Page 41 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“Sometime in the—” Logan’s next breath abruptly turns to a cough that rocks him off balance, forcing him to grip the side of the table.

“Logan?”

“The late 2000s,” he finishes before pushing himself upright. “Sorry. Mason and I had a bad experience with a skunk. When he was a kid.”

I want to ask about it, but the way I can help is by doing, not talking.

“Okay,” I say, refocusing on my pages. “We can fix this. Try not to breathe in the—Oh, wait, look at this.”

I flatten the heel of my palm against the journal’s binding, spreading the pages wider.

April 9, 2009

06:30—Warm morning. Was out pruning and startled a skunk. In hindsight, shouldn’t have been wearing so much purple.

07:00—Tried the usual suspects: baking soda, tomato juice. No improvement.

09:05—Used the hose for a good, long soak. Didn’t help, but I’m wetter than I’d like.

15:45—Val suggested rose water. Now she says I smell like a garden full of abandoned eggs. A rare compliment?

Visitors—Was supposed to have the lot over for poker, but I’ve advised them to steer clear.

April 10, 2009

07:10—Woke up still reeking. Possibly worse.

11:30—Tried a vinegar bath. Smell’s turned to an ancient pickle hot-boxing a minivan.

14:25—Spent the afternoon by the creek, dreaming up violent deaths for those unholy scent merchants. If I come upon another, I’ll stab it in the neck with a grapefruit spoon.

16:45—Clouds rolling in.

Visitors—Just me and my revenge fantasies.

April 11, 2009

06:30—Waiting it out also useless.

09:30—World might be ending. Not a bang nor a whimper, but the slow, suffocating smell of rotting gym socks.

14:10—In my final act of desperation, I’m going to crawl into the backwater pool in the south-side creek. Hoping the shock of cold water will revive my spirits.

15:10—An hour soak, and dare I say? Smell is abating.

16:25—Kissing everything. The earth. The grass. Val. (Have a black eye now, but nothing can break my spirit.)

Visitors—Celebrating a second chance at life. There will be too many to count.

We finish reading at the same time, look up at each other, questions lurching in the lingering odorous fog.

“Do we try it?” I ask aloud.

“What do we have to lose?” Logan says.

Shoulder to shoulder, sulfur smell still wafting from our skin, Logan and I take in the backwater pool at our feet. And…new problem.

It’s tiny.