Chapter Four

She waited a few days before taking him up on his offer to take a look for a trade. It seemed she needed buffer time after spending time with any other human. And that had been a particularly difficult and intimate engagement. 

But a few days later was an exceptionally pretty day– even for the intrusion of the denuded trees. The air was crisp, the sky was technicolor blue, all was snappily autumnal without being unpleasant. 

He hadn’t given her any insight into his personal schedule. But it seemed they similarly worked, and worked hard, but in fairly flexible circumstances. If he happened to be out, or busy, she would just leave her number on his door, or in his mailbox again. She hadn’t thought to alert him that she was going to be traveling along his half of the extension.

His half was ever-so-slightly shorter than hers– mostly by dint of the fact that his was straighter going– she assumed his property had been built second to her own, and therefore the pathway was cut more accurately. Graveled, just as hers was. Tree-lined, much like hers. His property, however, was clean cut for about an acre around his small home.

The home was set back from what appeared to be a sprawling work area. It wasn’t junkyard bad but was neatly crowded. The gravel extended in a square in the front of his house. Several vehicles, lawn care machinery and unnameable, clanking-looking, chain driven things. Neatly lined up as though in a parking lot. A few covered areas that seemed to be work spaces, with locked tool boxes, lifts, string lights. A place for him to work in the dark, or on rainy days. She cut through all of this, heading to his door.

Her assumption that his house was newer than hers wasn’t impossible, but it seemed more likely that they were contemporary. The wood looked the same, and the feel was similar enough that she imagined the same architect might have worked on it. Unlike her black house though, his was a sunshiney white, though his doors and shutters were black as well. 

Even his porch had been whitewashed, though the roof above it had been haint-painted a robin’s egg blue. 

She knocked, sharply. And heard utter silence within. She was about to head back home when she heard stirring in the home. 

“Ayuh?” was called, from somewhere deeper in the house. “A’comin,’” followed quickly afterward.

He opened the door, and his smile followed in the same instance. Just when had she last seen a smile so readily sit upon anyone’s face? And just how long had it been since anyone had greeted her, personally, with such an instant smile? 

“Good mornin’, Jody Lee,” he said, just as cheerful as before. 

“Afternoon,” she said gently.

He turned his bare wrist to look at it. Seemed puzzled to find it naked, and shrugged.

“First one, then t’other,” he said, which made her chuckle, at least a little. “Lemme kick on some boots, and we can go take a walk,” he added.

She nodded, and leaned back against the porch railing. He frowned minutely, confused, and then waved her in. She stood in the foyer that was remarkably like her own. The thin-boarded floors even looked like hers. Although he had an overlapping path of carpets covering his. 

He sat on what looked like a reclaimed pew bench, tugging out a pair of boots from underneath and shoving his feet into them.

She looked up the hallway– the right side with the same sharply steep stairwell as her own, the left opening onto an exceedingly small “parlor.”

“When was your house built?” she asked, as he was double knotting.

“Well, I believe, if yours was ought-four, mine was 1906,” he said, head tilted slightly up and to the right. “Same plans though, I think.” 

“Looks like,” she said, peeking into his “parlor.” Hers, thus far, was a rocking chair, a small card table and a knot rug. His was seemingly a library of neat, office-green file folios, labelled extensively. She couldn’t read from her position in the foyer, but none was left unremarked on. In the center of the room were two beat-to-hell leather armchairs, and a standing lamp.

The space wasn’t really big enough to be a room of entertainment– not that she was planning on, nor did, any entertaining. And she’d sort of been at a loss as to how to use it. She had her bedroom and her office. She rather liked his library-cum-information center use of it. 

“There seemed no sense in using it as a dining room any more,” he said, shrugging. 

“Being at the table alone is depressing,” she agreed.

“Oh, I find it can be rather romantic,” he said, grinning at her sideways as he stood up. “So long as I light the candles and am only serving myself the finest breakfast cereal.”

