Transitions in Silence

Transitions in Silence

I’m sitting on my bed, holding a broken piece of wood from the neck of my acoustic guitar, contemplating a lot of different thoughts. Nothing is going as planned in my life. After this last week, especially Thursday night, my whole life seems very different.

As I rub my palm against the smooth, six-inch piece of wood, I think about what happened this last week. I’ve been in Burnith, Kansas for almost six months. I came here for work, and my time is almost up. In one week, I will be leaving to go back home. My father, Nathaniel Jenkins Sr., owns a large farming business in Kansas. It’s the second-largest farm in Kansas. For the last six months, I’ve been learning the trade I never learned growing up on the farm. My father sent me here –actually, he ‘recommended’ that I take this job. When he ‘recommends’ something, you just do it. He is a no-nonsense kind-of-guy with a quiet, yet powerful, voice. His workers, the town folk, and our family respect him as the wise and successful businessman that he is. He owns a 75,000-acre farm with 50 combines and 75 employees. When the employees are finished planting his property, they move on to plant other farms. The profit he makes goes straight into the bank. It is a sweet gig, and I know that someday he’ll pass it down to me. Which is why I am here now– to learn the small business trade and get plenty of hands-on experience with the storage and maintenance of farm equipment.

I couldn’t understand why I had to go to another farm to learn what I could learn at home, but my father has his ways. I remember back when I loved him and respected his opinion. Now, I look at some of the decisions he makes, and I can barely keep my mouth shut. Sometimes, the word respect gets confused with fear. The first time I went against him in high school, I wanted to go out with my friends to the end-of-year barn party. He said no, but I was already planning to sneak out. I woke up the next morning to him waking Jenny, who was asleep across my chest on a haystack. He lifted me in the air and threw me into the bed of the truck. The farrier was charging extra for having to get the horses out of the barn himself. I almost told him I planned on being back in time, but I could tell by his look that my role was to be quiet.

The last confrontation with him was when I dropped out of college in my junior year. He almost didn’t let me come back but muttered something about what my mom would have wanted. She died when I was twelve. I couldn’t talk to Dad about Jenny breaking up with me in the middle of my junior year. She broke it off right after I told her I was dropping out. If I knew Dad wouldn’t want me back home and Jenny would break up with me, I would’ve gone to my classes instead of lying in bed hungover. Teen movies make it seem like a college kid can go to classes whenever and still pass. They were wrong.

Dad told me I could return on one condition - I was an employee, not family. If I screwed up again, he was done with me. He arranged for me to come to this smaller farm during the winter to learn maintenance before working on his farm. I will find out then if I have passed his test when he picks me up.

Right now, I work for Ms. Handley, or Denise. Things have gotten awkward. We are on a small farmstead with a large house, garage, tool shed, and four huge storage garages. Inside are eight combines and other farm implements owned by Lucas Farms, a friendly rival of my father's. When I arrived on September 25th, two combines were already cleaned and stored. The rest trickled in over the next few weeks. Ms. Handley showed me how to spray off the combines, unload the combine heads, and store them. I learned to change the oil and perform small upkeep jobs. By November 22nd, all were stored for the winter.

On the 1st of every month, I spray off the combines and start their engines to keep them fresh. By the 11th of this month, I was done and had plenty of time to do nothing. I shoveled snow and tried reading, but I finished the few magazines I brought within the first month. The old books never held my attention. I never liked TV or the radio – that was Jenny’s thing – so, I spent most of my time playing guitar and thinking about her. I thought about calling her to rekindle the flame, but each time I did, I either chickened out or couldn’t get a signal. Maybe deep down, I didn’t want to chance getting rejected again.

Occasionally, I would sit on the couch while Ms. Handley read and reread all the books and tried to knit. Each time she picked up the yarn and knitting needles, she would knit for a few minutes and then put them down, rubbing her hands. Arthritis had moved in, keeping her from doing her hobby. Growing up on a farm, I knew that manual labor was harder on the body. Arthritis in the hands, shoulders, and knees was the farmer’s number one enemy. Ms. Handley doesn’t own the farm but maintains the equipment in exchange for free rent and a little money for food. I think she’s lived here and worked for Lucas Farms for years.

