others to give ya a go as well.”
“That’s good of ya.”
“You done it fer yourself.”
“All right then.”
“All right. Ya feel like it, come in anyhow once yer done.”
He turned and walked across the yard. There was a feeling in him like a bruise, a purple ache that set between his ribs. He tasted a cry building at the back of this throat. It was too familiar and made him fearful. So he strode past the barn and out into the field and aimed for the line of the ridge. Ground squirrels nattered and whistled at his passing. The grass was wet with dew and his pant legs were soaked but he strode fast and purposefully, the feeling in his belly churning and rank like something turned to spoil. He wanted to scream, to run into the trees and let branches cut him, sting him like lashes. But he stopped at the line of them and turned and looked back at the farm. It sat in the hushed fall of evening, the lights from the house like pale yellow eyes. He thought he heard her laughing. He thought of her touching Bunky in that gentle way she had and the idea of that made him half crazy. She’d stay with
Bunky. She’d choose what was predictable and safe and he didn’t blame her for that. But he’d miss these days. He’d miss her. He’d miss the lightning bolt thrill of her in his arms. He felt the impending separation like a shearing away of something pliant and soft inside himself and he wanted to drink.
He dreamed of a valley. It shone in the glow of a setting sun. There was a river wending its way through with the backdrop of mountains and the smell of gum and sap and the feel of the breeze on his brow. He could hear the yap of wolves at play. He sat on a rock that faced the east and he watched the line of shadow creeping westward in time with sun’s fade behind the lip of another ridge to the west, the cool air like a curtain descending. The blink of the light of emerging stars in the purpling mantle of the sky. The susurration of the rising wind in the treetops. He closed his eyes and drew it into him and felt peace and he raised his face to the heavens and sat open-mouthed and breathing, seeing nothing but hearing the motions of life around him everywhere. He heard footsteps approaching from behind him and he listened, unafraid and trying to discern shape and substance from the fall of them, slipping through the rough tangle of root and stone, dropped branches and the dry husk of moss. He opened his eyes and he could see her standing on the top rung of the ladder. She clambered up and walked toward him stealthily, soundless and assured. She touched him and he turned and she kissed him and he fell into it again. Her hair draped around their heads, shutting out the world so that all he could see was her face, her smile, the line of her lips, and the glimmer of her eyes. He kissed her, uncertain if he dwelt in dream and
not wanting to move for fear of waking. Her hands on his chest, his ribs, his belly. Her tongue trailed down his neck. His hardness. Her hands on it and she took control and eased the night shift she wore over head and the spill of her breasts taking his breath away and then the soft wet of her all round him, within him.