He’d surprised another little laugh out of her. He extended his arm toward the front door, and she walked back out onto the porch. He pointed to the far right of the property.

“I got two… mebbe three that might suit,” he said, walking in that direction. 

They walked down a neat aisle, him telling her what he had on offer, what they still needed, how they’d run once fixed. She was woefully unaware of cars, and he delicately ignored that fact by over explaining and not bothering to ask her direct questions just asking her, “any questions?”

“What are you going to finish first?” she asked, standing at the end of his graveled aisle, hands shoved in the hip pockets of her jeans. 

“Whatever you set your eye on,” he replied easily.

“I guess, what could you finish the fastest, then? If I just want to trade as quickly as possible?” she clarified, feeling a little impatient.

And embarrassed… Again. Ashamed that, at this moment, she wanted to turn to him, grab his arm and just beg him to take the godforsaken truck off her hands. He’d said he couldn’t pay her what it was valued at. She considered screaming, “just give me what’s in your pockets and get rid of it!”

She wasn’t sure whether it was conscious or not, but he suddenly imitated her. Facing away from the sun, eyes toward the ground ahead of them, hands fisted and deep in the pockets of his far more worn jeans. 

“Are we in a hurry, Jody Lee?” he asked.

“Well… Like you said… With winter and all…” Helplessly, her eyes and nose suddenly got dangerously dry. The terrible pre-bloody-nose tingling she associated with being near tears. If only he’d be less honest, or less steady when he spoke to her. She got the distinct, and chilling sensation that he was only moments away from offering her condolences. And she couldn’t. She could play-act with the people at the crematorium, or law offices, or bank, but not with this fucking… mechanic. 

“A’well…” he said, looking up into the bare branches again– an obvious bid to give her privacy as she got herself under control. “I reckon that little SUV there would fit the bill for you– she’s safe enough for our roads ‘round here an’ all, with winter coming. I got some work to do, some parts to get… But I reckon we’re talking a couple’a weeks, a’most. Just waitin’ for things to come in, really.” 

“Okay,” she said, pleased that her voice was steady.

“We’re still talking about a near-ten thousand dollar difference in values, though,” he said, warningly.

“Well, but what with the parts and labor…” she said, staring at him. Knowing her beg was becoming readily apparent as she felt her eyes watering and getting softer by the second. “And you’ll never really know if you’ll be able to resell it or not and… And classic cars aren’t really an investment–”

“I’ll get started on your pick,” he interrupted, fortuitously. “And if you change your mind… no harm, no foul.” 

She stuck out her hand, taking the three steps or so that brought her into his arm’s reach. He took her hand warmly, again, shaking firmly and for just a beat too long. 

“Well, uh, good deal,” she said. 

“Not for you,” he argued, smiling blindingly at her once more. “But you come on down whenever you want to check on my progress.”

“Okay,” she said, smiling back at him at last. Mostly because she felt things were better in hand now. Her face seemed to return to normality, the tears back from whence they’d sprung. 

She was walking back from the fresh-foods store one late afternoon two days after they’d struck the deal. And found herself, mindlessly, detouring down his half of the extension instead of her own. The sun had that coolly bronzey light that held no warmth and signaled dusk. But she walked with a flashlight, and there was no traffic on the extension but for the two of them, so she wasn’t concerned, even if she was out past dark. Even on his side of things, she was nearly home. 

He was under one of the covered work spaces when she came upon his land. A stereo was playing loudly, balanced a little too far into bass territory. Instantly recognizable, classic hard rock. How apropos, she rolled her eyes. 

She managed to sneak up within a few feet of him before he turned around. If she had been in his place she would have startled. But he just looked over his shoulder once, then twice, then smiled.

“You caught me… I ain’t workin’ on your thing, today,” he said, wiping his hands vigorously on a heavily-stained shop towel looped through his belt. 

“Well, I don’t expect you to every second of the day,” she said. 

Jerking his thumb at a taken-apart closed cab thing, he laughed.

“Trying to get the Wachusett piste snowcat up and running for a friend,” he said. 

