It made me want to check in on my own little family.
Me: How’s BR?
Jonah replied immediately with a picture of the puppy sound asleep on his back, his paws frozen in the air as if mid-run.
Jonah: Now the little punk sleeps.
I thought of how I’d woken up that morning. With the ghost of Jonah’s body heat still warming me. How could I broach the subject without being weirdly clinical about it or awkwardly clingy?
Me: I hope I didn’t crowd you last night.
Good! Subtle. Not too pushy.
Jonah: Not at all. Thanks for the co-parenting help.
It was no “You look stunning in the morning, and it took all my willpower not to wake you with sex.” Baby steps. The more comfortable Jonah felt with me, the easier this friendship would be. The more potential we had… temporarily, of course.
There was a ruckus when my parents trooped back inside with June, GT, and the pig.
We sat down to a casual lunch of sandwiches and family patter. June, obviously enamored with her new pet, paused every few moments to check on Katherine or take her picture or give her words of encouragement.
My parents took turns shooting indulgent looks at each other, and I was suddenly fiercely glad we were all together.
“There’s a woman in the backyard,” Dad said mildly, his gaze fixed out the window.
We abandoned our meals and crowded against the dining room window. We observed as a woman of indeterminate age strolled across the backyard. Her clothes were dirty, but her face and the hair under her battered Bootleg Cockspurs cap were clean.
She had an odd hitch in her stride.
“That’s Henrietta Van Sickle,” June announced, nudging GT to lift up Katherine so the pig could see what we were looking at.
“Really?” I pressed closer to the glass.
“Who’s Henrietta Van Sickle?” Mom asked.
“She’s the town hermit,” I explained.
“I heard she doesn’t speak and she doesn’t have indoor plumbing,” GT added.
“You have a town chicken and a town hermit?” Dad asked.
“Of course. Doesn’t everyone?” June frowned.
When Henrietta moved around the side of the house, we followed her from window to window.
“She is most likely heading into town for supplies,” June hypothesized. “She makes the trip every eight to ten weeks.”
“I should go talk to her,” I decided, moving toward the door. I didn’t know if Henrietta would have access to a computer, but I’d love her input for my survey.
“Is that a good idea?” Mom asked in her careful, motherly, trying to respect her children’s boundaries way.
“It’s a great idea,” I assured her.
I ducked out the door before anyone else could voice their concerns and jogged down the steps. Henrietta was moving toward the road at a good clip.
“Excuse me,” I called after her. “Henrietta?” The woman continued to walk toward the road.
The door opened and closed again behind me.
“Henrietta,” June called. “Come meet my pet pig.”
The woman paused and turned slowly.
“Come on,” June said, nudging me and Katherine forward.
Henrietta ignored us and crouched down to the pig’s level. She held out a wrinkled, ringless hand. Katherine’s black nose snuffled the woman’s skin.
“She’s nice,” June told Henrietta. The woman nodded slowly.
“Are you going into town?” June asked.
She nodded again, tentatively petting the pig.
“Did you remember your cell phone?”
Henrietta shook her head.
I blinked in surprise.
“She only texts,” June said in an aside to me. “Would you like me to call Gibson and see if he can give you a ride?” she offered.
Henrietta hesitated and then nodded.
“I’ll do that,” June said, pulling out her phone. “This is my friend, Shelby. She is pursuing her PhD in social work. She would like to tell you about her project.” For the first time, Henrietta looked up.
She had brown eyes ringed in wrinkles as if she’d spent much of her life smiling.
June stepped away, and I heard her dial the phone.
“Hi,” I said, suddenly self-conscious under Henrietta’s quiet stare. “I’m, uh, Shelby. Like June said. I’m studying small-town community and the hierarchy of neighbors for my dissertation. I have a survey for Bootleggers. I don’t know if you have a computer…”
She continued to stare blankly at me.
“Um, if you do,” I fished a card out of my back pocket. “This is the URL, I mean the web address for it. I’d love your input. You don’t have to do anything but type,” I promised.
Reluctantly it seemed, she took the card.
“It would really help me out,” I told her.
There was no response. Just those wary brown eyes.
“Is Gibson your friend?” I asked.
Her unpainted lips curved slightly, and she nodded again.