The Old Oak

Chapter 2

I awoke early and squinted at the digital alarm: 6:00 am. I turned toward my wife. Her breaths were shallow and slow, each punctuated with a wheeze. When we first slept together, her sleep sounds were gentle, soft, and barely audible. It was music to my young ears. Sometimes when awakened, I was content to lay beside her and listen to her sleep. Over the years, her sounds have become bolder—richer, perhaps.

Early morning sunlight streamed through our second-floor bedroom onto our deck and through the slider. In the distance, a dog howled—the long, mournful howl of a hound. A thin layer of ground fog hovered over the pasture down from the house, and deciduous trees with leaves edged by the morning frost lined the fence row. A creek ran along the fence line next to the barn, and a rickety lean-to faced the house off the south side.

I rested my hand on her ribcage and felt the rhythm of her breathing. I moved closer to savor the scent of her body and hair. My fingers found the bottom of her pajama top. I gently moved my hand beneath her breasts and paused to enjoy the deliciousness of the moment: the rise and fall of her chest, the beat of her heart, and her moist, silky skin. I remember the tautness of her twenty-year-old body, but I don't yearn to return to those soulful days—but I do long for the days when our lovemaking was spontaneous with passion. We slept naked then, open to each other, giving freely and receiving with joy. That was before resentments built a wall between us as surely as a building is built one brick at a time.

Kayla moaned, turned, and nested next to me. She slipped her hand under my t-shirt and slid her fingers over my pecs. She traced a circle around my nipple with her finger before holding it between her thumb and index finger. For reasons I don't understand, my nipples were fair game whenever the mood struck, but she required arousal before she gave her breasts over to my touch.

"The coyotes have returned," she said. "We need to make sure my cats are in the house before going to bed."

"I hadn't heard them howl at night." I put my arm behind her head, and she rested it on my upper arm and shoulder. I felt her breath against the side of my face, still tinted with sleep.

"The gutters need to be cleaned before winter. I...," she started.

"I'll clean them," I interrupted.

"If you'd let me finish..." She squeezed my nipple between her fingers and twisted it clockwise and then counterclockwise like one would roll their own smokes. "I hired to have it done. They'll be here tomorrow."

"Okay," I said. I was finding it hard to keep my mind on our conversation.

"You didn't get it done last fall." She rotated my nipple until the skin stretched, touching the edge of pain. "You do remember the water damage, don't you?"

"I repaired it, didn't I?" I pulled my arm from behind her neck.

"I suppose." Kayla's voice held a nuance of sarcasm. We have been together for twenty years, and for most of them, I've known she held her emotional injuries beneath a cloak of passivity and civility only to smolder, waiting for rage to explode. She rolled away from me to her side of the bed and rose to her feet. "Are you intending to visit your sister this weekend?" She faced away from me, looking out the slider.

"I hadn't decided," I said flatly. "I suppose today is as good a day as any."

"I suppose," she said, still facing the slider.

"Do you want to go with me?"

Kayla's shoulders slumped. I couldn't see her face, but I suspected she rolled her eyes. That would be her usual. As she rounded the foot of the bed, her eyes were fixed on the floor. She entered the bathroom, shut the door, and turned on the shower.

I rubbed my irritated nipple and decided I needed coffee.

I was sitting on the deck a half-hour later reading Haruki Murakami's latest book of short stories when Kayla arrived with a mug of coffee. The early morning sun had yet to warm the chill off the deck, but the richness of the morning light highlighted the fall colors behind the barn.

"What do you think?" she asked, lifting her arms with a mug of coffee in her right hand. She stepped into the sun's light and pivoted.

"Very nice," I said, raising my eyebrows. The rays highlighted her freckled face framed by her shoulder-length red hair. Today she wore minimal makeup. I preferred that. I think it was her freckles that first attracted me.

"You don't like it?" she asked.

"The outfit? Sure I do." I knew it was a new outfit only because I had noticed the packaging from her favorite clothing store thrown into the fireplace.

"Thank you," she said and sat on a deck chair facing the barn and pasture. "The sweater is wool. I was afraid it would be uncomfortable, but the company advertised that they used very fine wool fibers. Expensive, but it feels luxurious."

"I'm glad you like it," I said.

"You don't?"

"I DO like it," I insisted.

"You're sure?" she asked.

Not wanting to continue our country two-step, I drew a card and raised the ante: "I really would like you to come with me. Perhaps we could stop at the Baggart's Inn for supper on our way back."

"Like old times?" She raised her mug to her lips, her eyes on the pasture now denuded of morning fog.

"Like old times," I said.

I took the old two-lane highway to the east. It meandered among the hills before spilling onto the river delta that ended beyond the horizon at the sea. In an era of urban expansion and suburb sprawl, small family-owned farms still dotted this land, my sister's farm among them.

"I've always liked this drive," Kayla said. "Idyllic—that's the word that comes to mind when I see the delta."

"Perdition is a more apt description," I said.

"Let's not ruin the day," she said, throwing me a frown. "I mean, really, Brian? You've made yourself clear more times than I can count. Do you think I'm stupid?"

"What?" I asked, heavy on the screech. "I thought we were having a conversation. You know, you say something, I say something, and then you say something."

"We did that, Brian. I said something bright and airy, and you said something dark and gloomy."

"It's my truth," I said with resolve.

Kayla turned toward the passenger door.

My sister and her husband cultivate flowers—acres of flowers. Her fields—splashes of color—can be seen by a discerning eye from the highway as the road descends from the hills above the delta. Today her fields look like gems among the recently harvested plots of land. This "bright and airy" observation nearly escaped my lips, but I was sure it would fall on unappreciative ears. There were more reasons to duck a fight than to poke the bear.

I love my sister. We shared similar parents, but not the same parent. Mom was a gentle spirit and taught Genny her ways with wisdom and the patience of Job. I was in Dad's hands: powerful, calloused, threatening—the God of the Old Testament calling down a plague that killed the firstborn in Egypt. Genny sometimes triggers a memory I would rather keep in the closet. Locked away. It's not her fault. She has her own demons. I wish I could have saved her from that.