She blinked at him for a moment and then laughed.

“I understood nothing of what you just said.” Still laughing, which made him laugh in turn.

“Wachusett is a place to ski, piste is the compacted snow you’d ski upon, and this ‘cat is supposed to do the compacting. A friend is a companion in life who–”

She slapped out at his arm. He was wearing a long john style shirt, smeared with stains, the sleeves rolled up. He accepted the contact, playfully ducking as though he’d have to ward off a physical assault from her. 

She knew, in part, she found him overwhelming because he at least seemed dreadfully kind. And it was nearly impossible for her to accept kindness. One of her great fears was someone asking her, in a sincere way “are you okay?” because that never failed to break her. She was usually able to keep her head up, keep forward momentum, and never stop the march. But if someone offered a genuine moment with her, it made her stumble and fall. And he seemed very capable of delivering that breaking, “are you okay?” 

The second, more embarrassing and nearly foreign way she found him overwhelming was that he was a man. As a young woman, they’d made her nervous, and she didn’t understand their rhythms or communication. After Bash, she found herself cool and disinterested toward them. And while she was woefully heterosexual she had honestly thought Bash might have fractured her ability to be attracted to men. Other men, or feel attraction in general. 

She was highly aware of the things that she liked, and that were foreign to her about Khadem. His sunlit skin, the hair like paint strokes on his wrists, curling up the back of his hands, wiry beard, well-rounded and burly forearms. Even, unfortunately, the strong curve of his ass had caught her eye when he’d left her yard the other day. She’d never been comfortable with desire, and now it was so alien to her as to be impossible to accept. 

“I don’t know anything about skiing. And I guess it’s been awhile, but I do know what a friend is,” she said, still laughing.

“Eh, skiing is for idiots who want to die in the snow,” he said. “But at least your neighbor is a new friend.” He winked at her. 

She smiled in return. She wasn’t sure that they were friends… but she could certainly see a point in time wherein they might be. Which was more than she could say about most people she met. 

He reached up, swiping sweat from the side of his face. Leaving a small, coffee colored stain of grease on his skin. Which somehow just highlighted how lovely his skin was. He glanced at his hand, realizing it was still messy and attempted to wipe it again on the towel at his hip. Which drew her eye toward it. Wearing it like a cowboy wore a gun belt, drawing attention to his neat waist. Which then, of course, made her picture how it would be to snap open his ever-present blue jeans. Which made her simultaneously blush and roll her eyes at herself. 

Maybe the winter could be fun.

“You want some tea?” he asked. “Or… I might have some coffee shoved into the back of my freezer… Maybe–”

“Tea sounds great,” she said.

He gestured up toward the house, and they crunched across the gravel toward his porch again. He followed her inside and she found herself unerringly heading toward the kitchen. They both laughed when she accurately arrived in it.

“We really do have the same plans,” she said. 

“Ayuh,” he said, going to his sink to scrub his hands and forearms. He had three bottles on the sink– two neat white porcelain bottles, possibly hand and dish soap– but also a smeared bottle of orange exfoliant soap. Stripping off the oil and grease and whatever else had transferred to his hands. 

Like the outside of his house, his kitchen was all warmly white painted wood, butcher block countertops. He set a kettle onto the gas stove top, then tapped her wrist, indicating a stool under a work top. She sat as he bustled around, pulling out a tea pot, a box of loose tea, lemon, honey. Filling up the pot’s steeper as he hummed tunelessly.

She liked tea, or cocoa in the evenings. But she never used a tea pot, or loose-leaf. She always just bought cheap and simple bagged tea. He had a whole system, screw top jars of different, unknown things. She definitely saw rose buds and cinnamon sticks on a rack that held five mismatched tea cups above it. 

“My parents drank tea,” he said, while the kettle screamed. “My rough estimate is about twelve gallons of tea a day.” Dropping another wink at her as he poured water in a slow circle over the wire grate. “I always demanded coffee, being that it seemed more American and more tough. And now I find I simply can’t stomach it– in a literal sense. And the house as a whole seems to respond far better to the smell of tea, than my pre-ground coffee.”

