Page 48 of Upstate

When Sam’s ready, we go back to the barn. He catches the ram again and finishes shearing him without further incident. Walking up to the house, Sam says, “I’ve got another shirt in the truck. Maybe I could clean up before I go?”

Feeling guilty about his injuries, I say, “You’re welcome to use my shower, but I should warn you there’s no hot water.”

“What about that?” Sam points to a black rubber bag the size of a beach tote hanging from a tree limb by a length of rope.

“One of the cyclists must have left that,” I say. “What is it?”

“A solar shower. It’s probably nice and hot, too, the way the sun is hitting it.”

“That’s a hot shower?”

Sam looks bemused. “Not much of a camper, are you?”

I’m itching to explain that, although I never went camping as a kid, I know how to frame a wall and wire an outlet and install a sink. Given Sam’s split chin, though, I swallow my pride. “Guess not.”

“I’d take a towel if you’ve got one.”

“Oh, sure.” I go upstairs and grab a towel from the linen closet. By the time I get back, Sam is standing under the solar shower, stripped down to his boxers. The knobs of his spine are so prominent I find myself thinking about vertebrates and evolution and how strange it is that a linked series of bones can hold a human upright.

Sam opens his mouth to gargle warm water, then spits it out. After a final rinse, he reaches up, twisting a lever on the solar shower to stop the flow. Turning, he sees me and smiles. Embarrassed, I toss him the towel.

“Thanks.” Sam pats himself dry, wraps the towel around his waist, and steps sockless into his boots for the walk to his truck. He dresses behind the privacy of an open cab door, then comes back to say his goodbyes.

“You look like you’ve been in a bar fight,” I say, spreading the towel out to dry in the sun.

He touches his chin, swollen and purple. “A fight implies antagonism. That ram of yours is a surly creature, but he was just doing what came naturally to him.”

I stop myself from reminding him the ram isn’t mine. “What do wild sheep do about their wool?”

“Wild sheep shed, so they don’t need shearing. People bred domesticated sheep to hold on to their wool so we could harvest it, which makes it our responsibility to take care of them.” He picks up his hat from where he dropped it on the grass. His short hair is already dry. Who shears him? I wonder.

“Remember our promise,” Sam says, holding up his hand in a Vulcan salute.

“Live long and prosper.” I salute back. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Give me a call if you need any more help with the sheep.”

“You should go to urgent care,” I say. “You might need stitches.”

Gingerly, he shakes his head. “I’ve got some butterfly closures in my first aid kit. I’ll take care of it at the extension office.”

It seems to me a face as fine as his deserves a surgeon’s skill, but it’s not my place to say so. I follow Sam down the brick path to his truck, glad to see the moss is making a comeback. He waves out his window as he drives away. I wave back, already regretting my promise to give the sheep a chance.

I go back to the solar shower, itching to rinse away the curls of wool that cling to my skin. I was afraid Sam might’ve used all the water, but the sides of the rubber bag bulge with what I guess is a couple of gallons. No one is here. The bookshop is closed. I step out of my jeans, pull off my shirt, wriggle out of my bra, and twist the lever. Deliciously warm water sprinkles down, soaking my hair, soothing my shoulders, streaming over my breasts, running down my legs. My wet underpants are a ridiculous distraction. I tug them down and kick them away. I wish I had soap and shampoo, but for now, this is enough.

When the water runs out, I wrap myself in the towel Sam used and sit on the side porch while I dry off. Evelyn turned her tale of becoming a shepherdess into a subject worth writing about, but I can’t find the narrative thread in this plot twist. My husband ran away from the sheep farm he stood to inherit; isn’t that reason enough for me to turn my back on livestock? It’s as ironic as an Alanis Morissette lyric: me leaving the city David loved, to end up the very thing he never wanted to be.

I’ve seen pictures of the place where David grew up, but we never did visit. At first, his immigration lawyer advised him not to leave the country before his status was settled. After he got his green card, though, I was too busy clawing my way toward tenure to take the trip. I promised we’d go after my promotion—yet another regret. David really wanted me to meet his mam and da in person. I don’t suppose I ever will now. Since the virtual wake that took the place of his funeral, we’ve exchanged a few fraught WhatsApp messages about my move and his ashes and the fate of his fiddle. It occurs to me the sheep would be a welcome change of subject. His parents are experts, after all. Occasionally dispensing advice to their widowed daughter-in-law might give us a way to stay in touch without tears.

Chapter 23

“A Woman’s Place” by Evelyn Cabot

Mademoiselle, April 1967

As I sort through the letters that have accumulated since my last visit to the magazine’s Manhattan headquarters, I put inquiries about home repair in one pile, sheep in another, village life in a third. The fourth stack is from readers asking variations on the question “Aren’t you lonely?” I’m eager to write back to the woman who wants to replace the pane of a broken window, or the suburban housewife whose impractical husband gifted their daughter a live lamb for Easter, or the city girl who’s considering going back to the land. The letters about loneliness, though, I’ve let languish.

How to respond to the reader who can’t imagine a woman’s life without a husband and children to care for? Well, I’m not on the marriage market, and at thirty-eight, I’ve likely missed out on motherhood. But my avoidance doesn’t mean it’s not a good question. I’ve been lonelier in my life than most of you can imagine. When I turned my back on my parents, it wasn’t because I didn’t need their love, but because they had none to give me. Being the only female on that navy ship to Korea meant hours alone in my minuscule cabin with the door bolted shut. As a single girl in Manhattan, I endured pitying stares from waiters and ushers alike whenever I went out for a meal or a show on my own. Now I’m the sole owner of a hundred upstate acres. Here, where winter storms block roads and knock down phone lines, loneliness can be lethal.