Summer Hay

"You don't have to do this," she said, and I smiled despite myself, because I knew that meant I had to. But I suppose I should explain why I came here before I explain anything else.

My name is Jamie McAntlin. I grew up here--well, not "here" but in the actual house there. My father owned the farm; he had an unsuccessful business and called it "McAntlin Milk and Dairy," and swore up and down that we'd have another summer like in '52 when Timmy Peterson drove his drunk self into the reservoir and the town officials said not to drink from the tap until they cleaned up the pieces of his car. My father said he made $200 a month then, though I guess that's more with inflation. We didn't have many cows, but we had a few, and they were sweeter than plenty of the folks I've known since.

My mom passed away when I was three. I don't know what happened; my dad refused to tell me. I got the story out of my sister though; Emily was seven when it happened. My mom, it seems, had been out working in the fields, trying to get a crop of tomatoes to flourish, and had a stroke. If we could've gotten her to the hospital, it would've probably been all right, but back then, you see, the farm wasn't close to anywhere at all. So, she didn't do so well. I don't know how long things went on after she had her stroke, but I do remember her funeral, at least a little bit. I got to dress up in a suit.

Emily and me, we were thick as thieves in those days. We would come out to the barn, back when it still had a fresh coat of bright red paint, and we'd go trampling through the hay like vagabonds. We'd take great clumps of it and make the tallest hills you could imagine, and while the cows watched and mooed indignantly, we'd take headlong dives into their food and come out looking like scarecrows stuffed to bursting. And we'd laugh and laugh, and it seemed like life was just one big summer.

When she got to high school, and I was in middle school, we started to drift apart a little bit. I guess that happens with teenagers; on one hand, she was always very protective of me, and God help anyone who gave me trouble, and on the other hand she asked me more and more to walk home alone. I want to think it's because she had a boyfriend, and I knew she did, but I think it was just that typical embarrassment all teenagers have, not wanting to be associated in any way with anything younger than them.

Either way, we saw less and less of each other. My father wasn't really happy with it, but he was too busy working to stop her from seeing who she liked, aside from being belligerent in the kitchen a few times. I went out to the barn alone then, and the cows looked at me and chewed their hay, and sometimes I tried to tidy up a little and help out and other times I stayed there dreaming, or running about trying to waste all my energy. Maybe just outrunning the inevitable.

The inevitable came anyway; I guess that's why it's called that.

On the last day of April, when I was in eighth grade and Emily was close to being done with twelfth, she came into the kitchen where I was working on math--what else does someone work on?--and said, "Hey Jamie?"

And I replied "Yeah?" without looking.

"You wanna come out to the barn?"

And I turned around with a big smile, because I didn't remember the last time she'd said that. She was smiling too, but if I'd tried to look a little harder, I would've seen through it. So we went out to the barn, running down the small hill to get here, listening to the sounds of the day happening around us and paying them no mind.

When we got inside, I started making a pile of hay, as I always did. I knew she was probably "too old" for fun things like that, but she didn't stop me. Besides, the barn was for us, and when we wanted to play there, it didn't matter how old we were. We were kids no matter what, and kids played in the hay.

But before she jumped in with me, I heard her say "Jamie?" softer, and I knew I should've tried to look a little harder.

She was standing with her hands folded, looking more like a teacher than a student. I felt very stupid and very young with the hay in my hair, because teenage years had overtaken me as well, though I was just at the start of them.

"Yeah?"

She paused a moment, as if uncertain what to say, and finally said five simple words that broke the world.

"I'm pregnant, and I'm leaving."

I knew what it meant, of course; there was one season when the cows got loose into other farms, and when they came back one of them had dropped a little present for us months later from her adventures. My dad had explained everything, and now I was hoping Emily might explain too, even though I knew everything the moment she said it.

"Carl; you remember Carl? He's got a bike he's been fixing up. We're going to drive over to Tynnsfield; he's found work there was a mechanic."

I nodded.

She didn't look happy about it, but put on a smile anyway. The more I thought about it, after she left, the more I wondered what she'd do for herself; if she would ever find the time to go out to the airport, like she always said she would, and learn to be a hostess so she could go everywhere in the world. She'd always wanted to travel, and I thought at first Tynnsfield was far--25 miles, after all--but I've since learned a lot.

Dad didn't ever talk about her, after that. When he passed away, I was in college in Massachusetts, and the farm got bought up by the banks. I found a place to room with my girlfriend, and she became my wife, and I found work and a life waiting for me. I wrote to Emily often; I have a stack of letters from her in my closet. She had stayed in Tynnsfield, looking after Carl Jr. and Amanda, her second child. Carl Sr. passed away a few years back from heart disease; her kids have families of their own now. Emily went into assisted living two weeks ago, and stopped eating last week.

I told my wife about coming out here, and she said "You don't have to do this," and I smiled despite myself, because I knew that meant I had to. After all, I grew up here; even though the paint's peeled, I'd recognize that barn from anywhere in the world. I drove by once, but I was hoping I'd meet you in person, to talk and, I guess, to think about the past. I have a foolish idea, that maybe if I can get to the barn before Emily passes, just maybe, I'll see her when I walk inside. And it'll be a sweet summer day out there, and the cows will greet us, and one by one we'll tumble headlong into the hay, for as many hours as it takes to make a moment last forever.

I'm staying at the Day's Inn, in town: room 213. Please come call soon.

Best wishes,

Jamie McAntlin