EMMETSBUG: Five

The back door was still open. Slipping into the coveralls, John opened the front door and felt the cool damp morning air flood into the house. He pulled one suspender over his right shoulder and left the other one dangling at his side. He stretched and gave a satisfied yawn, drawing air that seemed to fill his body with renewed vigor.

The old wooden screen door was slightly bent on its hinges and stuck a bit against the stoop, requiring a bit of effort to push it open. It creaked loudly against the ancient hinges. John hesitated a moment before stepping outside into the cold wet grass. He yawned once more and stretched the last sleep from his body.

The town was quiet, mostly. There was the hum of activity at the mill along the tracks, a few blocks over. It sounded more urgent than usual, not not enough to cause John to take much more than a passing note. A rooster awakened down the street. The first golden light was catching the tree tops across the road. It sparkled upon the grass and everything as warm daylight spilled through the trees. The colors of the world were soft and dream-like.

The yard was littered with clumps of leaves and pieces of tar paper from the roof. A large branch was torn from a spruce along the creek. It had split from the trunk but was still partly attached by sinewy golden-white slivers. A clump of spiky green Iris' had been flattened by the downpour. Their long orange flowers had been battered, but they'd seen worse and would recover before long.

He went out a distance from the house. Patches of black tar paper had been torn from the roof exposing the dingy-blond wood frame in places. Wasn't as bad as he feared last night, but John hardly relished the thought of climbing up there to fix it yet again. He'd patched it up pretty good the previous autumn, one of those obligatory preparations for the long hard Iowa winters. He’d need more paper and some longer nails, which would tax their already meager finances. As a matter of course John wondered what would have to be sacrificed in its place. He was mulling over that problematic budget when movement in the house drew his attention.

Anna was just climbing from bed. She was nearly lost to the umber shadows of the house, like a figure from a Rembrandt painting, fading into murkiness. She was nude, her rust-red hair wild and tangled. For a moment she lingered in the bedroom door with her back to John, looking down upon the bed, as if it was the place of a crime or something terrible she wished to but couldn't ignore. She turned and, as if she could feel him watching her, found his eyes with a guilt-laden gaze before looking away.

Anna sipped on a robe and came slowly to the back door. She smiled reluctantly, and slid along the door frame. She stood straight again and pulled back the long hair from her face, drawing it to one side. In the same motion stepped down into the wet green grass. With an economy of gliding steps she found John and wrapped her arms around his waist. Anna breathed in the scent of his chest and the memory of last night.

“Sleep well?”

“You?”

“Like a rock.”