Emmetsburg: Fifty-three

John sat on a stool beside the cellar door, wondering if he ought to be saying goodbye to the world. A storm was moving in, though the stars were bright and bold. The wind had picked up, carrying the mineral scent of approaching rain. The wind washed through the willow behind the house, tugging at its long flowing branches. There were flashes of lightening, reflected in houses and trees, but it was accompanied by a silence that told John the storm was the better part of an hour away.

The wind chased the off the heat of the day and kept the fire flies to the low branches of trees or among the tall grass at the back of the yard. More than that, the wind settled the storms in his heart that had tossed him madly the last few days. It didn’t resolve anything, and certainly gave him no peace of mind, but it offered a moment’s reprise from which he could collect the shattered pieces of his thoughts a bit.

Anna was already in bed, waiting for him. John felt that tug, the pattern and familiarity of being beside her the better part of his life, it was just that he couldn’t be near her right now. Too many thoughts and feelings besieged him, and too many doubts assailed him. It weakened him. It weakened his tongue and allowed those un-tempered misgivings free reign to charge Anna with things she might well be innocent of, at least as much as John’s heart was concerned. It was better he remain there in the yard where the solitude and quiet asserted themselves as the proper prescriptions for his tormented heart.

John pulled at the bandage. The act drew his mind from the sudden appearance of darker thoughts about Anna, their love and eternity, as if those thoughts had collected themselves from the broken pieces of his thoughts. The end of the bandage came loose, and if it was some sort of puzzle, something hiding a mystery, he began to unwrap it from his hand. He focused on it, forcing away though thoughts, wrestling them to the ground. The effort was fully respected in his face. John’s lips tightened, eyes narrowing and his brow sinking deeply. He pulled the wrappings away more quickly, more forcefully as the task to stop those thoughts became herculean. They fought back, allied with his selfish heart until he was helpless to hold them back any longer. They overran him, turning him from Anna, indicting and vilifying her for manufactured crimes and the hearsay foolishness of a madman.

The bandages lay in a pile at his feet. John held out the hand before him and studied the jagged scar, running from his index finger, through the center at his wrist where it almost reached his wrist. It was dark against the flesh of his palm, reminding him of trenches scarring the rolling farmland of France. He opened his hand, stretching his fingers as much as the pain and sutures would allow. He could feel the pull of the flesh, a tension that threatened to burst and gush warm dark blood.

“John?” Anna appeared at the back door. Her voice was sleepy and concerned. She noticed the bandages at his feet and came down the back step, the wind tugging at her thin white gown. “What have you done?”

“Cutting off the circulation,” he said, his voice held a sulking quality. She knelt before him, resting a hand on his knee. The other gently cradled the underside of his injured hand.

“Are you all right?” she tried in vain to find his eyes. “You’re just not yourself.”

“Fine,” he replied. “Just need to sort out a few things.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

It was as if these thoughts were a sin, a crime that he wished to hide. It was easier to be cruel to Anna than unburden himself. The words came out colder than he could ever recall speaking to her. It was as though someone else was speaking them.

“Can I keep a single thought to myself?” he told her. “Sometimes a man has to sort things out for himself. Now go on to bed.”

Anna stood and backed away, as if she no longer understood the man sitting on that stump. The words stabbed at her, and caused a cascade of reasons for his cruelty. Clearly it wasn’t John. She thought better of a response. She breathed heavily and shook her head.

“When you get things good and sorted out, John Perkins, come to bed.” She pulled open the screen and looked back at him once more. John was looking into the palm of his hand, picking at the stitches and dried blood. She let the door bang closed and went back to bed leaving him be.