TOMBSTONE TERRITORY

         In October I become the Lord of the Flies. I walk about the house, like the Marshall of Tombstone, holding my fly swatter and dealing out justice to every little malefactor I see. They are not your garden houseflies; they don't hover about food and they are not that elusive. They sleep on the ceiling and appear as light enters the house. Thwack, thwack, by the end of month, their corpses will litter the floor.

         They come every year at this time, along with the change of colors outside and flocks of geese that fill sections of the sky. From a distance, these migrants look like smoke that has gone on a horizontal bender. A slight change of their direction reveals the outline of the 'V.' It's not a perfect formation; one side is shorter than the other, but it is aerodynamically sound. Like the man-made creations that share the heavens with them, the geese make noise. Theirs is a plaintive honking, and like the rumble and drone of airplanes, the sound is often heard before the flock is spotted.

         On a cloudy Sunday they are especially loud. As Pam and I get into her car, squadrons can be seen low in the sky to the northwest. They seem to be heading north. I want to say, 'go figure,' but Pam assumes the role of Mother Nature, explaining that they are Canadian geese and they have already arrived in their south. I look at her, thinking 'where does the big city girl get this knowledge?' Then I remember she spent her summers on her Uncle's farm in Maine.

         She's here for the day and night. Tomorrow is Columbus Day; she is off. She had planned to stay that night too, and leave for her job from here at 4:30 a.m., but the powers that be require her to be back home before mid-afternoon tomorrow so she may have her entry beeper to her community updated. We are heading out now to buy some cider, apples and pancake mix for imbibing, pie and breakfast. The area is dotted with roadside stands.

         At our ages, we should be taking a nap. Since she arrived at noon, after driving four hours, we have been going non-stop. It was hard to tell whose greeting was more enthusiastic, the dog’s or mine. Pam and I haven't seen each other for ten days. Any more that duration seems an eternity to us. We embrace and nuzzle in the driveway; our ears peeled for the sound of cars on the road, and then we prudently move inside.

         Out of a bag comes a scrapbook, with a cover made of wood. We sit on my couch while Pam conducts a tour of the insides. Her sons, daughter, grandchildren are there at different ages and in different places. Other pages hold those gone from her, and photos of a teenage girl with scarecrow-thin arms. “Do you know who that is?” I know too much to keep silent. We put the book down and look at each other. Arms reach out, bodies entangle; only the large bay window and the road outside keep a sense of propriety to the picture.

         Physically we’ve acted like teenagers since our second meeting. From the beginning our hearts knew we would always be friends; now our minds are on the same page. On this Sunday afternoon, having erased the ten days apart, we know it is time to get off the sofa and eat my leftover Stroganoff loaf for lunch and start our shopping.

         “Their apples are expensive, David. We don’t need a whole basket.”

         “There was a late frost that destroyed blossoms. That’s why the price is high, or so they claim.”

         Everyone in the vicinity seems to be shopping at this stand operated by an orchard. We get back in the car and drive up the road to another place, where apples are sold loose. We ogle squash and peppers but settle on a few Cortland and another variety supposedly good for baking. On our return trip we stop at the orchard again where I pick up cider and Pam treats us to a dozen cider donuts. She eats the first, still warm from the oven, as we drive away. She is in heaven; enjoyment of food is something we share. By the time we arrive home, we’ve each inhaled two or three of these heavenly treats.

         The rest of the day is a blur. Apples are peeled, sliced and cored. Tax returns are processed in the dingy basement office. A game of boss and secretary is played. The dog is fed, a pizza made, and the napping beauty on the couch is woken up for dinner. Without cable, there can be no "Sopranos" for Pam, but she is happy to settle for sitcoms and a biography of Jackie Gleason after the end of a football game. We are ten minutes into the film when both of us begin to conk out. My cozy bed beckons, with its extra quilt. Cold weather is coming tonight; early evening rain drummed against the door to the deck that faces the north. I turn off the television; the lights are dowsed. We mumble something to each other and within minutes I hear gentle breathing.

         It’s 3:30. I’m awake. The sheet is pulled one way, the sampler quilt another, and I have no idea what happened to the top cover. The warm body sharing my bed has warned me in the past that she is not a gentle sleeper. It’s the only untruth she has ever told me. Aside from an occasional thumping of a foot, she sleeps like a baby next to me, but perhaps she has absconded with a cover. I snuggle next to her for warmth; she is aware I am there and reaches for me. When we wake next it is after seven. My animals have not disturbed us, but hearing activity they act like courtiers and watch the rising of the king and queen.

         Her pancakes and sausage give Pam the energy for the four-hour drive home. The dog and I follow her to the Thruway entrance and then take a walk. It is hard to tell the direction the geese are flying. Mentally I pray they follow her car and watch over her. At home the house seems empty again; the sun is out, its warmth brings out the flies. Thwack, thwack! Two more depart for Boot Hill.

         In the afternoon I ring her number to relieve my mind. She is upset; entry beepers weren’t available. She did not have to drive home today. She could have stayed and heard the geese, seen the leaves in the golden sunlight, slept in the cozy bed, and helped the Marshall keep law and order. Then she sees a fly in her living room. Could the Law come Thursday and chase the bad guys out of Dodge? Maybe he could make her a deputy? Well, she asks, could he? He rocks back in his chair, like Henry Fonda playing Wyatt Earp, and thinks, “Is the sky blue?”

Valatie October 15, 2002