Jeannine B. Everett

I lived in the fields that summer, the last before they mowed down the Queen Anne’s Lace and the sumac to make way for more houses. It was hot and dry, and the grass smelled like straw and crunched when I walked through it. The crickets flew ahead of me as I made my way to the old apple tree. I was still angry, and glad to see the world part to make way for me. ### I slumped under the tree, wishing I’d brought a book. I picked at a scab on my knees just to spite her, feeling a certain satisfaction when it came loose and began to bleed. ###“I thought you might need this.” ### I jumped with surprise, the low hum of anger having drowned out the sound of his approach. He held the thermos out to me. It bore a Marlborough logo, although neither of my parents smoked. My father brought it home from his weekly trip to the pony keg. He charmed it from some other customer who was happy just to have the cigarettes and had no need for a glorified water jug. It took its place with the hotel soaps, the jelly jar glasses, and the towels that came with the laundry detergent. I didn’t realize how little we had until I was grown and knew how much was possible. ###It was old and worn even then, the red faded, the bottom scraped from being dragged across pavement. He never threw anything out, saying “It’s not perfect, but it’s perfectly good.” Boxes of free goods lined the garage shelves, detritus of commerce, the offspring of box tops, ready to be pressed into service when the unlikely need arose. ###After a moment’s pause, I took it from him and took a deep swig. The water was cold and slightly metallic. He must have drawn it from the hose in the backyard. ###“May I?” He gestured to the space next to me, and I shrugged. He sat down, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his forehead. “Lord, it’s hot.” I offered him the thermos, and he took a drink, tipping his head back, pouring the water down his throat without his lips ever touching the spout. He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket, tipping forward so he could reach behind. Still, half of it hung out the back of his jeans. He’d been working in the yard when I stormed out the house, the screen door banging behind me. He’d probably had the water out there with him. ###We sat, silently, as I wondered if I could just stay out here. I’d thought about it before, living in the field. But in my imagination I’d planned better, with food and a sleeping bag and a tent. I’d have my sketchbook and my journal and the library books piled up on my nightstand. I fought back the tears. ###“What did you fight about this time?” he asked. ###I couldn’t even remember what had made me so angry, the time and distance melting our words, the water washing them away. “It doesn’t matter, she’s wrong.” ###He chuckled. The sound was deep and reassuring. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she felt the same way.” ###“I’m not coming back all the same.” We both knew I was lying. It still felt good to say, even if she wouldn’t hear. ###“Okay.” He handed me the thermos. It was wet, a combination of condensation and dripping water. “Take your time, and cool off.” He stood up, brushing the back of his pants. “Be home before dinner, and bring that back with you.” He pointed to the thermos. “It’s not perfect, but it’s perfectly good.” ###He walked off, the grass crunching under his boots. All I could think was, sounds like a few people I know. I never did give it back.