Page 11 of I'm Not Yours
On the third day, when I was finally done, it was a whole new house, open, white, and clean. I left only a table and chairs, shelves, a couch and two chairs in the family room. Much better.
I found the red-and-white flowered quilt in a closet. It had been my mother’s. I remember being on that quilt with her while she read books to me. I took the quilt out of its zippered plastic bag, shocked that my dad still had it, fluffed it out outside, and laid it over the couch. I sat on the couch and shook.
Bob and Margaret climbed into my lap. Margaret whined at me until I found her stuffed pink bear, which was under the couch. The cat, Marvin, climbed on, too, and settled on the pillow next to mine. He meowed at me; I meowed back.
My dad’s urn was propping open a bedroom door.
I ran my hand over the quilt. So much had died with my mother.
I blamed him.
4
On Tuesday morning—well,barelymorning—Mr. Jezebel Rooster cock-a-doodle-doo’d again and I’d had it. I whipped on my black farm boots over my flannel pajama pants and stomped out toward that pesky rooster sitting on the top of a fence post screeching so proudly.
“I am not a country girl, you stupid rooster, and I don’t want to be up this early!” I knew that my annoyance was totally irrational and ridiculous. He tipped his head and stared at me as if I were beneath him. “Stop it! Stop your stupid cock-a-doodle-doodling!”
He was silent for a minute, then thrust his neck back and announced, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
“No.” I pointed my finger at him, stalking closer. “No!”
He was quiet again, but I could tell he had an attitude about it all.
It was dark outside, with blues, pinks, and yellows skittering across the sky, and still and silent except for my ranting.
I hardly knew what to do with this silence after living in the city for so long. I hardly knew what to do with the cooing of pigeons and the wind hugging the leaves of the apple trees. When Marvin the cat meowed behind me, I about jumped out of my skin.
I had always slept like a dead woman through this part of the morning. When I did get up, mornings were stressful for me, putting together some couture outfit so I could “look the part,” commuting to work, planning my day, all the relentlessness of work ahead of me. I was on full blast.
But this tranquility, the hills golden in the distance, the mountains purple to the west, a vineyard east of me—it was trulyserene, like silk and a kaleidoscope mixed together. The country calmed me down. It made me see and hear things I had not seen and heard before.
I noticed that the lights were on in a Craftsman-style home with a huge deck on top of the hill. I’d seen a moving van up there a few weeks ago.
Mr. Jezebel Rooster cock-a-doodle-doo’d again.
“Shush!” I hissed. “Oh, shush.”
When I was at my door, that rebel rooster cock-a-doodled again, and I finally laughed.
Yes indeed, I laughed.
But this I knew: You won’t win against roosters. Especially when they’re named Mr. Jezebel Rooster.
I went back to sleep, then later pulled on my boots and started hobbling around the property.
A red barn, in fairly good shape, squatted about a hundred yards from the house. I thought of it as Spunky Joy and Leroy’s home. I fed them their hay and grain, and gave them fresh water. They seemed excited to see me—they neighed, swung their heads, pranced about. A helpful neighbor, Rita Morgan, a retired FBI agent, had shown me how to saddle and how to ride and I rode them most days on a nearby horse trail, which they loved.
The barn had a hayloft and I climbed the adjacent ladder, about twelve steps, to peer into it. I had not yet done so, and I was curious.
This did not prove to be a good idea.
I heard the splintering, I heard the first crack, then the second, third, fourth, as all the rungs broke straight through and I tumbled right down, then through the air, my ankle twisting on the last remaining rung as I landed on my back.
“Oof,”I said, then let fly a few bad words, crackling pain ripping through my body.
Spot the Cat, the cat with no spots, wandered over. My leg with the purple and green bruising and the stitches had been feeling much better. My left ankle was now killing me.
I groaned and pulled up my pant leg. There were splinters everywhere and my ankle was swelling rapidly.
