I awoke refreshed with the sun on my face. I lay quietly for a while, listening to the birds argue in the tree outside my window and studying the shadowy, shifting patterns cast by the leaves on the wallpaper. The steady hum of a tractor drifted in from the Baxter farm just to the east. I plumped my pillow and sandwiched it between my back and the tall, carved headboard while considering the picture on the wall nearest my feet, an aquatint of Paul and Connie’s great-grandparents, looking severe. The first time we’d made quiet love in this room, Paul had turned their picture to the wall.
A few moments later I heard a toilet flush and the sound of running water. I lay lazily in bed until the sounds died away, then padded downstairs in my nightgown. The pine floors felt smooth and warm beneath my bare feet and creaked comfortingly in all the familiar places-the third step down from the landing, just inside the dining room as you pass the buffet, the first board as you step over the threshold into the kitchen. Connie had the radio tuned to WGMS, where Pachelbel’s Canon was playing softly, but she wasn’t anywhere in sight.
“Connie!” I called.
“Out here!” she replied.
The water in the coffee machine on the counter had just finished burbling through the filter, so I poured myself a cup and one for Connie. In the refrigerator I found some half-and-half. Connie drinks her coffee black with sugar, so I checked the sell-by date before pouring any of it into my mug, just in case this carton was left over from the last time I visited, over three months ago.
Carrying both mugs, I passed through the utility room into Connie’s studio, which had been cleverly converted from a derelict screen porch.
Connie was working, sorting through a pile of dried ornamental gourds of all colors, shapes and sizes. On the workbench in front of her, pots of paints and brushes waited, lined up in orderly rows. The room smelled of oil paint and shellac.
Connie squinted critically at the gourd she had been painting. She had turned a plump butternut squash into a whimsical farm boy in blue overalls, his face dotted with freckles.
I chuckled. “How you do it is beyond me, Connie. You see beyond the vegetable exterior right into its very soul.”
I picked up a crooked neck squash and turned it in several directions. “They all look like ducks to me. Or swans.”
Connie laid the farm boy down on a sheet of newspaper and began work on another figure. It was clearly a French schoolgirl, her beret formed by the curling stem end of the gourd. Connie dabbed a spot of pink onto each of the figure’s cheeks.
I passed her the coffee.
“Thanks, Hannah.”
She took a sip, then held up a graceful sandpiper, its neck bent as if caught in the act of picking clams out of the sand. “What do you think of this one?”
“I think they’re all wonderful. Where are they going?”
She waved her arm in a wide arc, including in its scope most of the shelves on the wall behind her. “I’m sending this lot up to New York at the end of the week.” The shelves were full of gourd soldiers and gourd musicians. Whole gourd families-boys, girls, mamas, papas-smiled out at me with twinkling eyes. There were scores of ducks, geese, swans, roosters, and other fanciful figures.
“You’ve come just in time to help me pack up.” Connie pointed to another corner of the room where flattened cartons, rolls of bubble wrap, and bags of plastic peanuts were stored. “I haven’t had much help out here since Craig died. Except for Colonel, of course.”
Hearing his name, the old dog raised his head from where it rested on his paws. Until then he had been sleeping comfortably on a braided mat in front of the screen door that opened out into the backyard.
I put my coffee down on Connie’s workbench, knelt down, and called to him, patting my knee. “Come here, boy. Come on, Colonel.”
Colonel slowly unfolded, stretched, and staggered stiffly over to lick my face. I grabbed both his ears and scratched behind them, the way he liked.
Colonel was a short-haired, white and brown mixed breed, half German shepherd and half fox terrier. Fortunately for Connie, who wanted a watchdog, the part that barked was German shepherd.
“You’re looking pretty good for an elderly dog.” I scratched vigorously down the bumps along his spine. “Joined AARP yet?”
Connie laughed. “He’s got arthritis so bad he can sometimes barely move. But let him catch sight of a squirrel, and he’s a pup again.”
Colonel rolled onto his back and offered me his stomach. As I rubbed, his back legs quivered in ecstasy. I thought about all the times I had considered adopting a dog. But we live in downtown Annapolis, where you’ve got to fence the yard and walk your dog on a leash. Not much fun for a dog or its owner.
Colonel had been a companion to my father-in-law during his final illness. He’d been named after a Korean war buddy of Paul’s father, and though at first the dog had been called Colonel Sam, it wasn’t long before it was shortened to Colonel.
“Want to take Colonel out for a walk while I fix breakfast?” Connie rinsed out the brush she had been using and set the schoolgirl figure on a shelf to dry.
“Sure. Soon as I get dressed.”
Back in my room, I changed into jeans, pulled a sweatshirt over my head, and slipped into my jogging shoes. As I tightened and tied the laces, I was reminded that I hadn’t been doing a lot of jogging lately, just exercises like spider-walking my arm up a wall. This was supposed to keep the damaged muscles on my chest and under my arms from tightening up. I didn’t bother with any makeup and didn’t feel like putting on my wig. Instead, I rummaged in one of the plastic grocery bags that passed for matched luggage when I’m in a hurry to pack. This one was full of hats friends had given me: a hat dripping with sequins, one with cat ears, a navy cap from the USS Ramage DDG61. Sequins weren’t exactly appropriate for dog walking, I thought, and certainly not the cat ears! After a few moments I selected a Baltimore Orioles cap with my name, Hannah, stitched on it in elaborate sewing machine script and settled it snugly over the soft brown stubble just beginning to reappear on my head.
As I paused through the kitchen again, Connie was frying bacon. I left my mug in the sink-Connie didn’t have a dishwasher-and returned to the studio.
“Come on, boy.” I unhooked the screen door, and Colonel loped happily through.
Connie’s backyard was a square of grass the size of a tennis court, closely mowed. It grew rich and green where the shadow of the maple trees protected it from the hot sun, more yellow where the grass was exposed. To my right a gravel driveway led up to the barn that Connie used as a garage. Beyond the barn a fence marched off into the distance, dipping now and then as it followed the gently rolling fields that sloped down to a large pond just visible on the horizon. Colonel trotted ahead, his tail in a tight C curled smartly over his back.
Near the barn I opened the gate and passed through, remembering to close it behind me. It was a habit I’d got into when there used to be cows around. A stick leaned crookedly against the gatepost, and I picked it up, mostly so I’d have something to do with my hands.
Behind the barn we passed Connie’s kitchen garden, where neat rows of young plants were just beginning to push their way up through the soil. In the field beyond, nearly an acre of hills and poles was devoted to the business of cultivating her ornamental gourds. Colonel and I skirted the planted fields and walked through the tall grass, following the fence line. The farm to the west of the fence belonged to the Nichols family, but they had moved to Florida long ago, abandoning their farm.
When we reached the pond, Colonel planted his front paws at the water’s edge, took a long drink, then chased a frog into the water. He sat alert, ears erect, studying with hopeful eyes the ripples where the frog had submerged. When he panted, his clean, pinkish purple tongue hung out, dripping saliva onto the ground.