Some will fall in love with life
and drink it from a fountain,
that is running like an avalanche
coming down the mountain.
* * * * *
"Really?" is all I can say.
Well, I think I say it. I might be just kind of shrieking it in my own mind. Anyway, I don't have time for anything else; it's hit the cow, well, cows, or, nope, nothing else.
And why are there cows on the road at night in a storm?
I jerk the wheel to the side, and feel all four wheels leave the road, hydroplane over mud, then I'm doing the movie thing where you're plowing through corn -- cliche, I know, but I'm doing it -- the tall thick stalks whipping down in front of me, pounding the hood, competing with the rain for clatter. Oh yeah, it's raining, but it really needs a better description than that; it's, uh, it's, oh, and I'm still ripping through the cornfield at this point too, until I think to brake, and come to a squelching stop.
Quiet. Uh, I guess I was, ahem, screaming? Manly screaming though. Bellowing. Now though, just the rain pounding down, like it never will stop.
* * * * *
God damn it. It looks like it actually may never stop; it's so dark when I step from the car that I literally cannot see my hand in front of my face.
Later, I stop to press my eyes and forehead to my sleeve to blot the sweat and salt from my eyes. Hot. Muggy. No lights at all. No idea where I am. I should have stayed with the car, though no one has passed me in the hour I've been walking. Too far to go back now. Might as well keep on. And now, nice, hail. A little farther along I feel a crunch under my boots and realize I'm walking on gravel now. The road bends away to the left here and the gravel (driveway?) heads just straight on. The rain comes down harder, and I have to strip water out of my eyes. Fuck this. I follow the gravel.
A quarter mile or so up a shallow grade is a group of buildings; looks like a barn, house, garage, sheds of some kind. Typical farm layout, I guess, not being a farmer. I splash and squelch my way up across the lawn, and up the wooden steps to a screened-in porch. I debate knocking on the screen, but I know it's pointless, the wind is just too much, forget about the rain, so I pull it open and step onto the porch, dripping, and rap on the door, trying not to sound like a scary person knocking on an isolated farmhouse door in the middle of a dark and stormy.
Lights come on all around me, lighting the porch in what would be cheerful yellow light in other circumstances, but I'm so dark-adapted, that my eyes squeeze shut, and I wince, just as the door opens to reveal the second movie moment of the evening; Farmer John, wearing, no kidding, overalls, holding -- you guessed it! -- a shotgun! Fun times!
"Uh, wow, hello sir, I'm kind of in a fix, ha-ha!" He doesn't laugh, just looks unimpressed.
"Anyway, my car is off the road in a field somewhere, and I've been walking for a while, I don't even know where..."
Remember; I'm still standing on the porch dripping, and he still hasn't said anything. He's not pointing the shotgun at me, he just has it over the crook of his arm, like I'm not much of a threat. "Who is it dear?" I hear from behind him, not much worried either, just mildly curious.
"Well" he says, and sighs, "looks like a lost boy. Half drowned too."
Don't get me wrong; he's not concerned, he's just reporting the news.
"Well bring him in" says the nicer voice, "he'll catch his death."
So farmer John, steps back, and holds the door open, indicates for me to enter with a little jerk of his head. I make to step in but he stops me. "Kick your boots off boy, you're a mess." So I do, and walk in my socks into a warm and brightly lit kitchen.
"Oh, lord, what a mess," confirms the older of the two women in the room, a roundish, plumpish farmer's wife-looking lady, "you come with me young man, supper's almost ready, but it'll keep." She takes me by the arm, and leads me further into the house, as Farmer John snorts, and breaks his shotgun to extract the shells. "Sarah, go fetch some dry clothes for this boy now, and I'll show him where to get cleaned up."
I'm starting to shiver now in the cool house, as the rain continues to drip from, well, all of me, and I'm extremely grateful as the nice lady leads me to a big, white-tiled bathroom, and points to an enameled tub with an old-timey brass shower and pipe contraption. "You just get cleaned up now, and here's some towels, and Sarah will leave some dry things for you just outside, alright?" she says, pats me on the arm, wipes her now wet hand on her apron, and bustles out.
