Manny
The
last time I saw Manny
To
talk to she was
Holding
two butcher
Knives
in her hand
Instructing
her sister-in-law
How
to dress out chickens
That
her brother-in-law Everett
Was
slaughtering outside the barn
In
the rain, with all
His
young nephews watching —
The
youngest shivered up
Against
a barn door
With
his eyes squeezed shut,
And
even I knew Everett didn’t
Like
this job — it was all over
His
face — and somehow the fresh
Whet
axe felt clumsy in his hands
But
not Manny — inside the barn she tossed
A
scrap of plywood over a barrel
And
proceeded to hold shop with
Her
knives — the kids eying
The
sop of guts scraped
Into
a bucket — and later
They
watched the dogs whine down
By
the brook where this stew
Would
be dumped out for them
So
eight years later, this evening,
Manny
drove up to our place and
Lifted
herself out of the car
Telling
us she was the new Avon lady —
We
didn’t know what to do
With
that, but two hours later
Susan
had bought sixteen dollars
Worth
of Christmas gifts while Manny
Had
told us about her past year of
A
broken foot, visits to the chiropractor,
Times
out here with social workers
Bringing
complaints that she was again
Beating
the kids — she said she
Didn’t
understand, and it hurt her
Because
no one loved those kids
More
than her — and sometimes she
Would
leave here and go back to
New
Hampshire where she was born
Only
to find out it had
Changed
for the worse —
Just
like this place she was always
Turning
to drive back home to
How It's Done
Of
all the things
Out
in the field
Around
the farm
Lee
Strong might
Have
taught me it
Wasn’t
how he used
A
scythe or midstep
Lifted
its blade
To
comb his stone
Regaining
speed —
Though
I watched all of
That
— and how he
Stood
in the middle
Of
his work looking
At
barely nothing
For
a very long
Time,
a match tipped
In
to re-light his
Pipe
— but how
Loosening
a belly
Belt
he privately
Let
his pants drop
Those
cooling
Seconds
above
His
knees
Farmer
There
were the weeks when
We
hadn’t seen Everett on
The
road in his truck or
In
the hayfield he tended
For
another landowner spreading
Lime
and fertilizer, his
Mother
waving to us from
Her
trailer steps and we wouldn’t
Bother
her but went to Everett’s
House
back off in the woods
Knocking
a few times in the
Mid
afternoon. He came to the
Door
unrecognized — no cap,
A
white undershirt out over
Green
work trousers, mouth parting
New
whiskers saying come inside.
July
and curtains closed.
We
sat at a table in the middle
Of
one big room,
Darkness
piled against
The
walls, his wife at work in
Town
and the kids off somewhere.
Clearing
newspapers from the table
I
then saw his hand and three
Fingers
chopped off at the large
Knuckle,
skin rounded over
For
stubs. Everett held up the
Hand
and said he’d been out of
Work
since the accident haying.
Poured
himself more coffee from
A
thermos, face pale as smoke.
Shaking
his head at how he wanted
To
grab back the fingers in the
Baler,
but the fingers were gone.
Fifteen
years later I heard about
His
heart attack, how he sat
Healing
beside a window in his
New house near the road drinking
Coffee
and reading newspapers with
Eye
glasses he never wanted anyone
To
see, waving to all the neighbors
Driving
by with that damaged
Hand
that went back to work.
So Long
They
had the big
Auction
this morning
Up
at Bud’s farm. We
Saw
road signs announcing
The
event a week earlier and
Wondered
where it was,
Coming
to the news Bud
Had
died last winter in his
Farmhouse, left alone those
30
years after his wife
Took
her life. That was a
Long
time ago — Bud hayed
His
mowing 80 times since
Then
— had six different dogs
All
named Duke, never painted
The
barn and didn’t mean to
Change
his living even with
The
county road dividing his
House
from the farm, and every
Year
the cars passed faster,
The
town got closer and Bud
Crossed
the road not looking
Either
way, the place was his.
Today
old Ford out-of-state
Farm
trucks with trailers
Were
seen in the village
Riding
up the hill to Bud’s
Where
his machinery and tools
Have
been tagged and specialized.
The
house will be sold next.
Wife,
dogs, barn cats, swallows,
Straw
rats, a few dusty chickens
All
dead and not for sale, and
Bud
made sure no one got Bud.
_________________
Bob Arnold
O N C E I N V E R M O N T
Gnomon
