Night Owl(55)

The morning was chilly. I lit a smoke and headed out, leaving a few windows open and the front door unlocked. Uncle's cabin was in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

I strolled up the gravel road to my nearest neighbor, a little farm called The Patch where people came to pick fresh vegetables and buy eggs. My typist was the farmer's wife. Fuck, I couldn't be bothered typing out my own stuff, and this lady looked like she could use the change. I paid her ten dollars per typed page.

We had a rough start—she kept f*cking up the formatting and couldn't make out my handwriting—but after about a month we got going smoothly. I wrote, I took the pages to Wendy, I bought some vegetables, I picked up the pages, I paid Wendy, I mailed the pages to Pam, rinse and repeat.

I never went online. I didn't even bring my laptop to the cabin. The internet was a mess of gossip about me, and it was part of how Bethany took me down. And it was how I met Hannah. Now, its unreal, anonymous spaces, the programs and sites where we connected, the laptop screen glowing like a window to another world... could only bring me pain.

"You got pages for me?" Wendy smiled, the corners of her eyes wrinkling sweetly.

She was crouched in a ring of wire mesh with a horde of fuzzy chicks teeming around her. When she saw me, she wiped her hands on her jeans and climbed out.

"Yeah, fifteen or so," I said.

I hovered near the pen. I didn't like to look Wendy in the eye. Hell, I didn't like to look anybody in the eye. Eye contact is too intimate.

Wendy understood that. She got me. She also didn't care about the perpetual booze on my breath—not that I could tell, at least.

She took the pages and rubbed my shoulder. She had dry knobby hands.

"Alright hun," she said. "Would you look at these little guys? Just look at 'em."

"Yeah, they're sweet. God, they're cute." I ran a hand through my hair. I needed a shower. I should have taken another two shots. "I'll look at the animals for a while. That okay?"

Wendy laughed.

"Matt, I told you to stop asking. You come see 'em any time. I'll be in the house."

"Mm, thanks. Thanks Wendy."

I watched as she moved toward the old farmhouse. Morning sunlight fell across the white clapboard. Here and there the paint was peeling. The grounds were unkempt, patches of garden braced by scruffy grass and dirt.

Perfect. This place was perfect. I stepped into the chick pen.

"Hey guys." I crouched and reached for the chicks. They swarmed away from me, making me laugh. "You little jerks. You're all fat. You're all going to be ugly in about a month, all scrawny and gray. Come here."

The tiny endless peeping of the chicks was breaking my f*cking heart. I would probably cry when I got into the barn. That's what I usually did.

Finally, I captured one of the chicks. I cupped its body to my chest.

Little bird, I thought. Soft warm little bird.

I wandered around visiting the animals and talking to them. I fed the goats and looked into their weird rectangular pupils. I stroked my hand down a pig's leathery back.

In the barn, a tabby darted away from me.

I glanced around. There was no one in sight, just me and the old black Percheron in his stall. I drifted over and he came to the edge of the stall. He knew this routine. He lowered his lumbering head toward me and I hugged him around the neck.

"Hey pal," I said, my voice thick. I wasn't sad or anything. Mike said that crying is a cathartic release and sometimes it has nothing to do with sorrow.

The horse's huge body made the stall door creak. His neck was pure muscle. I ran my hand down his snout.

"You're big and strong," I whispered.

Even in the cool morning, the barn was warm. The smells of hay and feed permeated the air. I pressed my face into the horse's neck and tears began to slip from my eyes.

"Matt?"

I whirled.

Ah, f*ck. Wendy's daughter stood in the doorway smiling at me. I could never remember her name. Hope? Grace? Something wholesome and forgettable.

"Mm. Fucking hay allergies," I muttered, rubbing my eyes.

"Oh, yeah, those'll get you." She lifted an empty bottle. "We've got a new baby cow. You ought to see him."

I shoved my hands into my pockets and looked away as the girl came closer. She looked twentyish and was very striking—black silky hair, freckles, blue eyes. She wore her hair in a long braid down her spine. I saw her pretty much every time I came to The Patch, but it never dawned on me that she might be seeking me out.

"Yeah, I will," I said. "I'm making my rounds."

"Mom's already working on your typing. You know, she really loves doing that. She won't let me read it, though."

The girl came to stand before me. She seemed too close, but then again, I was drunk—lost to that space-time shit.

"Well, yeah," I mumbled. "It's kind of private."

"No big deal." The girl chuckled. She rose onto her toes and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. Her breasts brushed my chest. "Matt?" she whispered.

I didn't move. I felt like a lump of clay. Her arms were cool and slender and I was aware of her pressing closer. Her breath tickled my neck. How strange. I felt nothing. I stood there listlessly and stared at the barn wall.

"Why are you so sad?" the girl said. "You're so sad. Let me try to make you happy."