Buryin' Gran and Other Stories

Buryin’ Gran and Other Stories

By Frederick A. Lierman

Published by Philistine Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Frederick A. Lierman

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Contents

The Fence

Buryin’ Gran

Conversation on a Foggy Morning

Tuesday Morning

Crossroads

Hanging

Grace and Ray

The Hunters

And We Talked of Rachel’s Dress

Is it a Hallmark?

History

Billy Should be Here

The Fence

I was trying to decide if the old building the stifling classroom was in or the enormous oak that stood outside the window on the wrong side of the building to shade it was older, and thinking it was probably the oak when she came in, almost last, and took the seat beside me, the only one left in the front row. I have to sit up front, she said, not especially to me or anyone, but not to the air, either, or else I can’t see. I hope he doesn’t assign seats.

No one does that any more, I said, and she looked at me. Her eyes were dark, not brown, exactly, just dark, and didn’t look myopic. They were closely set around her narrow nose in that way that I’ve found attractive. Women who have eyes like that seem to me to always look a little startled. She smiled. I wanted to say something else, but the professor came into the room and then the bell rang. The bell surprised me because I’d been to three other classes in other buildings, and there had been no bells, just a clock on the wall that most of us watched. The professor was also a surprise. He was a sturdy man with thick, brown hair, a three piece suit in the heat of late August, and a panting guide dog.

He walked with assurance to the table that occupied the front of the room and released the dog, which immediately curled under the table. After he removed his coat, rolled his sleeves to the elbows and loosened his tie about three inches he said, Welcome to Addams Hall this warm August afternoon. I’m Doctor Donaldson, and as you can see, I’m blind. He paused long enough to flash a quick grin. There were a few low snickers.

Forgive me for selecting the only building on campus that doesn’t have air conditioning, but I teach in this old building because it still has a bell system. It tells me when the class starts and when the class ends. That removes the temptation from me to run my fingers over my watch when I sense that I’m boring you, and from you to take advantage of the fact that I’m blind to end class early. He grinned again; we obliged with a short laugh.

Now, because I’m blind, we’ll have to do certain things in this class to accommodate me. He did what I can only describe as looking us over for a moment. First, I’m going to assign seating in alphabetical order, and then, each day I’ll call role. That’s just to remove the temptation to take this class because it fulfills the Philosophy requirement, and never participate.

Another instant grin, except this one disappeared immediately. He strode back and forth the length of his table, stopped at its middle and leaned toward us. His legs were shoulder width apart, his thick fingered hands spread wide on the table top, and he drilled us with eyes that didn’t see. We’ve established Philosophy as a requirement because we think it’s just as important that you learn about different ways of thinking as it is that you learn to think.

Doctor Donaldson? She had raised her hand when he said that he would assign seats. When she realized it would do no good, she spoke up.

Yes?

If you use the board I need to sit near the front so I can see it better.

It may surprise you, but I do use the board, and I understand that my handwriting leaves much to be desired. If you need to sit close, I can accommodate you. What’s your last name?

Robertson.

He shuffled through the class cards that must have been Braille imprinted for him. I’ve found you, Ms. Robertson. I’ll assign you by your middle name. You’ll come after Abner and two Andersons, and end up right about the center of the front row.

Thank you.

Is anyone else visually handicapped?

I’m not visually handicapped, Doctor Donaldson. I just can’t see chalk on the blackboards, especially those damn green ones.

Point taken, Ms. Robertson. I’ll restate the question. If anyone else needs to sit in the front row, please speak up.

When no one else responded he began reading last names only. We all began gathering books and possessions, and shuffling around the room. My last name is Taylor, so I started automatically for the back of the room. If he read anything other than her last name, I missed it, and that bothered me because, for some reason, I knew I wanted to know her name. Because she sat in the front row, she was out the door ahead of me after class, and I was disappointed when I didn’t find her. In the end, though, it didn’t matter. I saw her again in the bookstore in late afternoon. Actually, she saw me.

I’m from Cincinnati, and I’m here on scholarship, I heard someone say from behind me. When I turned around I found her holding an armload of books and smiling at me.

I was hoping that you needed to sit down front, too, she said. And when you didn’t need to, I was hoping you were the last Anderson.

