EMMETSBURG: Seven

Blue sky overwhelmed the rolling farms and small painted banks of woods as John turned his truck onto the county road south from town. The road ran straight to mallard through the sweet oblivion of the Iowa landscape as a ribbon of dusty white gold. The storm left the world reaffirmed for its passing. Bright green trees glistened in the folds. The world was as perfect as a painting. Even a flock of geese, moving in from the east seemed part of some earthly ballet, each movement precise and choreographed.

John pushed the clutched down hard with his left foot and wiggled the gear shift until it caught with a crunch and the old Ford lurched forward a bit. It was getting worse with time, and he could feel them slipping more and more. He’d picked up a fair bit of knowledge on fixing these contraptions in the army and afterwards, but knew the parts would cost him a fair penny. It’d be just one more strain on their finances. He'd tinkered and fought to keep the old truck going all he could, but the old girl's days were numbered. Give John a wagon and a good horse, like the old days, and he'd be just fine.

Still, he thought, they were far better off than lots of folks, like those poor souls, the families and drifters and refugees from Oklahoma and Kansas who trudged, hitch-hiked or rode the rails through Iowa to some uncertain and undecided future. John managed enough through odd jobs to keep food on the table, while Anna picked up a couple Dollars sewing and looking after some of the town’s older citizens. They weren't saving anything, but there was just enough to get by on, which was about everything these days.

Just outside of town, draped upon a small rise beside the road, stood St. Mary’s catholic cemetery. White and Marble stones caught the growing morning sun. John had to force himself not to look there. It was like tearing at the scab of an old wound, but merely the thought, the proximity of the place was enough to darken his mood.

He tried to stem that tide by finding other thoughts. The damage to the house from last night's storm was not quite as bad as he feared. He could patch most of the places easy enough. That and a few other repairs and he was confident at getting through another winter, which is how he had taken to looking at things. Some folks called it scraping by, but John and Anna's fingers were dug in deep and fighting for every inch.

Anna had made him the best breakfast he’d had in some time; two eggs sunny side up, a couple strips of bacon, and warm sour dough bread she’d baked fresh that morning. Nothing she hadn’t made for him a thousand times, but making love with her, not out of grief, or rage or expectation, but for simple desire had lifted him. It seemed to lift Anna as well, and brought to mind those days when life and love were fresh and new and an exploration. He could still taste the bacon on his tongue, savoring its slowly fading memory.

Emmetsburg shrank behind him as an oasis of trees, with the tall rectangular steeple of St. Mary’s rising from them. There was nothing much to the town that anyone would lament if one day the whole town simply disappeared, but John could scarcely imagine a more perfect place to spend a life. With Pershing had seen Paris, the choked streets, mayhem and racket of New York and was never swayed for a moment by them. He only longed for Anna and this little town.

It was the people. It was the people. There was a solemn intensity to folks in these parts. Hard living and long winters helped sculpt ever deepening lines from early ages upon stern but honest faces. This was the stuff of life. This was where the negotiation between nature the elements, life and death were as intimate and bloody as any self-respecting religion. Hard drinking, a firm handshake and clear consciences were the measure of a man. And that’s what it was for John. That’s what held him so firmly to this place. Out in that other world he just couldn’t accurately read what was behind a man’s eyes.