You, the very last thing I should do was pursue. Men are genetically predisposed to be the hunter/gatherers, one book said. Think of yourself as the woolly mammoth. Let the hunt come to you. I wasn’t sure about that advice, knowing just what happened to the woolly mammoths, but I got it. Besides, Ian had my home, office and cell numbers, my e-mail, my Facebook page and my street address. He was ignoring them all.
In other news, eCommitment showed that I’d had some interest from a fifty-three-year-old lumberjack with two ex-wives, seven children and nine dogs. Clearly, I’d run through all the available men in northeastern Vermont. Human Hair was looking better and better.
On Tuesday, Annie and I met for lunch at Toasted & Roasted, which was mobbed with senior citizen leaf peepers, and it was only because I’d danced with Gus at our eighth-grade mixer that we got a table. After hearing about my godson’s triumphs in the classroom, athletic field and dentist’s office, I brought my friend up to speed on my lack of a love life. “Are you sure I shouldn’t call him?” I asked, toying with my soup.
“Give him some space.” She took a bite of her French dip sandwich and chewed wisely.
“I hate space,” I muttered. “I’m much better at smothering, pestering and stalking. Space sucks.”
“Trust me,” she said, smiling. “I know everything.”
By Thursday, I decided that Annie in fact knew nothing and stalking was indeed the way to go. Hence, I decided to take my kayak for a little spin that evening on Granite Lake. Wasn’t like I’d never kayaked here before, was it? Sure, Ian’s dock was on the far side of this same lake, but that was hardly my fault. I’d been kayaking here long before any vet moved in.
I unloaded the boat, got my paddle from Lancelot’s hatch and clicked on my life vest. “In you go, Bowie,” I said. My dog leaped neatly into the front seat of the kayak, pleased as punch.
Twenty minutes later, I sighted Ian’s dock. He wasn’t there, and his house was too far to see from the water. Too bad. I’d rather hoped he’d be sitting out here, mooning after me. I bobbed there a moment, the waves slapping the side of the kayak. Then, with a gusty sigh, I turned my trusty vessel around and headed back. But the fresh air and exercise soothed my soul a little nonetheless; it was hard to be blue with Bowie, who sat in quivering attendance upfront, his head turning sharply whenever he sensed a fish or a turtle or an amoeba.
Vermont was at its most beautiful this week, the height of leaf season, the foliage so pure and brilliant it was almost a physical sensation. The early October evening was soft, the setting sun cutting in golden shards through the gray clouds. In just a few weeks, all this would be gone, just an achingly beautiful memory ‘til next year, and the long, white winter would be upon us.
Another kayak came cutting across the lake. A couple about my own age paddled vigorously, their cheeks glowing with the cool air and exercise. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” I called.
“It sure is!” the man answered. “Guess what? We’re getting married! She just said yes!” The woman flapped her left hand, ostensibly to show me her ring.
“Oh, mazel tov!” I called merrily, though a quick vision of them capsizing flashed satisfyingly across my brain. They waved, in love with life, and continued on their happy way.
“Want to be my boyfriend, Bowie?” I asked, huffing away. He did, of course. He twisted neatly out of his seat and took a step or two to lick my face. “See? You’re very attuned to my moods. You don’t snore. You’re quite attractive. Okay, that’s probably enough, boy. You’re a dog, after all, and this sounds perverted. Go sit down.”
Bowie returned to his seat and continued his search for minnows. As the twilight thickened, I made it back to shore. Bowie jumped out and watched as I hauled the kayak onto the roof of my car and took off my life vest. With one more look across the lake, I opened the car door. “Come on, boy,” I said, then buckled him into his doggy seat belt and kissed his furry head.
My melancholy returned as I started Lancelot and trundled down the dirt road away from Granite Lake. Work wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t the same. Last night, I’d scouted out Craigslist, but there’d been nothing, just a sales position for a dying newspaper in New Hamster. I’d be kind of dumb to quit in this economy, give up all those nice perks and bennies. “Maybe I’ll go into the family business,” I told Bowie. “Not that I want to be around dead people all day, but I would have job security.”
Suddenly, a huge wild turkey came running out of the woods to my right. The thing was enormous, and it was sprinting as if being chased, its wings flapping, clearly preparing for takeoff. And on a collision course with my car! “Watch out!” I called, slamming on the brakes. I flung my arm protectively in front of Bowie, who barked in surprise, and we jerked to a stop, our seat belts locking.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered. There’d been a thud. I was almost sure of it. Heart pounding sickly, I got out of the car, my hands over my mouth, prepared to see turkey carnage.
There it was, lying on the side of the dirt road. One wing flapped weakly, then stopped.
“No!” I cried. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry!” I wrung my hands as I approached. The turkey didn’t move again. I couldn’t tell if it was breathing. “Please don’t be dead,” I squeaked.
Sobs jerking out of my chest, I went to the back of my car and opened the hatch. Stupid Lancelot! Why did I buy a Prius? If only it made some noise, the poor bird would’ve been warned. “Please don’t be dead,” I repeated.
I grabbed the tarp I always kept in the car for my dripping paddles. Bowie whined in inquiry. “We hit it,” I said wetly, then returned to the turkey.
It was horribly still. Like all turkeys, it was an ugly brute … a tom, a male. In the fading light, its feathers looked dull and black, the bald, rough-skinned head in shades of red and chalky blue. The bird’s legs were long and strong, with spurs on the back for defense. Not that it did much good against my car.
My hands shaking with fear and adrenaline, I lay down the tarp next to the bird, then got the paddle from my car. Closing my eyes with the horror of the job, I used the paddle to gently push the huge bird onto the plastic, gagging at the flopping sound its body made. “I’m so sorry, so so sorry,” I wept, then gathered up the ends of the plastic, making a sling so I wouldn’t actually have to touch the bird. Half dragging it—it was heavier than I expected, maybe twenty pounds—half swinging it, I got it over to the trunk, still crying, then sort of swung it inside. One talon stuck out from the tarp, making me cringe. Poor, innocent thing. “Please don’t be dead,” I said, tears sluicing down my cheeks. Then I closed the hatch, ran to the driver’s seat, threw the car into Drive and floored it, my tires slipping on the rough road.
In all my life, I’d never hit an animal before. Not even a squirrel. Not even a chipmunk! It was quite a feat, living up here in the boonies, and something I’d always been proud of. I could hear myself crying, a long, low whimper that caused my dog to howl softly as well. “Don’t be dead, don’t be dead,” I chanted, ignoring Bowie, who tried to twist around to get a better sniff at our quiet passenger. We came onto pavement, and I pressed the accelerator harder, the trees whipping past in a blur of color. Bitter Creek Road, a hard left. “Don’t be dead, don’t be dead.”
There. Number seventy-five, a black mailbox marking the nearly hidden driveway. I turned so hard and fast the car fishtailed, causing Bowie to yip and scrabble to keep his footing on the car seat.
Thank God! There were lights on. He was home.