“Oh gosh, yes,” she agreed, taking the proffered cup. A deep navy blue with a scroll of silver paint on the rim. “I remember just dumping glass after glass of instant coffee down my throat when I was a kid–”

“After a night of bottom shelf booze, no doubt,” he said, grinning at her.

Rolling her eyes, she nodded. “I can’t imagine how we survived our early adulthood.” 

“Alhamdulillah,” he said, laughing back at her. “Mmm… Praise god,” he added, by way of translation. 

She sipped the tea. Dark and spicy and far more complex than her English breakfast. Warm and vital, spreading warmth in tree branches down from her esophagus across her chest.

“Good,” she sighed, after swallowing. 

“Yes, in our later years, we must treat that which we used to abuse with great gentleness,” he said. His tone serious, his eyes still giving her that sideways sunlight-on-river glint that alerted her to his joking. 

Resting his hips back on the counter then, they just started to talk. Not about anything dangerous or personal. The town. Caretakers. Roofs. The winter. The hardware store, the cost of squash and apples. Not cars, not his parents, not their houses. 

When she finished her first cup, as he was talking about just how he would go about doing planter boxes in her yard, he moved around her easily in order to refill her glass. She wrapped her palms around the delicate glass, the tea still warm, hands grateful for it. 

They finished the pot, and when he realized it was tapped out, he turned the light on over the sink. 

“Oh Lord,” he said, glancing out into the yard. “I’ve kept you out past sunset, do you want me to run you back up to your place?”

“No, thanks,” she said, reaching into the net back at her feet to wave her aluminum fuck-off flashlight at him. 

“Ah yes, quite the weapon,” he agreed. 

“The only two people who would be driving on our road are here so… I think I’ll be fine… Although I appreciate the offer,” she said, in a rush. Not wanting to be rude after having what was truly a very pleasant afternoon. 

“Yes, a two-minute drive would certainly be such a burden for me,” he said sarcastically. She laughed again, sliding from his kitchen stool, scooping up the bag from the market. They both moved in tandem toward the door, knowing their interlude was coming to a close. Walking down the narrow hallway, her ahead, him behind she turned suddenly. Opening up her bag to show off her findings at the fruit shops– butternut squash and tight, tiny green apples. 

“Were you just going to feed yourself cereal tonight?” she asked, in an embarrassed rush, glad to be in the darkness caused by the lack of windows and the tightness of the front hallway. “I was going to fry some apples and do a soup… I have some old rye bread to make croutons with and stuff… I mean–”

“That sounds spectacular,” he said, cutting off her nonsense flow. Though she was still waiting for a rejection. “I’d very much enjoy sharing with you, if you’ll have me.” 

Breathing a sigh of relief, she did a heel turn back toward the door. He flicked on his porch light for himself, as she turned on her flashlight. First crunching across his lot, and then down into his half of the extension. Talking quietly, as though they’d disturb something in the woods by using a more conversational tone. Following the bobbing light of her flashlight. 

Mounting the steps at her house, she turned on most of the lights immediately. She still wasn’t quite sure of her footing in the dark here yet. 

They went into the kitchen, he asked how he could help. She set him to peeling the apples as she chopped and lathered the squash in oil. 

He was at once hopeless and competent in the kitchen. Everything he did, he did as if it was his first time, but at least he completed the task gracefully. And it was fun and easy. They laughed, she scolded, he begged for help. They moved around each other with the ease of those who had long worked together. Which was strange, for the time they’d known each other. 

“I know it’s a bad habit, but I just eat in front of the fire place in the den,” she said, when things had been put into the oven, lids had been lidded, and now it was just a waiting game, for the most part.

“Do I seem like a man who requires formality?” he asked. 

Shaking her head in agreement she led him into what she was calling the den. A love seat, two high-backed armchairs, another card table. A bar cart that she used to hold her electric kettle, whatever small house project she was working on and her to-be-read pile. 

