Galatea in Flames

Jason leaned against the wattle fence of the goat pen. His red and black flannel overshirt flapped slightly in the cool October breeze. His feet were planted in a wide stance, one forward of the other, the laces of his excrement-encrusted work boots untied. The sky was a hard, clear blue, with an occasional wisp of vapor providing a vaguely marbled appearance. In the distance to the east, past the barn and the high voltage lines, a thin trail of smoke rose, probably someone burning a brush pile. In the pen, the new buck was riding Hazel.

He sensed her approach even before he heard the crackling of tires on gravel. The miniature Jeep would be mounting the small hill to the southwest. It was now rounding the bend, signaling its intention to turn into his driveway. If he turned around, he would be able to see it now, but he did not turn. He could see without looking the scowl on her face as she passed the Guardians of the Way, two eight-foot wooden crosses, one to either side of the drive, each draped with black velvet and topped with a goat skull, the sudden panic as she swerved around the old locust stump—she always veered too far to the north when topping the rise, even though the tracks in the dirt path told the story clearly enough for anyone to read—the smile, both nervous and condescending, as she noticed him near the barn, and the careful manner in which she slowed to a stop, her brakes squeaking a bit at the end, shifted laboriously into first gear, checked the stick a few times to make sure, then pulled the hand brake.

The door did not open immediately. She was probably gathering some food, a peace offering of sorts, a sop to lessen the impact of whatever carefully rehearsed speech she had prepared. Jason looked at the sky. It was almost noon, so she would likely emerge with a ridiculous picnic basket, a plaid or watermelon printed ribbon tied around its handle to give it a “country” veneer. The first time she had visited after he moved to the farm, she had arrived with such a basket, filled with a crock of lobster bisque, escargot with water crackers, and a bottle of champagne. Something about that visit, about sitting on a large rock and looking over amber fields, watching hawks sweep the sky, spotting a deer grazing near the edge of the woodlot, had awakened in her a vague sense of guilt, something in the back of her consciousness she could not quite put her finger on. Since that time she had brought bread and jam, hard sausage and cheese, a bunch of grapes.