The going was slow and the light was fading fast. I felt a shiver of worry when I thought about the other creatures that could be prowling around as the night came on. Primarily mountain lions. Like most cats, they hunt at night, and I was acutely aware that not only did I not have a shell to retreat into, I didn’t even have the meager protection of a jacket.
I had gone about halfway back down the logging road and had repositioned the tortoise on the jacket three times when I started hearing noises. Quiet, crackling twig type noises. Birds being startled up out of the grass and shrubs noises. I stopped and strained my ears, wondering what I would be able to do to protect myself if a mountain lion crouched between the house and me. I had been so eager to leave and now I wondered if bits of my partially digested ponytail would finally provide the coughed-up hairball proof Graham and the rest of Fish and Game would need to prove there really were mountain lions in New Hampshire.
A rustling, crunching ahead of me on the path made me crouch behind the tortoise frozen in place, wondering if I was about to become lion chow. I racked my brain for bits of trivia concerning fending off large cats. All that ran through my mind was a television commercial for superabsorbent kitty litter. My knees went weak when Graham came into view and not in the way a girl hopes when landing her peepers on an available man with a decent job. I hovered in a semisquat above the tortoise, not sure my legs had what it would take to rocket me back up into a standing position. I was saved from decision making by Graham dropping to his haunches next to me, giving the tortoise the once-over.
“It’s like you’re an exotics whisperer.” He ran a square, still tanned hand over the bumpy ridges of the creature’s shell, tracing the rectangular pattern of dark and light browns with a gentle finger. My knees started to feel a little wobbly again and this time it might have been for reasons other than a shot of adrenaline. Even out in the open air, he smelled like wood smoke and pumpkin pie.
“It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose.”
“It wasn’t a criticism. I appreciate all the help you keep giving me.”
“I’m doing it for the animals and the town.”
“Duly noted. I’ve come to realize it is unwise to make assumptions about you.”
“What kind of assumptions?”
“You’re not entirely what you seem on the surface.”
“You mean crazy? Or a liar?”
“I mean normal.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s Thanksgiving. Everyone else in the country is lifting forkfuls of pie to their already overstuffed lips with friends and family. You’re out here attempting to lift a turtle which probably outweighs you and I don’t even think you plan to eat him.”
“It’s a tortoise.”
“You know what I meant.”
“No. I don’t. I’m not sure how much time the average Fish and Game official spends with criminals, but I’d like to think there is nothing odd about helping out other creatures, especially those in need. Especially today.”
“Not everyone would help. You look exhausted. Where did you find this guy?” Graham turned his head and glanced at the waving pasture edged by trees.
“A ways up the logging road. I wasn’t expecting it to take so long to get him back, but then a lot of things don’t turn out the way you would expect them to.” I turned my gaze back to the tortoise. My nose was burning a bit in just one nostril, the way it does whenever tears are threatening.
“He looks heavy, especially for someone your size.”
“I’ll have you know the average woman can easily lift half her body weight.” I flexed my arm in a bodybuilder pose. Graham reached over and gave it a firm squeeze, and my knees did that wobbling thing again.
“So that must mean hoisting a forty-pound sack of potting soil is about your limit.”
“Hey, buddy, I’ll have you know I weigh over a hundred pounds so you’d better make that a fifty-pound sack.”
“I didn’t think we knew each other well enough for you to tell me your weight.”
“I tell everyone how much I weigh.” And I do, just to reassure myself I’m not shrinking. My maternal grandmother is four-foot-eight and dwindling. The last I’d heard from Aunt Colleen, Grandmother O’Malley was eating an entire frozen cheesecake and a takeout pizza every day to maintain a weight of eighty-three pounds. With a metabolism to shame a hummingbird, you just can’t be too careful.
“So I guess that means I’m not special.” I thought under the fading glow of Graham’s tanned cheek that there was a bit of a rosy blush darkening it. How bizarre. And possibly flattering. If I was interested in that sort of thing.