Percival Everett - Wounded

“She put it like that, did she?”

“No, I added the emphasis.”

“Well done.” I excused myself and went inside. I climbed the stairs and found Morgan in Emily’s room, standing at the open closet.

“So, what’s going on?” I asked.

She took an armful of clothes on hangers from the rod and tossed them onto the bed.

“Cleaning out already?” I asked.

“My mother’s voice is pretty clear in my head. ‘If it’s cold you build a fire, if it’s hot you jump in a creek. Life’s simple like that.’ She was right. My mother’s dead. That’s a simple fact. Life continues. That’s how she’d want me to think. And that’s how I’m going to think.” She looked out the window at the barn below. “John, thank you.”

“You bet. What would you like me to do? I mean, can I help in here?”

Morgan sat on the bed, rubbed her open hand on the bedspread. “There are some empty boxes in the tack room. Would you run out and get them?”

“Of course I will. What about all those people downstairs?” I asked. “You want me to tell them anything?”

“They’ll be fine. And I’m fine. You know that, don’t you, John?”

“I know.” I walked to the door. “You want anything else?”

“Bring us up a bottle of wine and some glasses. Two bottles.”

THE MORNINGwas hard cold. I’d just come in from breaking the ice on the horses’ water. I was heating water for tea and looking out at the foot of snow that covered the ground. The snow was still falling and every half-hour or so I would go out and sweep the steps. Emily, the little coyote, skated around on the linoleum of the kitchen while Zoe watched from the corner. The older dog’s interest in the puppy had diminished some, but she still kept an eye on her. Out the window, the sun was just reaching the top of the barn.

“Good morning,” Gus said as he came into the room.

“Morning, Gus.”

“And how’s my little girl?” he cooed to the pup. He reached down and let the coyote chew on his finger.”

“Gus, I don’t think you should do that,” I said.

“Oh, yeah, right.”

“I’d like you to flip her on her back as often as you think of it. Hold her there until she doesn’t struggle.”

“Okay.”

“This is important, Gus.”

“I hear you,” he said.

“I’m sorry.” I grabbed the kettle and poured my tea water. “I don’t mean to be a nag.” But I did.

“Where’s Morgan?” Gus asked.

“I think she’s still sleeping. That’s how I left her anyway. It’s a good morning to sleep.”

Gus looked out the window over the sink. “Christmas Eve already. Is it as cold at it looks out there?”

“Oh, yeah. It hasn’t been this cold since the last time it was this cold.” I sat at the table with my mug.

“You mean yesterday.”

I nodded. “Hey, how about whipping up some of those farm fresh eggs and that fake bacon?”

“Sure thing.” He went to the refrigerator and took eggs from the tray in the door. “How do you want them? Scrambled, over-easy, sunny-side-up, hard-boiled, soft-boiled, poached, or shirred?”

“Surprise me.” I got up and put my mug in the sink. “I’m going up to see my sweetie.”

“I’ll take my time,” he said.

I walked up the stairs, trying to avoid the squeaky spots and stood in the doorway, watched Morgan sleep. She was facing me and the light through the window was falling over her covered legs.

“Hey there, cowboy, why aren’t you in the bed with me?” she asked in a sleepy voice.

“For one thing, I’m wearing filthy clothes and for another, I think you’d find my hands to be freezing cold.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “I can take it.”

“Well, okay then.” I kicked off my house shoes, pulled back the covers, and crawled in beside her. When my hands hit her warm skin, she screamed. “I told you they were cold.”

“Get those icy things off me.”

“You said you could take it.” I put my knuckles on her stomach. “How’s that? Cold enough?”

She let out a shriek, slapped at my hands. “No, not there, not there. Put them on my butt, on my butt.”

I did as instructed. “Is that okay?”

“Yes. Actually, that’s not bad,” she said.

“Not bad? Whatever happened to ‘great’ or ‘good’?” I made to go again for her belly.

“Good, good,” she said. “That feels good. Please, please, please don’t touch my stomach.”

I pulled my hands back and looked at the ceiling. “Gus is making breakfast. Eggs and that awful phony bacon.”

“Do I have time to shower?”

“I insist,” I said.

“Wise guy.” Morgan kissed me, then pushed me down as she climbed over me and out of the bed. “I’ll be right down.” She was pulling off her nightshirt as she walked into the bathroom.

“Who wears a nightshirt these days?” I asked. I followed her and leaned on the sink, watched her step into the shower.

“Old-fashioned girls like me,” she said. She turned on the water and stood away from the spray while she checked the temperature.

“Hey, old-fashioned girl.”

She talked over the sound of the water, stepping into it now. “Yes? What do you want to know?”

“I want to know what an old-fashioned girl wears when she gets married?” I asked.

The water stopped. “Excuse me?”

“I think I just proposed.”

“Marry you?” she asked.

“That’s what I had in mind.”

She turned the water back on and began to lather her hair. “I guess I’ll wear jeans and boots.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

The eggs were scrambled, fluffy and pretty good. The fake bacon was what it was, but I was getting used it. Not a thing one wants to say about food, I’m getting used to it, but better than the converse. I was on my second cup of tea and making eyes at Morgan.

“Well, if you two aren’t absolutely disgusting, I just don’t know what is.” Gus said.

“Sorry, Gus,” Morgan said.

I looked out the window to see that the snow was tapering off.

“What are you thinking about?” Morgan asked.

“I’m thinking that I have to go out in this mess and ride the fence. And I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t,” Gus said.

“I have to,” I told him. “I need to check the line so I can take off some shoes and turn out a few horses.”

“I’ll keep the house warm for you,” Gus said. “Yep, I’ll just kick back, turn on one of them soap operas and keep it nice and toasty.”

“Oh, yeah. And Gus, we’re getting married,” I said.

“To each other?” he asked.

“Do you two read the same joke book?”

Gus smiled at Morgan. “I think you’re a damn fool, but I’m glad to hear it. Best wishes, little lady. And good luck.”

“What about me?” I asked.

“You’re one fortunate son of a bitch,” he said. “So, when is this going to happen?”

Before Morgan could say we didn’t know, the phone rang. I got up and answered it. It was Daniel White Buffalo.

“You must come out here again,” Daniel said. He used “must” the way the Arapaho used it; it wasn’t a command.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “What’s up this time? Another cow shot?” I laughed.

“Yes.”

I stopped laughing. “Jesus, you’re joking.” But he wasn’t joking. “Daniel, I don’t know why you’re calling me. I can’t help.”

“I think you should see this one,” he said.

“I’m assuming this one looks a lot like the other one. Listen, Daniel, I’m behind as it is. I’ve got to ride my line.”

“No, you must see this one.” This was a command.

I studied the snow again through the window over the sink, considered the roads. I looked over at Morgan and shrugged. “Daniel, I’ll be there in about an hour. I’ll expect some hot tea when I get there.” I hung up.