Page 60 of Upstate | AllFreeNovel

Sam and I make a leisurely round of the various vendors, each of whom seems to know him in one way or another. I’m introduced to so many people I don’t even try to remember their names. The candle-making lesson that followed the hops talk has given way to a spinning demonstration by the time we pick up our bagged lunches and return to the camping chairs. Onstage, an announcement is made for the upcoming open mic.

“Do you want to sign up?” Sam asks.

“What for?”

“You’re a writer, aren’t you? Don’t writers like to read their work?”

“I don’t have anything with me,” I protest. Even if I did bring my notebook, there’s no way I’d share my fictional fantasy about a skier rescuing my mom. The only other creative thing I’ve managed to write since coming to Schuywich is a little poem inspired by a rule of single syllables. The words are simple as a nursery rhyme, though the images they evoke are meaningful to me: The blue sky over the dunes along Lake Michigan where my mother slipped away under the snow. The white wisp of cloud containing the vapor of David’s remains. The red barn pictured in that real estate listing, tossed like a life ring into the turbulence of my loss. If anything, my grief over David has been compounded by fresh memories of my mother’s death and how much I miss my dad. But I’ve been able, lately, to sit on a sun-warmed stone beside the cool pond and remember the last words I spoke to my husband without wanting to drown. I suppose that counts as progress.

“That’s too bad,” Sam says. “I’d love to hear something.”

Sam’s done so much for me, from certifying the boundary to shearing my sheep and setting up the fencing. This is the first thing he’s asked for. “Well, I could recite a poem I wrote.”

As soon as I say this, I recall Sam’s story about meeting his ex at a poetry reading and cringe. Sam, though, doesn’t seem bothered. “That’s cool. What’s it about?”

“About?” Everyone knows the worst thing you can do to a poem is summarize it. “It’s not about anything, really. Anyway, I’m a prose writer, not a poet. I mean, I did take a poetry seminar at Iowa, but I’ve never recited my own work.”

“I don’t love public speaking myself,” Sam says, “but when I have to do it, like this morning, it helps if I look at one person and imagine I’m talking just to them. You could look at me, if you want to. If it helps, I mean.”

I can’t decide whether his offer is cute or condescending. I’m about to inform him that my profession involves giving readings to auditoriums full of critical listeners when I think, What the hell? I’ve managed to string together thirty-six words in what might pass for a poem. I might as well stand on a stage and say them.

I go up and add my name to the list, then sit down to unwrap a chicken sandwich on sourdough bread. There’s a side of pickled cabbage and a bright green apple for dessert. Sam is devouring his lunch, his jaw moving with determined purpose as he chews. The bone is so obvious beneath its sheath of skin that it brings to mind Hamlet’s Yorick. I try to remember the line—something about having once kissed the lips that hung from those bones? Shakespeare meant it as a metaphor of death and decay, but the words bring unbidden to my mind an image of pressing my living lips against Sam’s warm mouth. The fleeting thought sparks a surge of desire that catches me by surprise. I tamp down the disloyal feeling by forcing my attention away from my body and into my mind.

What was I thinking about? Yorick’s skull, that’s right. It’s an idea worth teasing out in an essay, I think: flesh and bone, life and death, sensuous pleasure versus—what? Disembodied nothingness? Though David liked to pretend we’d known each other for all time, I’ve never believed in an afterlife, be it reincarnation or eternal salvation. I’m drawn, though, to the concept of a lost loved one living on in the memories of those left behind. Yorick’s skull signifies nothing to the men digging Ophelia’s grave; it’s only Hamlet’s memories of past merriments that revive the jester’s life of jokes and song. My memories of my mother have always been colored by the dark disease that struck her down. I wonder if, by focusing on happy moments instead, I could effect a posthumous transformation of her heavy life into something light enough for wings.

“How’s your sandwich?” Sam’s gnawed his apple down to the core. I’ve hardly touched my lunch.

“Good,” I say, cramming my mouth with bread and chicken. “Yum.”

Onstage, an elderly farmer tells an amusing story about his dog treeing a black bear. He’s followed by a teenager with an acoustic guitar who sings an earnest song about her beloved horse. The announcer calls my name next. I clamber out of the sagging chair and walk up to the stage. After changing the mic cover and sanitizing my hands, I begin.

“Hi, I’m Audrey Beacon.” My voice reverberates through the amplifier. “I wrote this poem after I moved upstate.”

Turns out, I’m nervous after all, but meeting Sam’s gaze calms me. I speak slowly, conjuring a picture in my mind’s eye of each thing I name before saying the words aloud.

White cloud

Blue sky