Mad Tom Spring: Those People

Snow Fence

 Maurice liked fences; they kept things where they belonged. Sheep, for example. You could never tell where sheep would end up if they weren't in a fence. Just last week he'd helped Kate collect the Mad Tom flock from the farm stand up the road. They'd made a good dent in the spinach for sale and the old Crupplehauer cousins who ran the place had been more than a little annoyed. People too. People had a tendency to wander unless they were contained. This he knew first hand. He heaved the last roll of snow fence onto the truck then crossed to the storage room under the loft to get the poles, Samson trotting

resolutely at his heel. The stout little dog, certain of his duty, kept the big man's left boot

in sight at all times, ready for action whenever it might arise.

If Maurice had heard the sniffling before he opened the door, he would have left it closed. Since he hadn't, the girl took him by surprise tucked, as she was, on top of a dusty metal desk in her pajamas.

"Hi," said the girl, wiping her face with both sleeves.

Maurice nodded awkwardly and looked away. He was unaccustomed to seeing women in their nightclothes, particularly in the barn in the middle of the afternoon. And he was entirely in the dark when it came to women in tears. The few times he'd encountered the situation, he'd been rescued by someone else, an unlikely solution in his current circumstance. He cleared his throat and glanced at her sideways, soberly handing her the handkerchief from his pocket. Of the many things Maurice considered useful, clean handkerchiefs were near the top of the list. She took it gratefully and blew her nose.

"Thanks," she said, handing it back.

Dust motes twirled lazily in the weak seams of light sifting through the cracks between the wide old boards. Her name was Lea, he did know that. She sublet the second bedroom from his neighbor, Natalie. She'd only lived there for a few weeks. Butterbun yellow was the color she'd chosen for her room; she'd been particular about that. It was a fluffy color and he suspected that she was a fluffy girl.

"Need to get some posts," he said, finally.

She took a deep, broken breath. "Don't mind me," she said.

He nodded again and crossed to the back corner where half a dozen neat bundles of poles leaned against the wall. Hoisting one bundle to each seasoned shoulder, he started back towards the door. The girl was chewing a thumbnail and watching him with sad, leaky eyes.

"Can I ask you something?" she said, wrapping her arms around her knees.

Maurice's stomach lurched. He stopped mid-stride. One could hardly say no to such a question, but he had strong reservations about saying yes. The difficulty was that

questions prefaced in such a manner tended to be personal and Maurice was a private man. Young people these days had few barriers to airing their most intimate situations, even to complete strangers, and he was wary about personal revelations from sniffly young women in pajamas whom he barely knew.

"Mm," he said, staring noncommittally at the wall above her head.

She smiled and lifted her chin, "Do you think I'd be hard to live with?"

This was worse than he expected. He swallowed.

"Couldn't say."

"I guess that wasn't a fair question."

"Mm."

"But if you were Natalie would you think I was hard to live with?"

Maurice considered. Obviously he wasn't Natalie. In fact, he knew very little about Natalie. They had shared an interior wall between their apartments for the past nine years but, apart from that and the requisite pleasantries as they passed on the grounds, they shared little else. He was uncertain whether Natalie would find Lea difficult to live with. He, himself, was a solitary man. He liked people well enough at a distance, but he didn't have much experience with them up close. Samson was all the company he needed. The little dog wiggled the tip of his tail as if reading the big man's thoughts.