Why? I looked closely at her while trying not to appear to be looking anywhere except her face. When someone says something like that to me I want to know who is talking, not just physically, but the who that you can sometimes begin to discover the first time you really look at someone. She was taller than I had noticed when she came into the classroom, and thin. She still had those eyes that I liked, and they seemed sincere.

I don’t know. I think maybe I liked your voice, and you’re older than most of the people in there, more my age. I’m starting college after most of my high school class has finished. She turned abruptly and started walking away from me. Come over to the table with me. I’ve got to put these things down. They’re getting heavy.

She wasn’t content to just put the books down. She sorted through them as we talked, or she talked, because her conversation was a sort of non-stop hopscotch that encountered, left, and returned to subjects like a child’s feet to the squares chalked on the sidewalk. I didn’t say much, just listened and responded with an occasional yes or no. The funny thing about her monologue was that it all connected and made sense. Even when I said, what are you doing with those books? her answer made sense.

When you’re on scholarship, you don’t buy new books, and when you buy used books, you make sure they’re the right edition, complete, with no sections missing, and legible. She put her last book on the pile. And then, I’m a dorm student, and my roommate told me that. What are you? Where are you from?

I’m sort of from California. I’m staying with my dad. He has a farm west of town, so I suppose I’m a town student. I’m here on the new GI Bill, I said. And then added, and my savings that once were equal to the finest racing bike available.

I’d say California is way west of town. You like to bicycle? I like to bicycle, too.

My address is Winnebago, RFD. I like to bicycle, but the racing bike I wanted was a flat track motorcycle. I watched her mouth say Oh, without any sound coming out, and saw her quick frown bring her eyebrows together. For a long time for her, she didn’t say anything.

Are you through picking out books?

Yes, she said. Are you?

Then let’s pay the man and get out of here. I know a place that has excellent food, burgers, pasta, salads for the weight conscious, if you’re interested. It’s easier to become friends over a table of food than over a table of books.

I don’t know.

It is, unless you eat books.

That’s not what I meant, she said. I mean, when you’re on scholarship, you don’t have money for eating out. You eat in the college dining hall, which I paid for along with my room fees.

I invited you, I said. I’ve got a buck or two, and I’ve got a job for tomorrow and Sunday that’ll keep me fed for a while. It was true that I had a job for the next two days, and it was true that I had a ‘buck or two’, but that’s all I had after I paid for my books. That and the job.

What’s your job this weekend?

Stringing fence. About fifty rods of three strand barbed wire.

How much is fifty rods?

Eight hundred feet.

That seems like a lot, she said. Do you do this all the time?

Not really. I just do odd jobs. This is the first time I’ve ever pulled fence, as some people call it.

Then how do you know what you’re doing?

My dad showed me.

I forgot. He’s a farmer.

He’s a writer. We just live on a farm. It’s small, but he’s done about everything on it and around it. She walked with me toward the parking lot where all the town students left their cars.

I’ll come for supper if I can come along with you tomorrow. She looked down at the pile of books she carried in front of her. I’d made the offer to carry her books for her, but she gave me one of those looks that told me she was able to carry her own.

What would you do? I mean, there isn’t a lot to this job, just digging post holes, driving steel posts, and stringing wire. I won’t even start stringing wire until Sunday.

There’s sun and study, she said, knowing as well as I did that she could come if she wanted to. I’ll bring my books, a blanket to take sun on, and the lunch for us.

I’m starting early.

That doesn’t bother me.

*

We hadn’t stayed out late. I’d brought her home right after a supper of salad, pasta, and garlic bread, but she still looked sleepy when I picked her up at six the next morning. She blinked once at the pile of posts, wire, and tools that filled the back of my pickup, and then shoved a small duffel and a cooler onto the floor of the truck.

I’m surprised you’re up, I said.

Shhhh. She rolled up her denim jacket, put it between her head and the window, tucked her feet up on the seat so the left one rode against my hip, and shrugged her shoulders once. Her eyes were closed immediately, and she was asleep. It wasn’t done for show either. During the forty minute ride that went from the northeast side of town south into Ogle county, and a little east, she only opened her eyes once that I knew of. And she twitched, something you can’t fake.

Eventually I parked the truck on the shoulder of the narrow blacktop next