A New Season

“If it won’t start, you have to pull the choke out,” Herb says pointing at black knob to the right of the steering wheel. “Pull it out, it starts, you push it back in. Got it?”

           Laney looks at her grizzled arthritic hands gripped around the steering wheel of the mower.

           “Got it?” Herb asks again.

Laney nods her affirmation. Herb stands beside the mower leaning over as much as he can so he is shoulder to shoulder with her. He bends over and touches the pedal on the right foothold of the mower.

           “I need to make sure you’re gettin’ all this. Gonna be start’n her up in a moment. This makes it go forward’n if you move your foot back,” Herb says, gently grabbing Laney’s brown gardening boot and sliding her foot back, exposing an underside pedal, “you press this’n it goes in reverse.”

           Laney watches Herb circle around the front of the mower, silhouetted in the doorway of the shed against the late morning light. A silhouette once tall, broad shouldered and powerful now warped, still tall but hunched by time and gravity. Herb points to the pedal on the left side of the mower.

           “Go ahead’n push that one down,” Herb says.

           Laney places her left boot on the pedal and pushes down.

           “Keep pushin’ til it locks.”

           Laney pushes but it won’t lock. She feels a strain in the back of her knee and lets up.

           “You gotta push it down hard for it to lock.”

           “It hurts.”

           “Well,” Herb removes his John Deer cap with the meshed back and scratches the scalp under his gray hair. “You gotta be able to lock the brake, Hun. Look, scoot your backside up the seat, use your weight. You ain’t no spring chicken no more, Hun, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

           Laney pushes down on the lever again scooting her butt to the edge of the seat to put all her weight on her leg. It locks.

           “That’s it, smarter not harder,” Herb says. He points at a yellow pull lever left of the steering wheel. “Pull that to unlock it.”

           Laney stares at Herb as he looks at his wife, to the yellow lever, and back to his wife. “Go ahead’n pull it.”

           Laney pulls the lever and the pedal pops back to its original position.

           “That’s your basic controls,” Herb says. “We’ve opened the hood, checked the oil level, gas level’n we’re gonna go ahead’n start’er up.”

           Laney is glad the shed is cool, the air coming through the door of the shed is brisk. An old season is giving way to a new one. The shed smells of clean lumber and Herb’s voice echoes off the walls. She turns the key, the mower sputters and dies.

           “Don’t forget your choke, Hun,” Herb says.

           Laney pulls out the black choke knob, it extends exposing the skinny metal bar. She turns the key and the mower sputters, catches and revs higher and higher, the deafening roar echoes off the walls of the shed. Herb shouts over the high-pitched roar of the mower and pushes the choke back in.

           “You gotta push it in quick,” says Herb.

           The engine calms, then purrs.

           “Alright, now you’re off. Meet you round front of the house,” he says waving her on.

           Laney waits for Herb to leave the shed, but he stays, continuing to wave her forward. She pushes down on the pedal with her right boot, but she pushes down too fast. The mower lurches forward out of the shed. The sunlight slams on to her as she struggles to keep her butt on the seat. She can hear Herb yelling but cannot make out what he is saying and does not care. She is panicked trying to make the wild gas-powered beast behave. Laney gains control of the mower just in time for her to steer clear of the blue 1987 pick-up truck with paint flaking away revealing the red brown rust underneath. Herb catches up with her and has her stop completely. He struggles to catch his breath.

           “Gently on the pedal now, Hun,” Herb says.

           Laney pushes gently, a slight lurch, then steadily along the side of the house in the grass beside the flower bed below the off-white siding. Herb walks beside her. He’s swimming in the button up plaid shirt he used fill out. They reach the front yard and Herb shows her where to park right alongside the driveway. He points at another lever.

           “You’re gonna have to use some muscle with this’n,” Herb says.

           He grabs the lever and pulls sideways, then down so it moves down the numbered notches. The mower deck lowers to the desired number and Herb pushes it sideways into the corresponding notch.

           “Scooch forward’n use your weight.”

           “Can’t that just stay where it needs to be to mow?”

           “Not if you’re gonna take it into that shed. This mower needs to come up to here,” Herb says as he points to the highest number.

           Laney raises the mower deck and lowers it.

           “This’n starts those blades turnin’,” Herb says as he points to another lever.

           Making her second line cutting in the front lawn she glances over at the driveway. Herb stands with his hands on the back of his hips, his arms bent. She looks forward again seeing the line she made in the grass. The lawn leads to the back-road Herb and Laney have lived on for 40 years, the road their kids learned to ride bikes on. Across the road, farmers use their combines to harvest a soybean field.

The mowing is done, and the sun is down. Laney looks into the mirror, her eyes surrounded by puffy wrinkled skin. She examines her hair; there is still some black in it, plenty of volume. She opens the bathroom door and shuts off the light. There are two twin beds in the bedroom separated by a nightstand. She and Herb have found it easier to sleep separately.

           Laney slides her sore body slowly between the sheets on her bed. She feels the instant relief of fatigue. The sound of the local weather report swims into the bedroom from the living room television. Herb will be in soon. After 10 minutes, she can faintly hear his labored breathing.

           “It’s going to rain tomorrow, I’ll work on that pipe,” Herb says.

           “Don’t forget your pills, Hun,” she is able to say before she falls into a deep sleep.

           Laney wakes up to the sound of birds, the sun streams through the window curtains. She looks over at Herb’s pillow next to hers. The beds are pushed to together, but she still sleeps on her side. The house used to be alive. Little feet made big noise. There was laughter, giggling, crying, whining, stern words, yelling and song. Laney walks down the hallway toward the kitchen, the floor creaks and the walls listen.

           Laney brews a cup of Folgers and butters a biscuit she microwaved. Before the coffee she couldn’t smell anything but the fabric of the carpet and the furniture. There are no sweaty clothes with grass stains to be washed and hung out on the line. She drinks her coffee and looks at the coat rack Herb screwed to the wall. His hat hangs next to her London Fog gray jacket. Her brown garden boots sit next to his work boots and slippers on the shoe rack. She was unable to bring herself to donate Herb’s things.

           Laney steps out of the house into the back yard and walks to the shed. It is finally a day without rain. Her azaleas are starting to bloom, and the bees are working. She reaches the shed and opens the door. The smell of lumber is thick, the air almost impenetrable even early in the day. She opens the hood of the mower, checks the oil and gas, then closes the hood. She climbs up on to the seat and pulls out the choke knob exposing the skinny metal bar. She turns the key and the mower sputter for what seems like a long time but then catches and revs up. Laney pushes the choke in and the mower purrs. Laney eases down on the right pedal with her boot and the mower chugs out of the shed into the sunlight.

           Laney drives the mower to the front lawn. Across the street, the farmers are tilling the field with plows attached to their tractors. Flocks of seagulls’ squawk, croon and coo around the mountain of dust the plows leave behind.

           On her third line in the grass, Laney hears someone yelling. She lowers the pedal on the left side of the mower. The mower comes to a stop and she looks back at the driveway. No one is there. She turns to the house, not a soul. She looks back at the seagulls, plucking up worms out of the upturned earth.