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“I told myself I’d leave that world behind, you know? Start again. Fresh.” Charles says this as he kicks his feet up on the railing of his front porch and leans back in his rocker. As I look at him, I think to myself that Charles looks a lot older than he should. Seventy when he’s barely going on thirty-five. I guess that’s just how the story goes when you’ve treaded the kind of waters he has for so long.
His cabin overlooks an army of White Spruce, their leaves shuddering with me as the early morning breeze passes us by. On days like this, I’ll join Charles for a smoke and a shoulder. He puffs away on his pipe, and I beg and plead for a couple of hits.
“I got a plot of land now, and someday, I’ll have a wife. I’m sure of it.”
Charles lets a stream of smoke through his nostrils. I watch it climb the air for a moment before giving Charles a short side glance.
“Oh? Is that what you’ve been doing? Trying to make a wife out of me, Charles?”
I was only teasing. What me and Charles had was far from marriage material. I’m sure of it. Nonetheless, he startles for a moment, looking at me with those big, brown eyes, wide as saucers. Everything stops for Charles Smith, in that big head of his. I see it in the way his mouth hangs open, but no words come out. Only silence and flies.
I roll my eyes and look out beyond the trees. I’m wrapped up in one of his ponchos. This one’s got a lopsided bull stitched on the front of it.
“I was just messin’,” I say, attempting to conceal my bruised pride with a laugh. “Don’t need to get your knickers in a bunch—or twist—whatever that damn saying is.”
“I’d marry you twice over, Melladeen.” The words tumble out of Charles’s mouth so fast I almost don’t catch them. “Twice. Once on a Sunday, then again on Monday, just to see you in that dress one last time before I tear it off you.”
Now I stare at him, my mouth hanging. Catching nothing but flies.
“You’re just saying that…”
And Charles laughs, as airy and soft as the breeze.
“Nah, not when it comes to you, my Melladeen.”