They settled into the armchairs, sort of facing each other, sort of facing the cold fireplace. Continuing the conversation, but moving on to their houses, the year it was built. He was a font of information as far as the years the town was built and booming, what the summer would look like when the tourists came back. 

When the oven timer went off they went back inside. She plated up soup, sprinkling croutons and oil on top, scooping apples into bowls, the whipped cream she’d made a few days ago on top. They balanced bowls and glasses of water back into the den. 

“I really like flakes with extra sugar,” he said, taking a thoughtful slurp from his soup bowl. “But I’d venture to say this is much better.”

She laughed, wishing he was in-reach to play-swat at again. He ate hungrily, which was flattering. He finished first, standing with his bowl and holding out his hand to hers, with a few spoonfuls left in it still. Looking up at him through her eyelashes in question why are you trying to take away my food? he jerked his head toward the kitchen.

“I need seconds,” he said. “Do you want more too?’ 

She tried to recall when anyone had ever asked her that. When anyone had ever offered to serve her.

She had paused for too long, hurriedly thrusting her bowl at him. “Just a little more,” she said, showing her fingers close together. 

“How many croutons?” he yelled from the kitchen a few seconds later.

“Five!” she called back. 

He came back with the bowls, hers with another inch of soup, his filled back up nearly to the top. 

“Bet this bread is even better fresh,” he said, after crunching a crouton in his back teeth.

“I’ll make two loaves next time, and bring you some,” she said.

“Aw, that’s not necessary,” he said.

“I like making bread,” she shrugged. “And I can’t ever finish things fast enough on my own.”

“Ain’t that the worst part of being alone?” he asked. “The food that goes bad… And why can’t I just get a couple of onions? Just a few slices of cake? What am I supposed to do with a sack? What am I supposed to do with a slab of cake?”

She knew he was joking, but a lot of that was true. What was the point of cooking when you were just cooking for yourself? Why make muffins when they’d surely go fuzzy with mold before you could possibly finish them? She’d had a jug of cider go prison-booze on her because she just hadn’t been able to drink it fast enough. 

“Well, caramelized onions freeze beautifully–” she said, trying not to lose the thread of the conversation.

“You behave as if I own a skillet,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

“You mean you don’t even make yourself a grilled cheese every once in a while?” she joked back.

Slapping his forehead, “I can use the grilled cheese pan to make caramel onions!”

“Caramelized,” she corrected. 

“It’s a moot point,” he said, sadly. “I don’t own a skillet… Jody Lee… I bought one of those sandwich irons instead.”

She laughed helplessly. “Like a panini press?”

“Like a laziness tool,” he said. 

They laughed again. And she couldn’t help but think about him eating, and her feeding him. He looked strong and healthy– not like he was still eating like a boy in a dorm room. And he’d made her tea. It wasn’t so bad in the summer, she thought. Him going inside, sweaty and stained, scrounging around for lemonade and slapping together a sandwich. But in the winter… She knew winters here were worse than they were back in Pennsylvania. And they were both more isolated now. Picturing being buried in snow and gray skies, that squeak and crunch of iced ground fall under your feet. And then, wouldn’t he need soup? And blueberry crisp? Buckwheat cakes and creamed spinach and smashed potatoes?

Shaking her head, once more cringing– because picturing that summer moment, hadn’t she imagined him shirtless in his white kitchen? And how could she fall back into old, bad patterns? Namely, a man who wasn’t asking for care being fed by her. 

She sighed, and he leaned back, ankle on his knee, fingers laced behind his head.

“Dinner was so good,” he said, satisfaction obvious.

“I’m glad,” she said. “The tea was so good that I–”

“I turned on a kettle and poured water over harvested stuff,” he said, giving her that glint-eyed glee again. “You filled me.” 

“What else is cooking?” she asked quietly, blushing crazily. 

“Mm, good point,” he said, back to thoughtfulness. “We’d likely be better served by not comparing gifts– or else our friendship will get very strained.” 

