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.
"Sorry," Maurice said helplessly.
"Well I'm not hard to live with," Lea seethed, "and Greg hasn't done any of the things she said. She didn't even say them - she left a note. You want to see?"
Maurice did not want to see. He had no desire at all to see what Natalie had written to Lea about this unknown Greg. What he wanted to do was escape with his poles and put the snow fence up so the visitors this weekend to Mad Tom Meadowlark would stay where they were supposed to be. Lea held out a damp piece of creamy stationary. He hesitated then sighed, lowered the poles to the ground and reached for the note. Samson sat down.
"You in there Morris?" called Kate from the big double doors.
Maurice stiffened and glanced towards the voice. He had a strong distaste for the name Morris and Kate persisted in calling him by it. Admittedly, it was his name, but he preferred Maurice. 'Morris', he felt, belonged to a more sedentary man, a smaller man with a thinning mustache perhaps who collected stamps and gave apples to kids at Halloween. At this particular moment, however, the sound of Kate calling him 'Morris' was a beacon in the dark.
"Morris?" she called again.
Lea's eyes were startled and wide like a fox in a flashlight.
"Coming," he called back and hoisted the poles onto his shoulders once more, not taking the paper from Lea's hand.
"Sorry," he said again. She smiled wanly and clutched the note to her knees as Maurice walked out the door.
** ** **
Kate stood fuming by the pick-up truck. Two dead chickens hung by their feet from her hand. Samson's nose twitched with interest in the direction of the birds.
"Fox," said Maurice matter-of-factly.
"Fox," replied Kate, "set the traps."
Maurice hated trapping fox. Kate assumed he shot them but he didn't. He drove them to the reservoir and let them go. He was a man who told the truth, but he figured it wasn't lying if she didn't ask.
"This makes five birds in two weeks Morris. I want to know when this fox is shot."
He startled, wondering if she knew. This wasn't a request; she expected him to tell her when he shot the fox. Not when he caught it, or got rid of it, or took care of it – she'd clearly said when this fox is shot. No way out presented itself; he'd have to shoot the fox.
"Mm," he said, nodding reluctantly.
She motioned towards the snow fence, "Everything under control for the Meadowlark?"
"Yep."
"I told Sallie it would be."
Sallie tended to fret. Once every season, the guesthouse hosted a special event and and every time, Sallie's sense of imminent disaster smoldered underfoot. Mad Tom Meadowlark, the Spring event, was an herb and craft festival that drew people from all over. There was local music in the gazebo, herb-related food concessions in the picnic grove, demonstrations in the herb garden, and dozens of craft booths from several states. It changed very
little from year to year and Maurice knew exactly what had to be done – setting up the snow fence to delineate boundaries, hammering booth numbers into the ground, putting out the tables and signs, and hauling the red wagons to the parking area so Kate's son, Leo, and his friends could help people back to their cars with plants. The whole family pitched in and, as far as Maurice could tell, everything was ready right on time. Some people, he observed, seemed to need complications. Sallie was one of those people.
"Speak of the devil..." muttered Kate, looking towards the house.
Sallie hurried down the drive from the guesthouse, a determined delegation of one. She smiled brightly and waved but a certain urgency in the way she propelled herself
towards them betrayed a more serious intent.
Kate gestured towards the truck before her sister-in-law had a chance to speak, "I told you he had things under control."
"Someone needs to make sure things are getting done," Sallie retorted primly, her smile shifting south, "It'll be an outright miracle if we have everything ready by Saturday."
Kate raised her eyebrows at Maurice and amusement twitched at one corner of his mouth.
They were interrupted by movement at the back door of the guesthouse. All three turned at once to see the Professor striding out through the garage, black case swinging discreetly at his side.
"I don't know how many times I've asked him not to use that door!" Sallie exclaimed in frustration.
"I want to know what's in the case," said Kate, switching the chickens to her other hand.
"Gun," said Maurice, "Winchester. Gun case anyway."
Sallie's face drained to a blotchy white, "I can't have a gun in the guesthouse!"
"Don't jump to conclusions," said Kate.
"What else would it be?" Sallie snapped, panic quivering at the edge of her voice, "He takes that case with him everywhere."
"Ask him," said Maurice. He was practical that way. Didn't see the point in guessing if you could ask.
Three pairs of eyes followed the Professor as he walked briskly towards them down the drive. He raised his hand in greeting. Only Maurice acknowledged him, the women stared vaguely as he passed.
"I don't trust him," said Sallie, lowering her voice.
"Where's he going anyway?" asked Kate as he opened the big gate next to the barn. No Guests Beyond This Gate was clearly posted by the latch.
"Excuse me!" called Kate. The Professor turned. "That's not a part of the guesthouse grounds."
"I was invited," he called back pleasantly, gesturing down the hill towards Augusta's house. Augusta, Kate and Joe's great aunt, was the matriarch of the Bertram clan. She lived in a little cottage in a crook of woods back behind the barns and, while she was very much a part of their family life, she seldom chose to interact with guests.
The Professor continued on through the gate and around the barn, quickly disappearing from sight. Sallie grabbed Kate's arm.
"He's going to shoot Aunt Gus!" she exclaimed frantically.
"Don't be ridiculous," said Kate.
Maurice chuckled, "Won't get past the goose."
A stray goose from the Fall migration had taken up residence on Augusta's kitchen doorstep and generally kept visitors at bay. Sallie, who'd had several run-ins with the goose herself, had to concede the point but worry continued to pinch at her eyes. A snazzy yellow convertible with the top down wandered tentatively onto the grounds from the main entrance.
"Guests?" asked Maurice.
"Better not be," said Sallie nervously, "I have an architect and his wife due in tomorrow, but no one today."
The bright yellow car pulled into a guest space near the house and a man unfolded himself restlessly from the driver's seat tossing expensive sunglasses onto the dash.
"That looks like a guest to me," said Kate.
"I'm not ready for guests today!" wailed Sallie, taking off for the house.
"I'm going pop in down at Augusta's for a minute, just to check," said Kate. She swung the chickens ruefully, "I'll toss these in the woods on the way."
** ** **
Maurice headed back to the room beneath the loft to get the remaining poles, his customary efficiency dampened by the prospect of continuing the awkward conversation that had been so fortuitously interrupted. He paused to gather fortitude. The narrow plank door was open, the old barn perfectly still. Cautiously, he peeked inside.
The big man released a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. Light still sifted in through the cracks and dust still floated lazily in the light but the only sign of Lea was a pajama-shaped smudge in the grime on the metal desk. He paused, then pulled the crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the desktop clean.