She isn’t old. Older than me, but younger than my parents. Maybe late 30s or early 40s. It’s hard to tell a person’s age on a farm. The body weathers quicker. She has bland brown hair, small wrinkles around her eyes and forehead, and none around her mouth – not the type to smile much. I am 6 foot 1 and she doesn’t come up to my chin, so I guess 5 foot 4 or 5. Not overweight, but not skinny. The one time I shook her hand, I felt the callouses of a person who worked with their hands. She wasn’t pretty, but far from ugly.

I don’t know what to make of her. She never told me if she was married, divorced, or widowed. I thought I was the strong silent type, but she makes me look like a social butterfly. Rumors say she’s a loner or lost her family in an accident. I figured we’d eventually talk about it, but she wasn’t saying, and I wasn’t asking.

After the first month of showing me around, we never talked much. We merely co-existed. She made breakfast, lunch, and dinner without asking what I wanted. But I didn’t mind. I’m pretty easygoing. This was our relationship until that night. That changed everything and made things awkward.

We settled into our evening routine after a quiet dinner. I sat on the couch pretending to be interested in “Little Women” and she sat in her rocking chair reading “Moby Dick” and pretending she didn’t want to be knitting. The wind howled, and the house creaked. While the fireplace usually made the living room warmer than I preferred, that night it barely kept out the cold. The winter had been mild, but last night we had a huge snowstorm. It was still snowing at 7:00 p.m.

At about 8:00 p.m., a loud crash came from upstairs. We ran up the stairs and saw snow flying from under the door to my bedroom. I threw open the door and found a large tree limb sticking through the window, shards of glass covering the floor, and wind howling. Snow blew around us like we were stuck in a snow globe. My bed was covered with snow, and my clothes and magazines twirled around. We frantically grabbed all the clothes, books, and toiletries we could and ran out of the room. Realization dawned on me, and I dropped the clothes in the hallway and ran back. I fought through the wind and snow to reach the window. I picked up a small piece of wood that wasn’t part of the tree limb – part of the neck of my guitar. I turned to see Ms. Handley standing in the doorway with melted snow running down her face.

As we stared at each other, the lights in the house went out, causing an eerie silence. Everything was pitch black at first, but once our eyes adjusted, we could make each other out. I knew my disappointment was obvious when I saw her face soften for the first time. She put her arm around my shoulder and guided me back into the hall. We bent to pick up my belongings scattered across the floor. She shut my door, cutting off the blowing snow, and we walked down the steps. I followed her to the laundry room, and she threw her armful of clothes into the washing machine. I laid my clothes in a pile next to the washer.

We walked into the kitchen, and she pulled several tapered candles out of the drawer. She placed them around the kitchen and handed me several more. I returned to find her standing on a stool, reaching into the back of a cabinet. She held a bottle of wine. She stepped off the stool, pulled a corkscrew out of the drawer, and nodded to me and then to the cabinet that held the glasses. I opened the cabinet and looked for wine glasses but couldn’t find any. I pulled out two regular drinking glasses, and she never corrected me.

I put the glasses on the table, and she poured both halfway with red wine. She handed one to me and grabbed the other. She lifted her glass in my direction, and I clumsily followed in a sloppy salute. The flavor almost choked me. I have only ever had beer, and this wine was different. Several flavors swirled in my mouth, but mainly vinegar. I hadn’t realized how cold I was until the wine hit my stomach and heat radiated out. By the time I finished, everything was warm but my fingers and toes. I saw Ms. Handley was finished with hers as well.

Warmed now, I figured I’d go to bed, but as I walked by her, I saw someone different. Either the candlelight erased the wrinkles, or I had gotten used to them. She was beautiful, no longer the hard-cased farm machinery I took her for. I knew this was the same Ms. Handley, but I barely recognized her. A small smile started, and her eyes were soft and beautiful. I kept staring at her, and I saw a living, breathing person. Wants and desires, heartache and pain.

I don’t know why I did it. I wasn’t drunk, but I walked over and touched her face. Instead of the rigid skin I expected, her face was soft and damp from the snow. With my hands on her face, I leaned down to kiss her. She stiffened, but a fraction of a second later, she softened and melted in my arms. She lifted on her tiptoes, kissing me passionately. I pushed back as she wrapped her arms around me. Still kissing, I led her to the couch. She straddled my lap, kissing me, running her hands through my hair. After a few minutes, she lifted off me and put her finger to my mouth. She grabbed a candle and walked into her bedroom.