“Deal,” she said, sticking out her hand. Reaching across the card table he took hers in a warm clasp, shaking solemnly. 

“It’s a good town,” he said, into the comfortable quietude, after they’d let each other go. “Of course, I didn’t appreciate it as a kid– but do we ever? But this is a good place… It’ll be good for you. And there will certainly be more friends for you.” 

She was tender and uncertain again. 

“I wouldn’t call the town warm,” she said, by way of gentle dissent.

“No, it’s not warm,” he agreed. “It’s honest, and human. My parents always just called it the village placed on the other side of the world.”

“I don’t know that I’m ready to be honest… or human,” she said, chuckling in an attempt to bely her raw candidness. 

“You’re not ready, you’re never ready,” he said. “You earn it and learn it and grow into it.” 

She blinked at him for a long moment and then nodded. What else had she done, in this move, but trying to get ready for honesty? Why else had she felt an urge to bury herself? Why else long for old age if not to feel comfortable in who you were? 

“Well,” he sighed, hands dropping to his upraised knees as he stood up. She scrambled upright too, understanding the impending departure. 

They walked back to the front door, and as they did, she stopped him when his hand was on the door knob, fingers on his elbow. He turned and for a brief moment she wondered if they felt that strong and vibrating, animal thread between them. That shivering chord that sometimes drew two people into an embrace. But, no. 

“The closet next to you,” she said, withdrawing her fingers. “There’s another flashlight there… So you don’t have to walk in the dark.” She was going to grab it for him, but he did so first. Unveiling, unfortunately, her back up closet.

Like many historic homes the storage in this one was tragic. The closets in particular had caused her some consternation. Namely, not only were they comically small, they were shallow. Such that she couldn’t actually hang standard coat hangers over the bars in them, at least not flatly parallel. They all hung at an angle, one end poked against the back walls of the closet, the other cocked awkwardly to the door. 

This closet had become her ‘formal’ closet. All those things from her earlier years at work. Back when she was still networking. Doing things like charity dinners, convention shows at downtown hotels and casinos, executive dinners at places hard to get tables at. She was now a few years from doing those as frequently as she had. But she’d loved the clothes, and hadn’t wanted to get rid of them.

He chuckled, finding the secondary flashlight on the top shelf, clicking it on and then off again in unconscious preparedness. 

“Were you a show girl before coming to the boonies?” he asked.

Slapping the closet shut, she leaned back against it. “I mean… It is work clothes.” And she proceeded to tell him how she used to do stuck-up c-suite dinners and meaningless appearances at good-cause things her company had donated to. 

“But you don’t do that any more,” he prodded.

“No…”

“But you kept the dresses,” he said, tone more wheedling by the word.

“Yes,” she sighed, blushing for what felt like the millionth time with him. 

“And you like green.” Grinning devilishly now.

“Remember dinner?” she grumbled. “Ought not to tease, or no bread.”

“Consider my mouth shut,” he said, miming locking and throwing away the key. He opened the door, flicking on the flashlight and walked the two steps across her porch. Dropping hip shot and gracefully down the first step, he suddenly turned back around.

“Well, speaking of bread,” he said. “Let’s put the dresses back to use, huh?”

“Where?” she asked sarcastically. The nearest place to eat was a bar with live music, pickles and peanuts over the town line. 

“Here,” he said. “We don’t have to go anywhere. I can’t think of anything nearby that will make anything as good as you can. So fancy-dress dinner… Just you and me.” 

“Oh… Okay,” she said, hesitantly. Heart pounding and having the nostalgic sensation of a first-date movie night. 

“This weekend,” he said, smiling and going down the second step. “I’ll bring dessert, at least. And it doesn’t seem that either one of us drinks so… cider?”

“Cider,” she agreed numbly, sure that he’d see her heart pounding through her sweater. 

“I look forward to it,” he said, beginning to walk, light bobbing across the dead grass of her lawn. “Gives me a reason to shine my shoes.”