Page 2 of Every Good Thing
The driveway curves around the house like a backward question mark, cutting between it and what Lena affectionately calls her middle finger garden. Tall shoots promise it’ll thrive by late summer with tomatoes, cucumbers and squashes, herbs of every kind, carrots, and potatoes. It’s more food than she needs, but she’ll likely donate it, as she’s done with her baked goods.
Bookending the garden is a forgotten, rusty playground missing its swings. Beyond that, former horse pastures await a new life, their fences broken and the weeds thick.
Behind the house, the carport and expansive backyard appear. It’s as if the driveway’s end divides the property into two parts: home and farm. A football field away from the house and carport, the barn is larger and newer—ten stalls occupy the bottom level, along with an office, tack room, and horse shower, all filled with junk. Above it, the barn loft holds decades of her family’s history from furniture to photos. Lena’s parents never threw anything away, a fact that’s as inefficient as it is endearing.
Lena’s spent the pandemic meticulously sorting and salvaging her diverse inheritance. She calls it her parents’ legacy, and she’s taking good care of it, as she has with everything.
I keep hoping she’ll find something of value that’ll help her get back on her feet. We joke about her discovering a Picasso in the attic, but it’s unlikely that any treasure would be in suitable condition, given the state of things.
Behind the barn (or through it as it’s always open) is a gorgeous, acre-sized pond teeming with catfish and turtles, surrounded by a lush bank and her mom’s favorite tree, a sprawling live oak that seems ancient considering its size and artful in the way it curls, bumps, and sways with Spanish moss.
That’s where I should tell her.
When I park, the buzz of an electric sander draws my attention to the carport. Lena is removing decades of dust and grime from another salvaged piece—this time, a dresser. Her back is to me, and her toned arms and legs flex as she runs the appliance over the surface.
God, she’s beautiful. The thought upticks my nervousness.
But it also reminds me of the first time I came here to help her responsibly get rid of her parents’ gun collection, a part of her inheritance she didn’t want. Then, she was restoring her first piece—a chestnut-brown hutch that once housed her family’s china. The noise kept her from hearing me arrive, leaving me wondering how to approach without scaring her. I already knew she was the same woman I pulled over for speeding weeks earlier. Her amusing confession, distressed smile, and humor produced a warm sensation inside me, long forgotten. I let her go with a warning and a note. Things will get better. I never expected to see her again. Receiving her call weeks later stirred something else previously dormant in me. Hope, I guess.
On my first visit, I settled with a gentle tap on her shoulder, and yes, I scared her. But that didn’t keep her from smiling when she saw that it was me.
This time, I approach in stealth, slipping my arms around her before she realizes I’m there. She laughs, relaxing into me as she turns off the sander. Her hair smells like vanilla, mixing with the sawdust in the air. With a twist, she faces me, edging upward on her rubber boots for a quick kiss.
The fact that we’ve finally moved into the kissing stage of our relationship makes me very happy.
It’s a recent development. One rainy day aside, we hadn’t been physically affectionate until a recent beach trip pushed me over the edge—I couldn’t hold back any longer. That kiss firmly and finally bridged the gap from friends to something else. I like the slowness of us. Nothing moves forward until we’re both comfortable, and talking takes priority. It’s been good for her anxiety.
Good for me, too.
“Yay, it’s a Ben-day. I’m glad you’re here,” she says, though I see that already.
“Me, too.”
“What’s it going to be today, Ben?” She grins, pulling away to wave her arms across the carport. “Sanding? Painting? Laser tag?”
Laser tag tempts me, but I suppress it. “How about a walk?”
She dusts her hands on her jean shorts before slipping one into mine.
I don’t lead her directly to my destination—her mom’s Saddletree, nicknamed that because it held her dreams for this place like a perch for a saddle.
We traverse the garden first. She turns on the soaker hose she’s set up for a good watering. We cut through the field, over rough brambles and dried weeds, until we reach the property’s edge. A thick line of trees surrounds the property like strong fingers holding it together. Long-leaf pines are most prevalent, towering over us and providing a blanket of needles for our path. The air is noticeably cooler, and wrens and crows create a pleasant background for all the words I should be saying. A warm-up conversation might ease me into it, even something lame about the weather.
But words don’t come.
Words have always given me trouble. On paper, my dyslexic mind jumbles them confusingly. In speaking terms, I’ve always believed staying quiet is better. I’ve never minded being the quiet one, not with a boisterous twin, talking enough for two, or in school when speaking up could’ve revealed my reading problem. Pulling fire alarms to get out of class eventually said what I couldn’t—I needed help.
After struggling through high school, military life appealed to me. The only words I needed were the orders I had to follow, and not letting emotions get in the way made that easier. There’s need-to-know, and nothing else matters.
But I love this woman, and there are things she needs to know. More than that, she’s probably the only person on earth who might truly understand me. If I give her the chance, that is.
Silence settles between us—we’ve gotten good at those. Once, we went over two hours without talking—a new record for her. She’s always the one to break, as if her not talking prevents a rushing river from falling over a cliff when there’s nowhere else for the water to go. Compared to Lena, I’m a verbal desert—words have to be extracted from deep underneath if found at all. She’s grown accustomed to this about me. At first, she’d carry our conversations like an overzealous waitress, refilling a water glass whenever it got the least bit low. Now, she’s comfortable enough to let the glass sit. Comfortable enough to be silent.
“Let’s see if the fish are jumping,” she decides, pulling me away from the wooded trail to the back of the pond near her mom’s tree. The light blue sky, nearly matching her eyes, reflects in the water like a mirror. The water is perfectly still, which seems to disappoint her.
Lena, I need to tell you something. I think the words but don’t speak them.
It’s easy to blame my inability to communicate on my dyslexia, my childhood, or the military, and certainly, they’re all contributing factors. But they aren’t the primary cause. The day I truly went silent and got small is, ironically, what I need to share with her.
