The Root Cellar - Part III

A novella.

(Click here to read Part II)

III.

Later that night, while sitting with Skip next to a roaring fire in the pit, I muster the courage to taste SADNESS, the second oldest jar according to the date—January 3rd, 1921. But only because I’m feeling rather buoyant about my prospects with the house and maybe even with the builder himself. 

That I’ve almost polished off a nice bottle of Pinot is bonus protection. 

After unscrewing the top of the jar, I peek inside. Small chunks of red and yellow are floating in a green ooze. It smells earthy, like the underside of a rotted log in the rain. I hold my nose and plunge my finger in anyway—all the way up to the second knuckle—then suck it off. It may have started out as something like chow-chow relish, but over the decades it’s turned into something like pond scum. I gag so hard Skip wakes up and starts whining with worry. I spit into the fire, then wash out my mouth with several gulps of wine. 

Skip shoots me a worried gaze, the whites of his eyes glowing in the firelight.

“It’s okay, buddy. Mommy’s just a little shit-faced.” I close up the jar and then empty the rest of the wine into my glass. 

Minutes later, the fire is dying to fuzzy, gray embers and I’m conked out in my chair. At some point, I find myself in a dark place. I’m on top, nose buried under his ear. Hyperventilating with violent inhalations—apparently trying my best to suck every square inch of skin off of his body. No one is talking and we go on like that way for a long time, that is until the sun comes out and disintegrates the two of us where we lay. Suddenly, I’m seeing through the eyes of a bird on the limb of a tree, looking down at the scene below me. They’re kneeling next to a small, rectangular hole in the ground. A meteorite the size of a human head and gouged with empty eye sockets lies at one end of the hole. This time they’re both crying. He’s lowering a shoebox into the hole. It’s bound with a pink ribbon. But she’s still wearing the ring.  

* * *

The next morning, I’m swinging the sling blade around the overgrown foundation like a woman possessed, trying to distract myself. But it’s no use. After staring holes in the dark all night and filling them with my imagination, my unsettled, sleep-deprived mind is winning. Every available synapse engaged in order to process the “reappearance” of my paternal grandparents—John Paul Mathieson and Maxine Renee LeRoux Mathieson, their names according to the obit. 

Who, apparently, have decided to return to the hive even before I’ve had time to re-build it.

While this falls squarely into the be careful what you wish for category, I cannot allow myself to make a connection between the tastes on my tongue and the dreams. Not yet anyway. What I need is scale. Scale in a controlled setting that either will or will not result in a trend. Lack of a trend should convince me that coincidence is at play and that I’m not crazy. A trend, on the other hand, will lead me to believe that I’m either crazy or that my dead grandmother is sending memories to me across space and time—or both. But who’s to say those jars were even meant for me? Anybody or any thing could’ve discovered them. A drifter looking for a warm place to hide in the winter or a cool place to hide in the summer. A raccoon, for Christ’s sake. As it turned out, I found them. Which, other than all these weeds and brambles, is why I feel so tangled up. Complicated, of course, by this man who happened to show up in my life at a mysteriously opportune moment, who—despite my instincts not to trust him—feels more like a refuge than a distraction. 

Surely a cool, refreshing wine spritzer will help me untangle everything. 

By early afternoon, I’ve had enough slinging for one day. So I take a shower and make guacamole to go with some leftover tuna from yesterday. Just as we’ve settled into our respective lounging areas—me into my chair with that wine spritzer (jumbo—heavy on the vino) and Skip sprawled in the cool grass under my feet (my ottoman)—I get a text message from a Labrador retriever, at least according to the photo “she” attached: 

You are cordially invited for homemade Swedish meat balls.
6 p.m., 3845 River Road Lane. 
Fresh tennis balls for dessert. Lucy

On one hand, I have a sudden urge to gag again in response to this syrupy Hallmark Channel moment and delete it from our thread “by accident.” On the other, if the invitation leads to a little no-strings-attached horizontal refreshment I might consider it. At this point, after such a long dry spell, I might even settle for an overly thorough OB/GYN exam (for some reason, I suspect he might be qualified).

Hmm. To quote the instigator himself, I guess there’s only one way to find out.

I nudge Skip with my bare foot. “Hey, you. Wanna double date tonight? This big blond wants to know.” He lifts his head with some degree of disinterest. I show him the picture of Lucy. But he seems more excited about eyeballing the squirrel skittering down the limb of the tulip poplar overhead.

I RSVP anyway without Skip’s permission—convinced that once he gets a healthy whiff of Lucy’s life story via her pheromones, he might enjoy her company:

What can we bring?

Just yourselves.

Okay, thanks. See you then.

I type Rick’s address into my GPS app, trace the blue navigation line with my eyes and notice the distance, which is 10 miles away on the other side of Grove Hill, the county seat. At the same time, it occurs to me that I didn’t ask him any personal questions—highly unusual of me. He wasn’t wearing a ring, but of course that doesn’t mean he’s not connected to someone else. Is he a transplant? Or did he grow up in these parts? If that’s case, isn’t it possible he would’ve known my family, or at least known of them? Surely he would’ve already said so. But he seems like a man of measured words (measure twice, cut once). Again, I guess there’s only one way to find out. I’ll just have to clear the air with a good-old fashioned Katherine Adel interrogation tonight. Try to get to the bottom of this Rick. But—if the opportunity presents itself—I might let him get to the bottom of me first. Soften him up, so to speak. But not too fast.

The last thing I thought to bring: “date” clothes. Oh, well. He’ll just have to take me as I am. Which—according to the image in my make-up mirror at around 5:00 pm—is a loose fitting cable-knit top, skinny jeans and banged-up leather clogs. After a subtle spritz of fragrance and a face touch up, I muss my silver bangs and decide my untamed hair will just have to stay that way.

After feeding Skip, brushing him and plucking off a few cockle burrs, we load up into the ancient Subaru wagon and head out. As I’m driving towards the gate, the sight of the Harvest Moon across the road takes my breath away. Hovering like a ghost just above the horizon. So deliciously close, like I could reach up, snap it in two and take a bite out of it.

But, of course, we have another destination in mind at the moment which might turn out to be just as delicious—maybe more so.

#

(Click here to read PART IV)