Out With The Cold

1

A tear like a raindrop fell on scattered hay and quickly wicked away. Tears that burn the eyes, but burn the breast most. Tears of loss and desperation. Tears for the child reared on the farm. My charge, he thought, only shedding one at a time as he could afford no more salty, briny tears.

Vermilion hues of a midwinter sunset cast deep shadows about the loft. Walter softened to his thoughts and relaxed for the first time all day, a far cry from the gut wrenching sobs of that morning. I built this barn he told himself with a renewed sense of confidence and purpose. Just like Pappy built the house. Survivors, that’s what we are, do what needs doing. It was no use. The dull blue of the fading light as the sun winked out put his mind in free fall.

Everything dies, even the trees he thought. The sun too. He leaned back against a bale and shifting his weight pressed his hand in sap that oozed from the floorboards. Walter wiped the sap on the farm-stained denim of his coveralls and spat. Molly always told me not to start and she was just a child. She said, ‘tobacco gives the cancer.’ Lots of thing kill, poor child. I can almost hear her, ‘daddy, quit it, you’re staining the floorboards.’

Detached in his thoughts, Walter was manic. The dove nesting in the rafters started at the muffled chuckling of the mad farmer. I brought her up to know better. Winter’s mild this year. Never froze up too good. I showed her. The ground was soggy by the gate post. The post wobbled. Showed her.

Walter stood then and paced the loft, forth and back and forth. Looking over the railing he followed the small muddy tracks leading from the massive wooden doors to the sled slung against the saddle stand. Didn’t even take the sled. Knew better. No snow. Post wobbled. Why’d she go out? It's no use, it’s no use. What good am I? Caregiver? I could sure use mother about now.

The day Molly’s mother died was the day Walter noticed a change in his daughter. First he couldn’t find her, searched everywhere, checked all her favorite hiding places, but she was nowhere to be found. By sundown he took up sentry on the porch and waited. It was unlike Molly not to come home, afraid of the dark as she was. He stayed up all night only dozing briefly when his body could hold out no longer.

I called the sheriff out next morning. Bacon, eggs, grits… uneaten. Never thought to check the barn. She always said the saddles scared her. Poor child was curled in the fetal position just waiting for the cold to take her up. Why do they always die in winter?

Molly became withdrawn after that, often erupting in fits of hysteria and running off. Walter would always find her curled up in a thick pile of hay at the back of the loft, dozing. He would gently lift her in his arms and carry her back to the farm house where he’d put her to bed. “Tomorrow is another day,” he’d whisper in her ear as he pulled up the covers.

Walter stood staring at the sled while his thoughts continued unchecked. Last year we took the sled up the hill out back. Lot of snow last year. Molly squealed with delight, rushing down the slope. That grease really helped my cracked hands. He had greased the runners that morning for a smoother, faster ride and Molly’s joyful screams told him the grease had done its job. Later as the sun tucked in for the night they had built a fire and roasted marshmallows and told stories and laughed. Had her mother’s eyes, green and wide. Short like Gerty too. And both liked polka dots. He chuckled softly then slammed his fist into the beam supporting the roof. “Damn it!” His eyes welled over, grief renewed.

Six years already, but I remember like it was yesterday. Gerty yelling and hollering. No fair they have to suffer like that when the man just sits back with his cigar and celebrates. Doc said Molly was easy. Always was. Never wanting to upset, even in birth. That day her mother died, I thought I’d lost them both. She was cold up here. I wrapped her in her baby quilt. Grams, bless her. Made one for every grandchild. Mother of mothers to a child of her child. Hold me, Grams; I need to know it wasn’t my fault.

Walter quietly added to the moistened hay at his feet. It was dark in the barn now the sun had set so he struck a match, lighting a lantern quickly before the match burned out. He could hear in the distance the swine calling for their supper.

‘What did I tell you, boy!? Pigs don’t feed themselves!’ Pappy that was. Neither does the child. All soft in the tush and wet behind the ears. For years they need you. Lord, what have I done? Pigs can wait. I’m not leaving here until I wake up, still dreaming, sure of that. It can’t be real. I told her, didn’t I? ‘Don’t go on the ice today,’ I said, ‘post wobbled.’ Where was I? Mending the old fence out back, not a care in the world. That cardinal’s clear call set my spirit soaring. I was probably smiling when she died.

That did it. Walter roared, tore at the sky with white-knuckled claws. There were no tears left so he howled and cursed his soul and he cursed his flesh. The dove in the rafters flew its nest and perched upon a beam further down, eyeing Walter all the while. Walter moaned. He’d lost his wife to cancer two years back and now this.

