Page 24 of Grounded
“Alright, gotta go. I’ll talk to you next week when I get back from Milan.”
Annie barely knew Beverly Enlo, but apartments in Manhattan were hard to find. She didn’t know Prema at all when they moved in together and she had become one of her best friends. If it didn’t work out, she would hunt another situation, a thought that made her tired. Annie eyed the bed and ran her fingers through her hair. A quick nap would be nice. But her bed was covered with clothing, so back to work it was.
A garbage bag soon bulged with torn or stained clothes and miscellaneous trash. Another bag was filled with items for the Goodwill. The rest was placed back in the closet. In the process, she had found old jeans, T-shirts and tennis shoes that would be suitable for working around the farm.
A charcoal set she had used in a college art class caught her eye, and she left it out in case she might want to draw later. It had been years, and her relationship with art had gone from creator to admirer.
Suitcase finally emptied and stuffed under the bed, Annie stood and stretched. How long since she had gone for a run, or exercised at all? It was time, even though she would rather sleep. She wrestled the two full garbage bags down the stairs and into the kitchen.
“Well, looks like you’ve cleaned house,” her grandmother said. She was sitting at the kitchen table in her print housedress, mixing sugar with flour into a yellow crockery bowl.
“I’ve made a start at least,” Annie said. “I’ll put these bags out here until we can get them to town if that’s alright.”
“Joe hauls garbage off on Mondays. The rest is fine to sit there.”
Annie filled a glass with tap water and drank it down. “I forgot how bad the water tastes here,” she said, grimacing. “Next time we’re in town, I’ll get some bottled water.”
“Only get what you want. I’m used to it.”
“I’m going out for a run,” she said and was out the back door before her grandmother could reply.
Annie started off at a slow jog down the long drive. Lethargic after days without exercise, she tried distracting herself by taking in the surroundings.
Broken planks hung cockeyed from the fence behind the trees, reminding her of a man whose glasses were knocked sideways on his face. Her grandfather had kept it manicured, the maples and oaks lining both sides of the gravel like great escorts to anyone entering the farm. Now weeds grew between the trees and the fence.
At the end of the drive, she picked up her pace and turned left down May Hollow Road. The road was named after her grandmother’s family and was the reason for Annie’s middle name. For years she was called by the double name Annie May until she finally dropped the May in high school so it would sound more grown up.
Falling into the rhythm of her feet pounding against the macadam road, Annie felt better as the blood coursed through her veins and the oxygen pumped through her lungs. She ran for a couple of miles, only seeing two cars, before she turned back. Both drivers waved, and Annie waved back as a courtesy.
Nearing home, she turned right down Gibson’s Creek Road, leaving the open rural road for a shadier tree-lined private road that separated the Campbell farm from the Gibson farm. Only the old stone house, the May family cemetery, and another entrance to Joe Gibson’s farm were off this road. It dead-ended at the swimming hole, a section of Gibson’s Creek wide enough and deep enough for a pool.
Annie had intended to go on home, but the stone house drew her and she had to see it first. It was where she had lived with her mother until her mother grew too sick to live on her own and they had both moved in with her grandparents. The house had always been occupied during her visits over the last several years, and she had not seen it empty since she was in college.
Annie slowed to a walk as she approached the entrance to the old stone house. It sat back off the road a thousand feet or more and was accessed by a wooden bridge that crossed Gibson’s Creek. Sycamore trees lined the creek, their wide leaves providing so much shade the sun had a hard time poking through.
“You know, trolls live under that bridge,” her mother’s voice replayed in her head. “I’d keep away from there if I were you.” It was her mother’s way of keeping her off the bridge for safety, and it had worked. Instead, Annie spent hours behind a monstrous sycamore tree, waiting and watching for the trolls to appear.
Moving past the bridge entrance, Annie had a view of the old stone house through the trees. Stella Hawkins’s silver car was parked in the gravel next to it. Annie examined the house and noted little had changed from her childhood. The plank fence still surrounded it, keeping cattle out of the front yard. Flagstone steps led from the parking place in front of the fence up to the front door. She wanted to go in, to see each room and remember the happy times with her mother, but with someone living there now, that was not possible.
Movement in an upstairs window caught her eye. She moved behind a tree and watched from around the great trunk. A blanket fell over the upstairs window and was adjusted with unseen hands. Asif there’s anyone around to look in the windows out here in the middle of nowhere,she thought. Annie watched a few more minutes as the downstairs windows were covered and never once did she see Stella Hawkins through the window. It was as if she took great care to stay out of the light. She would keep her eye on this Stella Hawkins. Something was off, but Annie couldn’t put her finger on it.
The run back went fast as Annie fell into a rhythm. After stretching her legs again next to the shagbark hickory in the front yard, she plopped down on an old tractor tire that served as a flowerbed.
The tire was surprisingly comfortable. Leaning back to look up, she tried to take in the house from a newcomer’s perspective, perhaps Stuart’s if he had ever visited with her. It was a two-story Victorian farmhouse, white paint chipping from the clapboard. A paint job would do wonders, but it was nothing like the spacious mansions Stuart eyed greedily whenever they traveled together.
No, he would not like this place. He would have been charming to her grandmother, all the while making excuses about why they could only stay a couple of hours.
Annie could almost see it back when she was young, painted and cared for, her grandfather sitting on the front porch swing and smoking his pipe. It was another favorite outdoor spot, second only to the metal chair under the maple tree out back. After supper, he gravitated to the porch for his evening smoke while her grandmother cleared the dishes and prepared for the next day.
The porch ceiling was still painted sky blue. “It keeps the birds and wasps away,” her grandfather had told her. “They think it’s the sky.”
It was also where she and her grandfather broke beans in the summer. They had sat gently swinging, a metal pan for the strings and ends, a pan for the broken beans between them, and a sack of freshly picked green beans from the garden. Annie looked at her fingers and remembered how sore they got after breaking beans several nights in a row. But that’s how it was with a garden. When the food was coming in, it had to be dealt with or go to waste. Neither of her grandparents liked to see anything wasted.
Annie hadn’t really minded the work, but she’d griped like any normal teenager. Sometimes they worked on the back porch if her grandmother was helping, but Annie’s favorite times were in the swing on the front porch, working to the rhythm of katydids and the bullfrogs grunting dirges from the pond.
During those times, they talked like two friends. He listened without judgment, unlike her grandmother, who always seemed to want to teach her something, making a lesson out of everything.
When she told him about wanting to see the world, to do the things her mother was never able to do, he said, “I believe your mother would like that,” a twinkle in his eye. “But don’t forget to come home every now and again.” It was wholly unlike her grandmother’s response: “There’s nothing out there you won’t find right here. You’ll do better to get an education and a steady job.”
