Heat

She woke already sweating, her body slimy all over, the sheets sticky. She got up, careful not to waken her husband, and put on clothes and went out to let her chickens out and find eggs for breakfast. Outside with the day just turning bright in the sky the air was warm and still. She found some eggs and went back toward the house.

Even before she got there she could hear them fighting, her husband's voice, her son's rising over it, like gears grinding. Her feet lagged. She didn't want to go back in there, to the heat of the kitchen and the fighting.

"Damn you, Dad, aren't you gonna do anything?"

She pushed herself on, went in through the door into the kitchen, and when she came in they both turned toward her, their mouths open, and fell silent.

"Well, good morning," she said, with a big smile at them, and went to cook the eggs. The fat orange yolks spilling out of the shells reassured her. The clear jelly quickly turning white in the hot skillet. The shells seemed thin. She wondered if the chickens were getting enough to eat. The heat of the stove built around her.

"You just gotta see these things out," her husband said, low-voiced, behind her. "You just gotta stick with it--"

"You old fool." Her son cut in, harsher, louder. "It's never going back the way it was, Dad. Damn you, you're ruining everybody."

Stop, she thought. She whirled around, the spatula in her hand. "Stop. Stop."

The boy's eyes met hers, and his lips clamped shut. Her husband lowered his gaze to the table and put his head into his hands. She turned around, trembling, feeling as if she could not breathe, and scraped up the eggs onto plates.

She went out again, to milk her goat. As soon as she went out the door the heat fell on her. The sky was deep brassy blue and the sun was already beating down like a huge hand. She went across the dry creek to find the goat, tucked away in the deep shade of the willows. The leaves were already turning brown and it was only June. She had read something in the newspaper that the whole world was heating up, and that it was all their own fault. She found the goat and stood there stroking it and for a moment tears filled her eyes.

Behind her, in the house, their voices rose again, both at once, endless. She stood rigid, trying not to hear it, until the goat bumped her with her head, asking to be milked. Mechanically she swung one leg over the goat, so she could hold her still between her knees, bent down to put the bucket under the swollen udders, and began to strip out the milk.

With the fat teats in her hands she felt better. The bucket began to fill. The goat pushed at her, scratching the side of her head against the woman's leg. She thought about her garden, where the corn was growing very well in the heat, although the lettuce had all bolted. With the creek dry she had to go down to the pond for water, which took most of the afternoon.

With a crack like a shot the house door slammed. She jolted upward. The willows screened her from the driveway but she heard him tear down to his truck and leap in, and the truck door slammed too, like a small explosion, and the truck spun away and tore off down the road. She stood there with her hands limp and empty and her heart struggling in her chest, watching him go. A trickle of sweat ran down her back.
From the house came another bang, muffled.

She turned around. The goat bolted away, spilling the milk, but she only stepped away from it. Her spine tingled. It was another door slamming. The sound was gone. She could not remember it well. She was afraid to go in there now. Surely it was another door slamming. The heat gripped her, the air thick around her, holding her still. Slowly, one foot before the other, she went toward the house and her husband.

(c) 2003 Cecelia Holland