My charge, she was my charge. He beat the words into his mind. The words drove him mad so he beat his head with flattened palms. Feed the pigs, feed the pigs. Damn the pigs! Just like Pappy. Should have been nicer about it. I shouldn’t have yelled. She ran out angry, no time even to breakfast and here I get happy over a cardinal’s song. She was my charge… The thought lingered like a long wave cresting.

Walter Phillip Puckett, father to Molly Denise Puckett paced the loft, fore and aft and fore and aft, taking inventory to take his mind off the tragic reality enveloping him.

Ladder, horseshoe, rope, pitchfork, bucket, spade, etc.

He took the plug from his pocket and bit off a fair piece. He spat and cursed and spat and paced and cursed and spat and paced. Late into the night he ran scenarios through his mind in which Molly survived.

She waited to cross the pond, say, and I went looking for her to come in for dinner, say, and I stop her just before she steps out. Or, instead of yelling like I did I take her to the pigsty and show her to put the pail on the wagon, makes it easier. What if I took the day like I said I was going to and went out to the pond with her. It should have been me. Too young, she's just a child. My charge.

It only made the pain worse.

Inventory: rope, ladder, bucket, axe, nails, tractor, saddle, trailer, toolbox, wood saw, hacksaw, cable, chicken wire, 4x’s, zip ties.

He moaned again loudly, startling the horse which brayed and thrashed in its stable. Rushing the window, Walter threw it wide with wanton rage. Pleading with the man in the moon he yelled, “How can I mend my heart when my love is out with the cold, wasted!? How can I take her place when there is only this life!? Tell me how to fix this you bastard!” He collapsed onto the floor and wept. The last of the light had faded into night. A dark, fierce and cold night it was.

2

Three days passed. When Walter didn’t show up at market the sheriff took two of his deputies out to the farm to check on him.

“No one’s home sheriff, at least they aren’t answering.”

Deputy Jimmy Smithson hiked up his trousers and spat a rich, brown, syrupy substance into the dirt at the foot of the steps. Sheriff Grimly shifted in his boots and looked around.

“He’s probably out back working some project or another. Split up and we’ll see if we can’t find him. Jimmy, check out back and Mick, you check the pigs and the hens. Maybe he went out to mend that old fence like he was saying. I’ll check the barn.”

As Sheriff Grimly approached the barn he saw the door ajar and assumed Walter must be pitching hay or some other chore associated with farm life. When he rounded the corner he just stared in disbelief. A slow tear started at the corner of his eye, but the professional in him sucked back its moisture. He choked on the tears unshod and gave a nervous cough. Looking down he said a prayer then made his way out and around to the back of the property in search of his deputies.

“What have you got, sheriff?”

Jimmy turned as Sheriff Grimly approached.

“Bad news, Jimmy. See about finding Mick and meet me back at the barn.”

Using the ladder that was lying to the side and Mick’s hunting knife they succeeded in cutting Walter down.

“What a shame,” said Jimmy, “they never know that things will get better.”

“Second case this winter,” Mick offered, “the days are just too short I guess.”

“That’s enough you two,” the sheriff eyed the two of them scornfully. “A man is dead and you talk of short days. Poor Molly, first her mother dies and now this. Lord forgive him and may his soul rest easy.”

Sheriff Grimly turned away from the corpse and sighed with a heavy heart. His family had been friends with the Puckett family for generations. He and Walter had graduated from the same junior high school and even played on the same team in summer ball. Their daughters were always invited to each other’s birthday parties and before Gertrude passed, every other weekend he’d found himself sitting with Walt, drinking beer and looking out to pasture while their wives talked and their children played. But the job demanded composure and Sheriff Grimly had composure. He took a breath and steadied himself.

“Well, you know the drill, boys. We treat this as a crime scene until we know better. Call in forensics and get the ball rolling. Mick, see if you can’t find Molly, bless her heart.”

Just then Jimmy called out, “what’s that sticking out of Walters shirt pocket? Looks like paper, might be a note.”

“Let’s have it,” said the sheriff.

Jimmy dutifully retrieved the folded bit of paper and handed it over. Sheriff Grimly carefully unfolded the note and read in silently horror. He took a moment to compose himself and stared past the open doors to the old, leafless willow with its old, lonely, tire swing hanging frozen in the still, winter air.

“Read it for us,” he said, handing the note to Jimmy before turning away again.

Jimmy took a moment to read the note in silence then cleared his throat and read aloud:

Sheriff,

You will find Molly a quarter of the way down the pond near the old pear tree. I tried to retrieve her body, but she must have drifted after falling in. The ice was too thick.

Walt