Ike Hamill - Migrators

“Can I help you?” a voice asked.

Alan grabbed his chest and sucked in a breath. He turned around. The carpenter, still wearing his jogging clothes, was standing behind him.

“Wow. You scared me,” Alan said. “I came to apologize for the other day.”

“Pardon?” the man asked. He wiped his arm across his forehead. He was sweating.

“I was taking photos of a bird out in the marsh and I heard your nail gun. I’m a photographer, so it’s just instinct. I came up the hill a little and I was taking photos. I saw you,” Alan said. He heard how he was prattling and wished he could stop. The words just spilled from his mouth. Now that he’d started the story, he felt he needed to finish. “Anyway, I think you saw me taking photos and I wanted to apologize for invading your privacy.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the man said. “Is that all?”

“Yes. Sorry. Didn’t mean to waste your time again. I’ll be on my way,” Alan said. He turned and realized that he didn’t have an exit strategy. He wasn’t even sure what road this house was on. There were a couple of likely candidates that he’d seen on the map, but if he were to walk home on the roads the trip would turn from one mile into about five.

Oh well, Alan thought, I guess I’m hoofing it.

He headed for the driveway. Alan looked back over his shoulder. The carpenter was standing with his arms crossed.

“I should at least introduce myself,” Alan said. He came back a couple of steps. “Oh wait!”

Alan reached behind him for the paintbrush. The carpenter took a step back and turned slightly.

This is going well , Alan thought.

“Sorry,” Alan said. “Just this.” He pulled out the brush and handed it towards the man. The carpenter reached forward and took it carefully. “I saw you working on your deck and I figured you might plan on staining it when you’re done. That’s my favorite brush for stain. It’s got great action and it cleans up easily.”

The carpenter opened the paper sleeve and ran the bristles over his palm. He nodded.

“Thanks,” the carpenter said. “That will come in handy.”

“I’m Alan… Harper. I live over on Durham Road—big white house with the giant red barn.”

The man nodded.

“Good to meet you.”

The man didn’t offer his hand or his name, so Alan simply backed away with a wave.

“Have a good one,” Alan said.

The carpenter waved back.

Down a short drive, Alan found himself on a dirt road that quickly switched to cracked asphalt. The houses on either side were spaced out enough so that most didn’t have direct views of the neighbors. They ranged from fancy two story prefabs to little shit boxes. The road ended at what Alan recognized as the Mill Road. He looked up at the green sign blade. It told him that the carpenter lived on “Location Rd.”

“Never heard of it,” Alan said. He set off down the Mill Road. Where Alan grew up, you just said “Pershing Drive,” or “Hudson Ave.” Around here, people always seemed to throw a “the” in front of road names unless the road was named after a specific person or place. He’d heard his own road done both ways—“Durham Road,” and “The Durham Road.” He wondered if the denizens of Location Road used a “the” or not.

Liz had a story for each of the houses along the Mill Road. Alan was approaching the Gault compound. Mrs. Gault lived alone now. Her husband died years before. Their house was light blue on three sides and white on the fourth. Mr. Gault had found a deal on vinyl siding, but only enough to do seventy-five percent of the house. Strangely, he’d chosen to cover two sides that could be seen from the road and the one side you couldn’t. That left the fourth side uncovered. Eventually, he’d found another deal and done the fourth side in white. According to the story, “you can believe that Normal got an earful about that.”

To his face, everyone called him Norman, but his name on his birth certificate had been “Normal.” Some suspected it was an old family name, others considered it a typo. Behind his back when they were discussing his odd behavior, the neighbors had all called him Normal.

Once, after Normal died, the Colonel received a call from Mrs. Gault in the middle of the night. She wouldn’t say what the problem was, but asked him to come over right away. He arrived in an overcoat, nightgown, and boots. It was November. The Colonel’s story told that when he came in she was sitting on a kitchen chair with her knees pulled up to her chest like a little girl. He saw her eighty-five-year-old baby maker and wondered exactly what had compelled her to call at two in the morning. She pointed through the bedroom door towards the bed and whispered—“under.”

The Colonel approached slowly and was careful to keep his own touchhole under wraps as he found his way to hands and knees. Throwing up the bed skirt, he nearly had a heart attack on her wide-pine floors. He was looking at the biggest snake he’d ever seen outside the movies. It was sluggish in the cold house, and the Colonel managed to wrangle the beast with a broom into a tall trash can. He slapped a serving tray on top of it and hauled it out into the woods.

Liz had told Alan the story twice. The first time, she told him a clean version because Joe was in the car. Another day, she gave him the full deal. Alan sneaked another glance at the house as he passed. Mrs. Gault was still alive. Alan wondered who was taking care of her snakes these days. When the Colonel returned to the house to give back the trash can and tray, he said it was like Mrs. Gault had forgotten he was there. She was sitting at her little kitchen table, flipping through a magazine. The Colonel glanced at it and then looked away, but not in time. The images from the magazine were burned into his vision. Only on special occasions when the Colonel had “gotten ahead of himself,” which meant that he’d dabbled in some extracurricular schnapps, would the Colonel reveal the contents of the images he’d seen. Somehow the widow Gault possessed a magazine that showed muscular men and enormous male dogs. All were naked, and all were engaged in various forms of deviant sexual congress. That was the most the Colonel would say about the matter. The Colonel said that Mrs. Gault made no effort to cover the magazine when he returned—perhaps she hadn’t forgotten his presence after all.

Alan picked up his pace. He had miles to cover still. He cursed himself for not going back through the carpenter’s back yard to the trail.

“You look stiff tonight,” Liz said.

“I had a long walk today,” Alan said. “Too long, I guess.”

“Maybe you should get back into running.”

“Is that your subtle way of saying I’m getting fat?” Alan asked. He tried on a smile. He sat on the edge of the bed. He’d actually sat down to take off his socks—that’s how sore he was.

“Never,” she said. “You know I like my men with a little bit of a belly.”

Alan pulled on his pajama bottoms and slapped both hands to his stomach. He wasn’t fat, but he was carrying at least ten pounds more than he liked. Liz, in comparison, was tiny.

“What about a generator?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“When I was taking my shower this morning—after my walk—the power shut off right when I was washing my hair. That’s the worst. The water cuts off immediately because of the well. The heat turns off. Everything here depends on electricity.”

“I don’t know,” Liz said. “Where would we put it?”

“They’re tiny,” Alan said. “They’re like the size of a big cooler or something. We’ll put it behind that bush on the driveway side of the house. You won’t even be able to see it.”