Page 14 of Townshipped
I stand and busy myself fixing each of us a sandwich, dishing out soup, and lining our plates with some orange slices. Then I pour us each some iced tea. I bring the plates over and set one in front of Em. We sit in relative silence while we eat. Em looks up at me occasionally, giving me a polite smile and then glancing around the room as if she’s taking everything in. When I finish my lunch, she’s still eating.
I’m usually a pretty confident man, and I tend to be the one people come to for answers. I live alone, so silence rarely bothers me. Watching Em eat, I’m at a loss. Should I stay here? Am I making her uncomfortable?
I stand halfway through her meal and busy myself tidying a few things on my counters.
Em watches me, taking small bites of her sandwich and sipping soup between bites. “You can do whatever you do this time of day. Don’t worry about me.”
I look over at my laptop, which I shut and set aside when I made lunch. I decide to rejoin Em.
“How about I tell you a little about Bordeaux and the farm?”
Her face softens. “I’d really like that.”
“Well, let’s see. There are a few things you should know, for sure, if you’re going to be spending any amount of time here.”
Em continues to eat, and I watch her while I talk.
“So, first of all, we’re a small town. We’ve got all the usual trappings: pretty much everyone knows everyone. If you sneeze, someone downtown says ‘gesundheit.’ We’ve got a bunch of seniors who love to meddle. There’s barely any crime, unless you count this one guy who drinks too much and ends up in other people’s beds or some other mess. And there’s the occasional group of teens doing a dare to stir up some fun. Friday high school football games during the fall season are the highlight of our social calendar, and we’re very serious about our corn.”
“Corn?”
“Corn. It’s a thing with us.”
“Corn?”
“I know,” I say with a half-smile. “Corn. Our high school mascot is the Corn Cob. Most other schools we competed against had normal mascots like the Tiger, or the Wolves. We were the Corn Cobs. Our cheerleaders would shout, ‘Go Corn Cobs!’ Not even ‘Go Cobs,’ which somehow could have spared us a shred of our dignity.”
Em laughs, and it’s not a sweet, melodic laugh. She laughs hard and then she ends with a tiny snort, which for some reason feels so real it’s endearing.
I’m spurred on by her reaction to my storytelling, so I keep going. “We even have a Fourth of July celebration called Red, White, and Blue and Corn Too. During that celebration there’s a parade with the reigning Miss Corn Husk at the center of the procession.”
“Miss Corn Husk?” Em laughs a little more. “Does she have to wear a costume?”
Em peels the peel off one of the orange slices and pops the fruit into her mouth.
“She does! And I can’t tell you how glad I am that there isn’t a Mister Corn Husk because just looking at that costume makes me itch all over. It’s made of actual corn husks.”
Em laughs again and I laugh with her.
The urge to ask Em something about herself and her life continually comes to mind, but since she lost access to all those details for the time being, I continue telling her stories about Bordeaux. She asks questions about goat farming and my life here while she finishes off her meal.
Em yawns when she finishes eating. I suggest she take a nap. When she wakes, we watch a movie together until the later afternoon. She sits cross-legged on my living room couch, and I sit in the armchair. I try to focus on the movie, but I end up looking over at her when she’s not watching me. Occasionally, a worried expression ghosts across her face, but overall, she seems comfortable.
Who is she? Where did she come from? She’s not wearing a ring. Does she have a family, a boyfriend, or even a husband?
We eat a simple dinner of leftover chicken, rolls, and salad. I tell her stories about my family. When I run out of ideas as to what to say, the silence doesn’t feel nearly as tense as the unease overshadowing the early part of our lunch.
By the time I need to feed the goats in the evening, Em convinces me she feels well enough to come outside with me. She’s not a woman who seems to take no for an answer very willingly, so I allow her to accompany me, but I insist she sit on the hay bales while I do all the labor.
The goat pen is controlled chaos, with them bumping into one another, ambling around, and leaping on and off whatever surface they can find. Em seems properly entertained by my herd and they love having someone new to sniff, lick, and show off for.
After we feed the goats, I head upstairs to my bedroom, feeling Em’s presence in the house regardless of a whole staircase and two doors separating us. When Ashley and Sawyer sleep over, they take the twin beds in my upstairs guest rooms. Even though Em’s twice as far from me, I sense her. There’s an acutely distinctive feel with her in the home.
* * *
I takea walk down my driveway to see about the road out front as soon as I wake in the morning. Looks like the snow has been cleared. One of my neighbors makes a habit of running a plow down the section of the country lane that lines the front of our properties after every big storm since the city trucks won’t come out this way.
Em’s still asleep and I’m glad to let her stay in bed as long as she will. My phone rings as I’m about to head out to feed. It’s Hazel, our nurse practitioner.