A couple of minutes later, she emerged, looking like a different person. Her lips were shining with lip gloss or lipstick, and she wore a thin, white nightgown. By the light of the fire, I could barely see through it. Her hair was swept up. The life and vigor in her eyes were mesmerizing, but I wasn’t concentrating on her face. She leaned down, brushing her lips over mine. She grabbed my hand and pulled me up. She kissed me, reaching for the bottom of my shirt and lifting it. She threw it behind her. This cold, distant, reserved woman had turned alive in the darkness, and it seemed she wouldn’t stop.

She put her arms around me, backed up, and pulled me into her bedroom. We stood next to her bed, kissing for a few minutes before she pulled her nightgown over her head and tossed it on the floor. The formerly reserved and hardened woman was gone. She turned to me, gave a slight push to my chest, and followed me onto the bed. She straddled my body and pushed into me. She unbuckled my belt and pants. After I slid my pants and underwear off, I rolled her over, kissing her body as I went. I removed her underwear as I continued to kiss her stomach.

“Call me Denise.” Her voice was cool and inviting.

My voice was stuck in my throat, but I managed to croak out her name. After a few moments, I said it again with more confidence. Then I couldn’t stop saying it. We continued like that for a while, kissing and caressing, until neither of us could stand it. We made love, and after a brief respite, again, finishing by the time the sun came up. At times it was slow and careful, other times quick, heated, and wild. It was never like this with Jenny. This made me feel more mature, confident, and sure. The four hours since the tree limb crashed into my room went by with us barely saying a word. Our panting seemed in rhythm with the bedsprings, serenaded by the howling wind. As the sun started to warm the horizon, we relaxed. She rolled out of bed and went into the bathroom.

Confused, I did nothing but lie in her bed. I didn’t know if she wanted me to join her, and I had laid here long enough that it would be awkward now. I wanted to go in there but also wanted to sleep. The lights and noise thumped back on as the house came back to life, and I heard the washer kick on. Then, I heard the shower turn on. I fantasized about going in, and I walked to the door. It was locked. I sat on the edge of the bed, head in hand. After the shower stopped, she walked out wrapped in a towel and went to her dresser. She pulled clothes out, returned to the bathroom to dress, and closed the door.

Feeling uncomfortable, I wandered back to the couch. I was putting my clothes back on as she walked past me to the kitchen. After a few minutes, I followed the smell of bacon. She was at the stove, but when she turned, everything was back to normal. The wrinkles and lifeless expression were back. The wine bottle and glasses were gone. Most likely, she put the glasses in the sink and the bottle in the fridge, but I had to wonder if last night really happened. No recognition in her eyes. She put breakfast on a plate, handed it to me, and left the kitchen. She returned ten minutes later in her work coveralls and usual expressionless face. She walked past me out the backdoor. I switched the clothes into the dryer and put the next load in. The cold, wet clothes were the only reminder of the crazy night.

I grabbed my coat and found her in the garage with a ladder and chainsaw. We worked all morning without saying a word. Lunch was warm food from a cold woman. After eating, I went to my room to tidy up and put plastic over the window. The bed sheets and curtains were ruined, and I dropped them in a pile. I picked up the shattered pieces of my guitar and placed them in the trash, except for the small piece I now hold. I knew I would eventually get another guitar, but I was sad to lose this one. It was my first, and I will always remember it. The next one won’t feel the same, but I will have to move on.

It’s been almost a week since that night, and our interactions are like before. I tried to bring it up, but she would change the subject and leave the room. I assume she is embarrassed or feeling guilty. I’m confused, but that night seems like a lifetime ago. I’m sure I will look back and wonder if it was a fading memory or a half-remembered dream. I can get through this next week until my father comes to take me home. Once I get paid, I will replace the guitar.

I think about Jenny daily, but something’s different. She’s immature, and I guess I am too. If I’ve gotten anything from this, it’s that I need to put my childishness away and focus on who I want to be in life. I need to go back to the farm that my dad wants to pass down to me. I see how much of a disappointment I’ve been to him. As his only son, he needs me to become responsible and respected. His pride wouldn’t want the farm to go anywhere but family. But he also doesn’t want his hard work destroyed by his immature son. I respect him more now.

This winter has been a step in the learning process. I need to take it seriously. I don’t want Jenny anymore, nor do I want to go back to college. Jenny was just the girl I thought I wanted forever, and college was an excuse to get away from real life. I don’t want Denise either. She was a flash in the pan who taught me I can be different.