light of the early November evening Sarah threw out cracked corn for her magpies, a quarrelsome but playful member of the Corvidae family. As a child in the second grade in Ohio she was fascinated with birds and Peppy would take her for walks in wooded acres so she could try to identify them. Peppy didnât know the names of any birds except ârobinâ but declared that they were âGodâs choir.â
They went over their trip list and Marcia announced that irritable Noreen, the other member of the hunting club, couldnât come along because her mom had to start chemo, so she had invited Terry. Marcia hoped Sarah wouldnât mind and Sarah didnât say anything because it was a done deal. She just hoped that Terry wouldnât whine too much about the world in general, a habit that could drive anyone batty. And then Marcia said something that appalled Sarah to the effect that she intended to try to seduce Terry. She blushed which she never did. Sarah said that since she knew that Marcia was infatuated with Terry and since he was also horny as a toad maybe she could bring him to her side with sex. âWhy not?â said Sarah, embarrassed.
When Marcia left Sarah decided to stay at the cabin for the night. Rover was pleased and they sat before the hot woodstove listening to the cold, blustery November wind. She thought of Tim but her mind was insufficient to imagine raising a son or daughter named Tim. Right now the first step, making love to someone, seemed forever out of the question. If anyone could be her patron saint it was Tim. A number of times she had been reminded that Tim would wish her to kill Karlânot, certainly, herself.
Rover growled but Sarah suspected it was the little bear she had seen her playing with from a distance. The bear was a year and a half and had likely been pushed away by its mother in favor of new cubs. She had heard of dogs and coyotes playing but never a dog and a bear. Rover was so relentlessly mean and protective that she wondered why she had made an exception for a little bear.
Having read so many stories and novels it unnerved her that she, in essence, was writing her own story day by day. Drifting toward sleep she recalled going with Terry to Priscillaâs birthday party because Giselle had called to say that Priscilla was depressed and drinking too much and needed company. Giselle had a fancy satellite TV hookup a rich boyfriend had given her for her double-wide house trailer. Way up the valley at Sarahâs house their TV reception was hopelessly fuzzy but Frank would sit there on Sunday watching pro football especially if it was the Cleveland Browns. It was Labor Day weekend and Terry was watching U.S. Open tennis and talking about Thomas Wolfe, the novelist. They had both enjoyed Look Homeward, Angel but less so the other novels by Wolfe which Terry pointed out were mostly the writer talking about himself. Sarah began to say something then stopped when the screen showed the New York City skyline which she found totally unimaginable, then she said that not much happened in Wolfeâs life except writing so thatâs what he had to write about. Why was it that a big terrible thing had to happen in her otherwise uneventful life? Was it fate or chance? She couldnât free herself to believe in fate or destiny. Such concepts were for the important and famous people the camera showed at the U.S. Open. In bad novels lots of stuff happened but in the good ones this was far less so. She asked Terry if it upset him to watch tennis when he couldnât play it, meaning his clubfoot prevented his playing such games. âNo, life has set me aside as an observer,â he said.
Chapter 8
They left before daylight and reached Livingston in four hours with four more hours to go for their destination whereupon the police closed I-90 because the snowstorm had grown in force and the wind was so high between Livingston and Big Timber that a semi had
They went over their trip list and Marcia announced that irritable Noreen, the other member of the hunting club, couldnât come along because her mom had to start chemo, so she had invited Terry. Marcia hoped Sarah wouldnât mind and Sarah didnât say anything because it was a done deal. She just hoped that Terry wouldnât whine too much about the world in general, a habit that could drive anyone batty. And then Marcia said something that appalled Sarah to the effect that she intended to try to seduce Terry. She blushed which she never did. Sarah said that since she knew that Marcia was infatuated with Terry and since he was also horny as a toad maybe she could bring him to her side with sex. âWhy not?â said Sarah, embarrassed.
When Marcia left Sarah decided to stay at the cabin for the night. Rover was pleased and they sat before the hot woodstove listening to the cold, blustery November wind. She thought of Tim but her mind was insufficient to imagine raising a son or daughter named Tim. Right now the first step, making love to someone, seemed forever out of the question. If anyone could be her patron saint it was Tim. A number of times she had been reminded that Tim would wish her to kill Karlânot, certainly, herself.
Rover growled but Sarah suspected it was the little bear she had seen her playing with from a distance. The bear was a year and a half and had likely been pushed away by its mother in favor of new cubs. She had heard of dogs and coyotes playing but never a dog and a bear. Rover was so relentlessly mean and protective that she wondered why she had made an exception for a little bear.
Having read so many stories and novels it unnerved her that she, in essence, was writing her own story day by day. Drifting toward sleep she recalled going with Terry to Priscillaâs birthday party because Giselle had called to say that Priscilla was depressed and drinking too much and needed company. Giselle had a fancy satellite TV hookup a rich boyfriend had given her for her double-wide house trailer. Way up the valley at Sarahâs house their TV reception was hopelessly fuzzy but Frank would sit there on Sunday watching pro football especially if it was the Cleveland Browns. It was Labor Day weekend and Terry was watching U.S. Open tennis and talking about Thomas Wolfe, the novelist. They had both enjoyed Look Homeward, Angel but less so the other novels by Wolfe which Terry pointed out were mostly the writer talking about himself. Sarah began to say something then stopped when the screen showed the New York City skyline which she found totally unimaginable, then she said that not much happened in Wolfeâs life except writing so thatâs what he had to write about. Why was it that a big terrible thing had to happen in her otherwise uneventful life? Was it fate or chance? She couldnât free herself to believe in fate or destiny. Such concepts were for the important and famous people the camera showed at the U.S. Open. In bad novels lots of stuff happened but in the good ones this was far less so. She asked Terry if it upset him to watch tennis when he couldnât play it, meaning his clubfoot prevented his playing such games. âNo, life has set me aside as an observer,â he said.
Chapter 8
They left before daylight and reached Livingston in four hours with four more hours to go for their destination whereupon the police closed I-90 because the snowstorm had grown in force and the wind was so high between Livingston and Big Timber that a semi had
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