Author's note:
I feel rather proud of myself for managing to keep this story under the traditional forty-thousand-word lower limit for a novel -- if only by a little. As always, I've taken the time to lay the groundwork for the characters and story, and I hope you'll find the payoff worth it.
MB
"Good morning, Montana!" the obnoxious Johnny Temple bellows from my back porch. He's loud enough that I can hear him clearly from over two hundred feet away, but at least there's no danger that he's going to bother my neighbors.
"It's gonna be a warm one today," Johnny continues, with the big-city accent that tells local FM radio listeners like me that he's not from around here. "We'll have clear skies and highs in the mid-seventies."
Indeed, it's unusually warm for mid-morning in these northern climes, considering how it's the last day of March.
I listen to the rest of the weather report with one ear as I wrangle the thick electrical wires at the top of a six-foot high steel post. I finished bolting the mounting frames to all five of these posts last night, and the indoor equipment is set-up and tested. Now the only tasks remaining on my little solar power installation are this final bit of wiring and some heavy lifting.
As I solder the wires, the radio shifts from the weather to world news. There are reports about the latest skirmishes along the Sino-Russian border, US incursions into waters illegally claimed by Beijing in the South China Sea, and a renewed push by Ukrainian forces (aided by American advisors) to remove Putin's troops from parts of their beleaguered country.
Then there's a short audio clip of a national security expert who opines that we're closer to a nuclear exchange than any time since the Cuban Missile Crisis. That's worrisome I suppose, but the world got through that predicament and half a dozen others just fine. Thankfully, the news soon moves on to the entertainment report.
I'm soldering the last couple of wires on the last post when the radio abruptly goes silent. I glance down, and sure enough, the little green LED on my iron is off too. The power has gone out yet again, but for once, it's not at the worst possible moment. I quickly solder the last connection while the iron's still hot, snap on the plastic protector, and seal up the junction box. Done!
But the lack of power is going to complicate my plan to call in the extra muscle necessary to lift the ten big photovoltaic panels onto these mounts. I don't have a land line, and the nearest cell coverage is several miles away. My phone runs through the wi-fi, which links up via my satellite dish. What all that means is that when the power goes out, I have no phone.
Normally, I'd fire up my portable generator, but the old Generac finally seized up last week. I'll be happy when I'm making my own power and I can tell the utility company what to do with their crappy lines.
As exasperated as I am, I still pause before climbing down off the stepladder, taking a long moment to gaze out across the prairie. My construction site is on the lower, south-facing slope of a bluff, so considering how flat the rest of the land is around here, I've got a pretty good view. That is, if you like looking at seemingly endless grasslands and grazing cattle -- which, as it so happens, I do.
Other than my house and barn, the only feature of particular interest is the little two-acre patch about a mile distant, sporting a tall chain link fence topped with razor wire. I'd bet they've got power
there
. A place like that could never be without electricity under any circumstances.
The radio booms back to life just as I reach the back porch, nearly scaring the bejesus out of me. At least the power's back on. For now.
I've already got the ten big solar panels loaded in the back of my pickup, kindly placed there by the guys that delivered them. Now I carefully drive them up to the construction site. They're too heavy for me to handle alone, but with a helper I should be able to get them onto their mounts.
I walk back down to the house and snag my egg basket, then go visit the girls. As I open the hen house door, most of the chickens scatter, but Charlotte limps right up to me, her gimp foot giving her an almost-comical gait. I pick her up and cuddle her, which for some reason she loves, tucking her head under my arm. I'm between dogs, which means Charlotte is about as close to a pet as I have now.
Frank the rooster, my inveterate alarm clock, watches me suspiciously. There's no actual need for me to keep a rooster, but the hens seem to appreciate it. He's a cocky little shit, always strutting around and crowing like he owns the place. He's not too brave around me, though.
After a minute, I put Charlotte down and begin gathering eggs. Not a bad haul today. Forty-two brown eggs and fifteen white ones from my seventy-one (at best count) hens. When the count starts to drop, older hens start to end up in the stew pot and younger ones arrive from the hatchery. My little friend notwithstanding, I'm running a ranch here, not a petting zoo.
The next job is housekeeping. Not my favorite, but the last thing I need is to let anyone think I'm in over my head, living mostly alone in a home big enough for eight. I move quickly and efficiently, neatening up a little here, cleaning a little there, and swiftly handwashing my breakfast dishes.
I never let the house get very messy in the first place, so the only trouble spot is my sister's bedroom, which, as always, looks like a bomb has gone off. Crystal left yesterday and won't be back for a week, so I deal with her mess by the simple expedient of kicking the pile further into her room so that I can close the door.
With the cleaning done, I pull out my phone and dial my next-door neighbors. My call reaches out 22,300 miles into space and back, then rings their phone two miles away.
"You've reached the Edwards residence," an older male voice answers, very formally. "We can't come to the phone right now, so please leave a message."
It's unusual for both of them to be out of the house at the same time, but not unprecedented. I wait for the beep.
"Hi Mister Edwards," I say, being formal myself. They've never been able to convince me to call them Walter and Cathy. "This is Lana. I was hoping I could get your help today on the last stage of my project. It should only take an hour or so. I'll be home all day, so you can call or just drop by anytime. Thanks!"
We do this on a semi-regular basis. I get the indispensable help I need, and the Edwards' get fresh vegetables from my extensive garden, baked goods, homemade casseroles or jerky, depending on the season. Sometimes I'll invite the two of them over for dinner with all the fixings. I'm a mighty fine cook, if I might say so myself. Other times I go over there and help Cathy with canning, quilting, cleaning or just to hang out. Today, I've got a big tin of freshly-baked Tollhouse cookies (from scratch, mind you,
not
that plastic tube dreck), which are Walter's absolute favorite.
With the house clean, the only thing still dirty is
me
. I strip down and turn on the water, but before I step into the shower, I perform a daily ritual. I slide the bathroom window open and grab a penny from the little crystal bowl on the vanity. I make my usual wish, then take careful aim and give the shiny coin a gentle toss.
Even from this second-floor window, I've been running about a sixty percent success rate, and today's effort will improve that. Not only does my shot make it into the old wishing well, it lands with a clank in the empty metal bucket, which I figure makes it even more auspicious.
My good aim notwithstanding, I remind myself just how stupid my wish is, and how I wouldn't really want it to come true, even if it could -- which it
can't
. All the same, I'll probably wish it again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that...
My wish is especially strong today, and I know the reason -- I'm going to be seeing Mr. Edwards. It's not that I have any lust for my happily married, middle-aged neighbor. It's because whenever I think of Walter or Cathy, my mind inevitably shifts to the memory of their son.
It's been five years, but I can still recall every detail.
Greg Edwards was two years ahead of me when I started high school. I had immediately fallen in love with him. And why not? He was tall, broad-shouldered, self-assured and exquisitely handsome. His eyes were a sparkling blue and his curly blond hair was absolutely adorable. Unfortunately for me, I was a debate club geek, while Greg had been our school's starting quarterback since halfway through his freshman season.
Being his next-door neighbor didn't help me either. On the few occasions that our families got together, Crystal made it clear to me that I'd best stay away from him while she made her play, since she was more his age. I think he may have been amused by her attempts, but it meant that I was all but unnoticed by him.
Greg had been hailed by the local paper as being perhaps the best athlete our county had produced in the last twenty years. I went to all the football games, just so I could watch him. While the rest of the players looked like the amateurs they were, even my unpracticed eye could see that Greg was playing on a totally different level.
