One
On the back porch, I look out over my eighty acres and hope June has a view like this.
The chickens are fed, a fresh bale is rolled out across the upper pasture, and the troughs are full for the cattle. Whoever said farming is easy was lying. It’s six a.m., almost dawn, and hot as hell. This life may not be right for everyone, but it sure feels good to me.
Ibang through the screendoor. There is a red light blinking on the answering machine in the kitchen, which I must have missed when I was out watering last night.
Evening Mr. Meadows,it’s Detective Spade.I need you to come into the station tomorrow, first thing. Let’s say, eight thirty? See you then.
Screw that. I hit delete. The likelihood is zero to none. Nobody wants to attend an early morning meeting, especially with the police. No one takes comfort in being forced into a metal chair and squeezed for the truth. I can’t recall a single time dealing with the Mitchell police that resulted in anything other than anxiety or heartbreak.
The answering machine beeps a second time. Hey, Dad, call me back.
My baby girl’s voice softens my annoyance. Like me, Ryla is an early bird and sure enough after I dial, she’s in her studio. While she describes a half-finished painting at length, I switch the receiver to the other ear as I consider what to have for breakfast. The fridge and breadbox are empty. After untangling the mess of black cord from around my legs, I swear under my breath and turn on the coffee machine.
“What’s the matter?” Ryla asks.
“Nothing.” I smile, pretending everything is fine.
“Dad?”
An uncomfortable feeling unfurls in my stomach. It’s like Ryla can see me through the phone. If something’s bothering me, she’s all over it. I haven’t set foot in the Mitchell police station in ages. I tell her about the message from Detective Spade.
“I thought he retired.”
“Apparently not.” I wish he had. Our last interaction wasn’t pleasant. I won’t get into the dirty details of his tirade. Suffice it to say, I gave him good reason to sound off.
“So why the message?” “Beats me.”
“You should go,” Ryla says, then adds, “Just keep your hands under the table and listen. Are you dressed, like in something presentable?”
I laugh and take in my work clothes. My plaid domed shirt and leather boots often draw stares. Bush people, townies call us. Their attitude grates on my nerves but I pay them no mind. Let them judge. Without farmers, they’d be hungry, sober, and naked.
I sit at the kitchen table after our call, hoping I can come up with a reason to avoid the meeting. No good can come of it.
It’s been two years since June was murdered. I don’t want to talk about my wife’s killer or revisit the night in question. The images in my head are bad enough.
I don’t want to discuss my past actions, either. I’m defined by what happened the week after June was killed. By the kids, by the people living in Mitchell, by the entire West Perth County community.
Convicted of murder following a botched robbery, June’s killer has been behind bars where he belongs for over a year. Push it aside, forget it. There are rocks to pick and kittens to feed. I need to get back outside.
In the freezer, I find a Pop-Tartto throw into the microwave then grab a serviette as I wait. Hanging on the wall is a photo of the kids nestled on their mother’s lap, their heads tilted up at June’s perfect face. I look away and try to figure out how to explain my decision to them.
It’s highly doubtful that there are any updates. Impossible really, after so much time. And I don’t want to know, even if there are. I’d rather live with the uncertainty forever than the knowledge that an inconsequential notation is being added to June’s file.
Yet now that Spade has called, I have little choice but to agree. I cannot deny my kids information, even the smallest detail. The position they’re in is difficult. We rarely discuss June’s murder—it’s a topic I find difficult to tackle and I can’t find the right words; furthermore, she was the one who carried the bulk of our conversations, the arduous ones included. There isn’t a day that passes that I don’t wish I bit those bullets instead of her.
I inch forward to the wall, press a finger to the photo. When I met June, her parents were already deceased. While she never visited their graves, sometimes I’d find her crying over books about the stages of grief. I know she’d want me to deal with mine by talking about my feelings instead of just wanting them to stop. It’s easier said than done.
Her murder ripped me apart. Afterward, life hurt more than death. There were memories everywhere: in the house, in the business, what we ate, how we spent our evenings. They haunted me in my dreams and in every waking moment. Thankfully over time, grief’s intensity fades.
Recently, I’ve started to get back on my feet. Farming is the only way I stay sane, most days. It’s a far cry from the first year I spent tangled up in the cotton sheets, the knotted mess in my chest waiting to greet me at the crack of dawn like a long-lost friend.
I wash my face in the kitchen sink then head to the front hall, where I remove my gun from its holster and place it on the table. While a weapon may be useful for protection against the recent rash of thefts from barns in the area, Spade would not be happy if I came to the station armed. The time it took between arresting and charging June’s killer, I didn’t handle things well. You don’t know what you’re capable of until your wife has been murdered. Rage blinds you.
Just keep your hands under the table and listen.
It’s a fair comment. I’ve always appreciated Ryla. She’s the living embodiment of everything I could’ve been if I’d controlled my temper and used common sense. Why I didn’t is beyond my comprehension. I regret my actions and I believe I’ve changed since then. Slow and steady, moving on.
I grab my keys. It's warmer now, even at daybreak, and sweat trickles down my back as I walk to the truck. This is not how I expected to start my morning. Routine brings me comfort. Rather than pulling out of the driveway, I should be atop the front-endloader, tending to the fields. But today, mykids’ needs come first.
The two-lane road looms ahead. I crack open the window. My stomach is queasy, thinking about the meeting. I need to let this fly and see what happens. Stay calm before I respond, think things through small detail can be worse than what I’ve faced the past two years.
I want this over with and I’m sure Spade does, too. It’s not easy dealing with a victim’s spouse. I understand that now. Whatever he has to say, it’s best to avoid conflict, even wiser to make amends. A quick conversation. A simple in and out.
