Milk(30)

            They came out on the driveway and walked over to the car. Anne stopped suddenly. There was something on the hood of the car: a plum, a fat purple plum. Martin walked over. He picked up the plum and looked around. There were no trees nearby. The door to the farmhouse was closed, and the door to the smokehouse stood half-open, as before.

            —Come on, Anne said. Let’s go.

            Martin set the plum on the truck’s running board and unlocked the car. They sat down and closed the doors.

            —Must’ve been some kids, Martin said.

            They drove back along the gravel driveway and then onto the asphalt road. They drove past the pine farm, past the cornfield, and over the creek and in between the hills. Finally they were on the main road.

            —Martin, Anne said, after they’d driven for a little while.

            —Yeah?

            —I don’t think I can keep this up much longer. We’ve got to do something soon. We’ve got to make a decision.

            —Yeah, Martin said.

            He looked at the dashboard clock and then again at the oncoming road. A moment later he turned and looked at Anne.

            —Yeah, he said.





            Albatross



            My brother sat on the couch reading a magazine. I aimed at him with my lighter pistol and pulled the trigger. The flame rose straight up, almost five inches high, but he didn’t react.

            —Catch!

            I tossed the lighter at him over the coffee table. He dropped the magazine and threw himself toward the lighter in order to save the couch and curtains and wall-to-wall carpet. He couldn’t find it and started pulling the pillows down on the floor.

            —Jeppe, you dick. Where’d it go? You’ll burn the house down.

            The lighter lay on the floor right at his feet. I stood and walked over. The flame had gone out as soon as I’d let go.

            —Here, I said and handed it to him.

            —You’re an idiot, he said, refusing the lighter.

            I stuffed the lighter in my pocket and left the room. I put on my boots and jacket and walked through the empty stalls and out the other side. We’d not been outdoors for two days. The afternoon sky was clear and blue, and I tromped toward our neighbor’s place. Svend the Hen was scorching his field; he’d lit rows of straw on the opposite side, and the fire now ran in parallel tracks over the crest of a hill. He was busy plowing a security barrier so the fire wouldn’t leap over onto our field, which hadn’t been harvested yet. He brought the tractor to a halt and opened the cab door.

            —Get in.

            I grabbed the handrail inside the door and hoisted myself up. Svend the Hen had his shotgun across his thigh, the barrel snapped open and draped over his leg. I sat on the wheel guard, and the tractor started with a jerk. Svend the Hen’s short silver hair poked out of the corner of a green cap. He didn’t say anything. He plowed another row along the barrier to our field.

            —So, he said.

            I could see how the effort of talking stretched his cheeks, how his lips twitched in the attempt, and how he sat chewing on what he would say. As if he had to put his tongue and lips in order first. As we reached the end of the row, he turned the tractor and began a third row.

            —So…They’re on vacation or what?

            —Yeah, I said.

            —What about the other hen?

            —He’s at home.