Heavenly hot shower, sluicing mud and cold down the drain, standing in the needling spray until I'm thoroughly warmed, then big, soft white towels, wiping a circle in the mirror with my hand, and combing my hair back with my fingers as best I can. I find a stack of clothes outside the door, and I sort through them; canvas pants, a denim shirt, with nickel buttons, and a three-pack of tube socks, still in the wrapper, the kind I wore as a kid. with two wide stripes at the top, and that go up to just below the knee. Very nostalgic. The clothes fit me surprisingly well, they must either be someone else's or Farmer John's from many years prior.
Dressed, I find my way back to the kitchen, and only the motherly lady is in there now, doing several things at once at a big iron stove. She smiles at me, props her hands on her hips, and nods once; apparently I pass muster, even in my socks. Supper is ready now, and she calls for Sarah to help her set the food out. Farmer John apparently has no duties in this arena. Sarah is several years younger than I am, in her late twenties at least. Slender and shy, with dark hair, unruly, captured in a ponytail, and dark eyes that meet mine for just a moment, before she blushes, and looks down again. She's in a slightly more modern version of the older lady's outfit, but it's still farmhouse chic for sure; blue and white checkered dress, with buttons like Dorothy's.
They set out the food, and Aunt B -- as I've taken to calling her in my mind -- tells Sarah to pour some milk, and Sarah points out a chair for me, so I sit.
"John! It's ready dear!" calls Aunt B, and I have to grin. It really is Farmer John! And he comes to the table, and scowls at me, but I have an idea it's not personal, he's just a scowler, and Aunt B won't let the conversation begin until the platters have been passed, and we're all stocked up. I'm introduced then to everyone, and I get to tell my story, and Farmer John allows that he probably knows where my car is, and that we can pull it out with the tractor in the morning if the rain lets up. We have dinner, and it's farm-fresh baby; fried chicken, and biscuits, peas, a big green salad, several kinds of potato dishes, and of course, pie for dessert. Peach. Very nice.
Farmer John doesn't stick around after; just pushes back his chair, nods to Aunt B, give me a little extra scowl, and bails. I offer to help with the cleaning up, but Aunt B won't hear of it, and gently but firmly propels me out of the kitchen, and into the living room, which is empty of Farmer John. The women clatter around in the kitchen for a while, and I have time to reflect on what an odd situation this is, and if this really were a movie, they'd kill me later tonight. Although, now that I think about it, Aunt B doesn't really seem that homicidal, what with the fried chicken and all.
Kitchen clean, Aunt B bustles in, collects me, and shows me to my room for the night; farmhouse all the way, with wide plank floors, a rocking chair, a four-post bed with a little bench at the foot, lace curtains, quilted bedspread, all that stuff. She lights an oil hurricane lamp for me, makes me promise to put it out before I go to sleep, tugs the curtains closed, and fluffs the pillows. She asks Sarah, who's standing in the doorway, if there's fresh sheets on the bed, and Sarah nods, but a stricken expression crosses her fresh, pretty features, but it's gone again before I can decipher it.
Her preparations complete, Aunt B announces that it's well past her bedtime, and turns to go. I glance surreptitiously at my watch to find that it's all of eight thirty. I look questioningly at Sarah, but she just hides a little smile and looks down. I guess it's time for bed then. "Goodnight" I say, feeling a little silly. They leave, and I listen for the telltale sound of the key locking me in, preparatory to my eventual murder, but don't hear it. I hear them walk down the hall, and I try the door, feeling like an asshole. It opens no problem.
* * * * *
Perhaps an hour later, at the crazy-late time of nine-thirty, there's a little knock at my door. The killer probably; it's always the one you least expect.
It's Sarah, with a stack of sheets in her arms.
"You don't have sheets" she says, looking down.
"You lied to Aunt B?" I ask, kidding her, but she doesn't laugh.
"Aunt B?"
"Never mind."
"Well, I'm supposed to air and change the sheets on Sundays, but I usually don't because nobody usually uses this room."
"Well it's a big problem Sarah" I say, still trying to get her to relax a little, "I'm going to have to take it up with the big man."
She looks at me anxiously at that, "no, please don't!" she says, "I'll get in SO much trouble!"
