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“For a while now, I guess.” I sighed and stared out the window. Streaks of orange and red from the turning trees slid across my vision. I never thought about babies when my job was new and we were so busy fixing up the house. Something had shifted in me lately, though: an awareness, now that I was in my thirties, that my fertility wouldn’t last forever.
“You could’ve married a man if you wanted kids so badly, Hazel. Plenty of women like us do, you know. I was in love with one of those women, once.” You pushed in the lighter again, pulled out a fresh cigarette. “She was a heartbreaker.”
For years, I’d been telling myself you didn’t like to talk about love. What other reason could there be for your meager declarations of feeling? Now here you were, telling me about loving someone else. I wanted to smack you, yell at you, demand you stop the station wagon so I could jump out and run the hell away from you. Instead, I started crying.
“Hazel.” The lighter popped out. You left it cooling in the dashboard as you reached across the seat to take my hand. “If there were any way in the world for me to give you a child, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I’d make you my wife and fill your belly with babies if I could, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I squeezed your hand back. “It’s stupid that single women aren’t allowed to adopt unless they’re as famous as Joan Crawford, but that’s the way it is. You know what I’m not sorry about, though?”
“What?”
“Being with you. I’ve never been sorry about that since the day we met. I just wish you’d say you loved me more than once a year, you know?”
“Baby.” Now you were the one with a tear rolling down your cheek. “Don’t I say it every single minute of every single day?”
You didn’t, not in words, but I knew what you meant. You were here, with me. That said it all.
“Don’t miss the turn.” I dropped your hand to point out the sign for the Rensselaer Rail Station.
The station wagon fishtailed around the corner, but you kept it under control. After we pulled into the parking lot, we turned to face each other. We should have embraced, then, kissed and hugged and made up. There were people around, though, and the windshield was made of glass.
“Hazel.”
“Yes?”
“I love you so much it hurts me to say it.”
“I know, Evelyn.” I touched your hand where no one could see. “I know.”
On this Good Friday, I’ve been mindful of our Lord’s words on the cross: forgive them, for they know not what they do. I pretended not to know what I’d done to Billy until it was too late for forgiveness, but I’ll save that sad story for another day.
Forever yours, as always, my darling, love, Hazel
Chapter 22
The campers, roused from their tents, gather around me in the driveway. One circles the trailer, offering a bowl of water to each of the thirsty sheep in turn. The animals regard her suspiciously with slitted eyes before plunging their white noses into the bowl. Oliver runs back and forth to the espresso machine, supplying everyone with the necessary caffeine to face this strange turn of events.
“But how did they get here?” I cross my arms self-consciously across my chest. In my haste, I pulled on leggings under my sleep tee but forgot about a bra. A couple of cyclists recall hearing an engine in the night, but no one saw anything. It’s the camper with the bowl of water who notices a note folded into a plastic bag duct-taped to the trailer hitch. I pull it off, remove the folded paper, and read aloud:
We’re out of jobs and money because of the Covid so we’re taking our kids and going to stay with family. We were homesteading a leased plot in Washington County but fell behind on the rent. We found someone to take the chickens and the rabbits and we’re keeping our dogs but we didn’t know what to do with the sheep. We were about to have them processed when we saw that video of the cozy lady saying there used to be sheep in your barn and we just knew Christ was at work in our lives showing us the way. We’re sorry for leaving them at your doorstep like this but we were too ashamed of our failure to face you in the daylight. God bless you.
It’s as if Evelyn’s column about Marcus Green delivering a load of sheep has magically come to life. I look around, half-expecting an experienced farmer to appear out of thin air. Instead, I’m surrounded by baffled cyclists. “What the hell am I supposed to do with sheep?”
“I’ve got Lucinda Green on the phone.” Oliver puts it on speaker and holds it up so everyone can hear. “Go ahead, ma’am.”
Lucinda’s voice is fuzzy but her directions are crystal clear. “First thing you’ve got to do is get those animals off that trailer and down to the barn.”
“Will they follow us if we let them out?” Oliver asks.
“No, no, no. They’ll run helter-skelter and you’ll have a devil of a time rounding them up again. Anyone out there have a hitch on their truck?”
The cyclists and I look at one another, bemused. I speak up. “We’ve got one van and a dozen bicycles, Lucinda.”
“Well, then, you better ask your neighbor to come around and hitch up that trailer to his pickup. Audrey, you know those metal fence panels down in the sheep barn?”
“I guess so.”
“Listen good while I tell you how to set them up.” Lucinda dictates instructions about the panels, then adds, “I’ll wake up Aisha. We’ll be out there soon as we can.”
