Life went on, and eventually that water went under the bridge to merge with the ocean of other forgiven and forgotten things. I treasured the resilience of our friendship.
In my emails, I described my land and state of mind without minimizing the discomforts, fears, and doubts. At least I thought I did. When Cat said she’d like to visit, I assumed she understood about the bugs, the hole in the ground that served as outhouse, the ice water carried back to camp by hand, the squatting in the dirt around the fire, the gut-clench of fear that came with hearing something moving in the midnight dark. I figured she’d have enough ironic distance to enjoy Diz; she’d rather admire Jim Brassard as the man-of-few-words professional that he was, and she’d probably get a crush on Earnest. Maybe she’d even pick up on some of the deeper charms of the situation, understand the difficult, transformative magic it was working on me.
I admit that I was a bit proud of my new hardihood and my radical divergence from the mainstream—what else was there to be proud of?—and I was looking forward to showing it off.
I gave her directions to the right interstate exit and to a general store about six miles from the farm; after that point, navigation on unmarked dirt roads was too complex to explain. We arranged to meet at the store at one o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon so I could lead her to my new home.
She got there before me. I came trundling down the road, and there she was: a skinny, frizzle-headed blond leaning against the hood of a funky BMW, wearing a vivid pink tank top, tight black jeans, and flip-flops. She was eating something plastic-wrapped and complicated that required licking her fingers at intervals.
“Hey, baby,” I called as I pulled alongside her. “Want to come up to my place?”
She had her mouth full, and her hands were gummed with pastry and cream. When she had swallowed, she said, “What’s with this place? You’re the third person to ask in the last five minutes!”
I got out and we hugged and she finished her food, which she declared “the best whoopie pie I ever ate! No label or anything, homemade!”
I got gas at the pump while she headed back into the store. When the nozzle chunked, I went in to find her at the counter with a twelve-pack of Heineken. She was chatting with the cashier, an obese fiftyish woman who didn’t look as if she laughed often.
“I can’t believe you keep worms in there with the groceries!” Cat said.
“Crawlers have to be kept cool,” the cashier said. “Or they die.”
Cat turned to me: “They’re in Chinese take-out boxes! Right in with the beer and cream cheese and everything!”
“People fish. Need bait.” She handed over Cat’s change and took my gas money.
We caravanned back to Brassard’s farm, with Cat’s car sometimes lost in the dust my tires churned up. At the top of the hill, where you get the first glimpse of the farm and its valley and my own little ridge, I stopped and went back to explain the layout.
She got out and looked. “Very bucolic.”
“It’s pretty, don’t you think?”
“Totally pastoral,” she said with marginally more enthusiasm.
Brassard’s nearer cows swung their heads toward us as we passed the upper pasture, and then I led Cat into the turnout where I always parked. From there, a pair of tractor-wheel ruts cut through the scrub field to the bottom of my hill, the access route Brassard had provided as part of our deal.
I figured I’d start by introducing her to the Brassards so they would know what the unfamiliar car was doing there. But from the powerful manure smell, I knew that Brassard himself was out with the spreader, and Earnest’s truck wasn’t there. So that left Diz. As we crossed the road and headed into the farmyard, I felt a twinge of anxiety about the impending chemistry between the two women.
There was no sign of Diz outside, so we stood on the porch and knocked. Bob wandered amiably over to say hello. After a bit, Diz came to stand behind the screen. I made introductions, and Diz said, “A visitor!”
“Yep!” Cat piped. “Hi!”
“Well, no woman is an island, I guess—not even our Ann, apparently. Welcome to Brassard’s Farm, Cat, and God help you.”
“Thank you.”
Diz came out so she could look Cat over more closely. The door whacked shut behind her, and she scanned Cat up and down, taking in her naked arms and shoulders and back, the thin elastic fabric of her tank top, her bare ankles and feet.
To me, dryly: “How’re you fixed for bug dope up there? Got some here if you need more.”
“We’re good,” I said. “Thanks, though!”
Diz nodded, checked her watch. This was not a gesture of impatience but a real concern for the relentless cycle of a dairy farm’s chores.
“Friends for a long time?” Diz asked Cat rhetorically. “You don’t strike me as the deeply introspective, overly sensitive type. Unlike—”
Cat laughed. “Got that right! We met in, what, seventh grade? She was the brainy girl.”
“So you’re, what, the antidote?”
“Diz is very insightful,” I warned Cat. I was afraid that some comment of Diz’s would constitute one barb too many, and that Cat might reciprocate. And then it would get unpleasant.
But Cat was loving it. To me she said solemnly, “Good to know. I’ll be careful around her.” To Diz she said, “Yes. And she’s mine. My antidote.”
Diz chuckled, then said, “Well, enjoy your stay. And now, as the radio guy says, I gotta get back to work.”
As Diz turned away, Cat added, “But we’re not gay!”
That cracked Diz up. She slapped her thigh and gave us a get outta here wave and stumped off toward the lower pasture.
I was pleased they had hit it off. Cat has a kind of momentum to her personality, and like it or not like it, it tends to sweep people along. She’s not judgmental of individuals,
