of this county but don't ever come back here or I swear to God, I will kill you.”
Jackson left with his tail between his legs, and Lenny managed to fire a round into the air just before he got into the car, hoping the entire time that he might shit his pants. That was the strongest she had ever felt, and she had spent the last three months trying to figure out how to rekindle that feeling.
When she heard about the women, Lenny pictured each one of them strutting down the highway. The vision gave her a moment of joy. She walked with them for a minute, felt the spring air brush across her face and through her long dark hair. Her arms propelled her along—swinging back and forth as if they were on fire. The sun tanned her arms, her feet flew, she was free and happy and smiling, always smiling.
Lenny picked up the phone to call Sue, a friend who lived down on Wittenberg Road. She wanted to know if the walkers had turned or were still heading her way.
“What do you think about them?” Sue asked her.
“It sounds pretty damn wonderful to me, walking like that, not talking to anyone, being with your friends.”
“Should we run out and join them?” Sue laughed at what she thought was the absurdity of her own question.
“The thought has crossed my mind, but I just want to see them. Maybe that's what I need.”
“What you need is a good screw,” Sue told her.
Sue wanted to keep talking but Lenny suddenly had an idea. She wanted to do the chores, throw a big dinner in the oven, get some wine out of the garage, take a shower, and get those women to come into the house.
The chores were like a zillion pounds of weight around her waist that kept her tied to the farm. There had been plenty of times when Lenny had thought about shooting each one of the hogs in the head and burying them in the pit behind the fence. But she knew the hogs would eventually save her when she sold the whole damn place—lock, stock and barrel. When that would happen or how it would happen, she had no idea.
All she could think of now was the women. She fairly flew through the chores after she called Pat and told him that a friend was visiting and would help her for a few weeks. “Don't come back until I call,” she told him.
Lenny hadn't bothered to cook a big meal for months. She ate frozen burritos, salads, vegetarian pizzas—all the foods she loved but Jackson had hated. For the women, she took out two turkey breasts from the freezer, peeled a bag of potatoes, washed some broccoli, got out her mother's homemade cranberry sauce, whipped up some rolls, and breathed a sigh of relief when she found a perfectly good cherry pie lurking in the back of the freezer.
After she set the dining room table, she showered so long the water turned cold. Then she dressed for the special occasion. She put on her silver Indian bracelet from college, the ring her grandmother gave her when she graduated from high school, the one pair of jeans that had managed to fit her for five years in a row, a red flannel shirt that highlighted her dark skin, and her black cowboy boots.
At 5:25 P.M. , with the smell of turkey floating like invisible bubbles throughout the house and out into the front yard, Lenny took the phone off the hook and set it under a pillow on her bed, grabbed a bottle of wine and a glass and went out to sit on the edge of the front porch.
Lenny knew in her heart that she could get them to stop. She knew if she walked out to the edge of the yard when she saw them turn the corner, if she went out onto the road and started walking toward them that they would simply follow her into the house.
It was 6:20 P.M. when they finally appeared, like a desert mirage. First one and then the next woman came into view, shimmering under the sun as they walked through what was left of the almost hot spring day.
Lenny finished her second glass of wine in one quick gulp, set it down gently on the step and started walking out to the highway. If the women saw her,
Jackson left with his tail between his legs, and Lenny managed to fire a round into the air just before he got into the car, hoping the entire time that he might shit his pants. That was the strongest she had ever felt, and she had spent the last three months trying to figure out how to rekindle that feeling.
When she heard about the women, Lenny pictured each one of them strutting down the highway. The vision gave her a moment of joy. She walked with them for a minute, felt the spring air brush across her face and through her long dark hair. Her arms propelled her along—swinging back and forth as if they were on fire. The sun tanned her arms, her feet flew, she was free and happy and smiling, always smiling.
Lenny picked up the phone to call Sue, a friend who lived down on Wittenberg Road. She wanted to know if the walkers had turned or were still heading her way.
“What do you think about them?” Sue asked her.
“It sounds pretty damn wonderful to me, walking like that, not talking to anyone, being with your friends.”
“Should we run out and join them?” Sue laughed at what she thought was the absurdity of her own question.
“The thought has crossed my mind, but I just want to see them. Maybe that's what I need.”
“What you need is a good screw,” Sue told her.
Sue wanted to keep talking but Lenny suddenly had an idea. She wanted to do the chores, throw a big dinner in the oven, get some wine out of the garage, take a shower, and get those women to come into the house.
The chores were like a zillion pounds of weight around her waist that kept her tied to the farm. There had been plenty of times when Lenny had thought about shooting each one of the hogs in the head and burying them in the pit behind the fence. But she knew the hogs would eventually save her when she sold the whole damn place—lock, stock and barrel. When that would happen or how it would happen, she had no idea.
All she could think of now was the women. She fairly flew through the chores after she called Pat and told him that a friend was visiting and would help her for a few weeks. “Don't come back until I call,” she told him.
Lenny hadn't bothered to cook a big meal for months. She ate frozen burritos, salads, vegetarian pizzas—all the foods she loved but Jackson had hated. For the women, she took out two turkey breasts from the freezer, peeled a bag of potatoes, washed some broccoli, got out her mother's homemade cranberry sauce, whipped up some rolls, and breathed a sigh of relief when she found a perfectly good cherry pie lurking in the back of the freezer.
After she set the dining room table, she showered so long the water turned cold. Then she dressed for the special occasion. She put on her silver Indian bracelet from college, the ring her grandmother gave her when she graduated from high school, the one pair of jeans that had managed to fit her for five years in a row, a red flannel shirt that highlighted her dark skin, and her black cowboy boots.
At 5:25 P.M. , with the smell of turkey floating like invisible bubbles throughout the house and out into the front yard, Lenny took the phone off the hook and set it under a pillow on her bed, grabbed a bottle of wine and a glass and went out to sit on the edge of the front porch.
Lenny knew in her heart that she could get them to stop. She knew if she walked out to the edge of the yard when she saw them turn the corner, if she went out onto the road and started walking toward them that they would simply follow her into the house.
It was 6:20 P.M. when they finally appeared, like a desert mirage. First one and then the next woman came into view, shimmering under the sun as they walked through what was left of the almost hot spring day.
Lenny finished her second glass of wine in one quick gulp, set it down gently on the step and started walking out to the highway. If the women saw her,
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