Myrtle Deane - Part 1
The flat line of the horizon was only three miles off, really, but it felt more like three hundred.
The tea kettle was whistling impatiently on the stove. Myrtle Deane stood at the kitchen sink, not hearing. She was staring out the window at the empty pasture. The one lone willow. The large orange mailbox at the end of the drive. Her laundry was already out flapping on the line. Her apron was damp, her hands red from the dish water. She pushed her hair out of her face with the back of her hand and blew out a breath. The rusty tin Pennzoil thermometer on the wall screamed 94˚.
On the drainboard waited a pile of potatoes to peel. The in-laws are coming tonight. A chicken needs to be scalded, cleaned and plucked for supper. Lord, how she dreaded the disgusting smell of hot, wet feathers and innards. She was standing there gazing at the flat line of the horizon, only three miles off, really, but it might as well have been three hundred.
Myrtle suddenly called up a memory from her young life: the cool evening mist lifting off Webber Pond back home in Maine, the breeze on her bare arms. The scent of pine, the shrill call of the loons at nightfall.
She dried her hands on her apron and called out, “John?” There was no answer. She called again from the open back door. “John?” She saw him way out in the south field.
She turned and stepped up on the stool to retrieve the old button box from the back of the corner cabinet. Ninety-five … ninety-six … ninety-seven dollars, she counted. She only needed twenty-two more.
Lovely imagery Sharron. Penzoil thermometer broiling on the side of a faded red barn. I can see it. I love stories that leave me wandering. I was on path but now where do I go. Beautiful.
Poor Myrtle. I have the feeling that her happiness may not depend on where she is but rather who she is in her own estimation. At least there is hope and ninety-seven dollars.