| Lingering |
| By T. Cannon |
|
|
|
|
|
Finally, by the end of summer, I'd had all I could take of him stomping and fussing around my tiny studio, whining when he was hungry, raging any time I didn't come home at the hour he expected me. I told him to pack up his things and get out. He cried and argued. I called a couple of our friends to help him get moved. He went. Before he left he told me 'Although you have torn my heart out, I still believe you and I are meant to be together. I know you will change your mind some day.' He really talked like that. |
|
|
|
The next Saturday morning, he was in my back nine, cutting wood. I never asked him, and he never asked my permission to come. He was trespassing. I didn't have the heart to call the police after what we'd been to each other. I went out to ask what he was doing, my hands itching from fear or anger or something. He explained he was worried about me in the cold of the coming winter, so he was going to fell and stack some firewood for me. I didn't argue, even when I saw he was stacking the new green wood in the way of the dry stuff in the woodshed. I'd had my fill of arguing. He worked half the day. |
 |
|
The next day, I was awakened by the sound of his rented chainsaw again. I threw on my clothes, drove into town, showered at the Y, and had breakfast in a cafe. I locked the studio on my way out. I made a day of it. He was gone when I got back. |
 |
|
The next three weekends were mostly the same, except I never knew when he'd show up or leave. He popped by to do some stacking on a Friday evening, too. He never called ahead or let me know when he'd be working. By September I'd had more than enough. He was scaring the fuck out of me, to tell you the truth. I sure couldn't bring anyone home--there was the constant threat of a scene. And that chainsaw--I'm sure I don't need to spell it out for you. At last, reluctantly, I went into town and had a talk with his dad. The woodcutting visits stopped. |
 |
|
A month and a half later, I laid my first fire of the season. As I'd figured, I had to climb over the green wood to get at the dry. I tried one of his logs just in case I was wrong, but it sputtered and smoked and squealed in the flames. |
|
That same night, I put on my vest and heavy gloves and started loading his green wood into my truck. I quit around ten and painted the sign that said 'FREE FIREWOOD'. Next morning, I got up early and finished loading before work. I took a long lunch hour that day and dumped it all off in the Safeway parking lot next to the donation bin, topped off with my sign. I could have just chucked it all out into the yard that night and covered it with a tarp, to get it out of my way; it would have been dry next winter. I wanted it gone. I was that sick of him. |
|
List all stories
|
|
|
