Merriton

“Looks like this little lady is yours.” Elvis stood on Kit Kat’s porch with Mary, the goat. For the third time in the last two months, Mary had escaped her pen and wiggled her way into Kit Kat’s barn. This time, Elvis decided that she wasn’t worth the bother. Just give her to Kit Kat and let her stay where she wants.

Kit Kat stood at her door and folded her arms against the cold. “What?” Elvis expected her to take the makeshift leash out of his hands, but she just shivered against the cold. “This is Mary. She used to live in your barn when Sierra lived here. She keeps comin’ back, so I thought I’d just let you have ‘er so I don’t have to keep chasin’ ‘er down.” He held out the leash, but the girl didn’t move.

“I don’t want a stupid goat, Elvis. If I catch her in my barn, I’ll bring her back to you.” She moved to shut the door. Elvis tried to stop her, but ended up saying goodbye and walking the animal back to his corral. He put her with the other goats and wondered at his silly little flock. He didn’t milk them. He didn’t eat them. He just kept the flock healthy and alive on his property, partly in honor of his fallen friend, Artimus, and partly in honor of Sierra.

He walked back into his own house and Vesta was waiting for him there. “You look like you’ve swallowed a tablespoon of cod liver oil.” Elvis felt as if he had. Just the mention of the stuff made his nostrils tingle with the fishy smell of it. “Tried to give Mary to the girl in the Bowen House, but she wouldn’t have none of it.”

Vesta helped him off with his sheep skin lined denim jacket as he kicked the snow off his boots. He could smell the stench of snow on his clothes. “Time to wash this jacket. It’s gettin’ a little ripe.” Vesta shook it out, took another jacket out of the closet and hung it on Elvis’ hook. She folded his dirty jacket in half and walked toward the laundry room. “Funny how each person who lives in that house is different.”

Elvis laughed at her, “Ain’t funny at all! Everybody’s got their own quirks. The funny thing is how they all end up leavin’ so soon. Why can’t we git one farmer?” Vesta’s voice tinkled like laughter from the other room, “Sierra was a farmer. She just didn’t want to be. Fightin’ it with all ‘er might.”

He could hear his wife walking back into the kitchen and the two of them sat at the table. She continued, “I like havin’ Kit Kat livin’ next door. She’s quiet. She doesn’t barge into our house all angry like.” Elvis ran his hands through his course and gray hair. “That’s ‘cause she hasn’t gone crazy yet.” Vesta smiled to herself and Elvis could tell that she was holding back her words. He waited to see if she would let him in on the secret, but instead, she changed the subject.

“Samson says that Randy and Sierra are visiting after Christmas some time. I told him to have that girl come here and teach me how to make that goats’ milk lotion. ‘Bout time we did somethin’ with ‘er goats.” Elvis nodded. “We could try lookin’ on the Internet for it.” Vesta shook her head. “No, I want to know how she made that lotion that smelled like fresh cut grass. The Internet won’t tell me that. It was unique to her.”

He nodded. It wasn’t the recipe she wanted. Vesta just wanted to see Sierra again. “Funny how most the people who buy the Bowen House don’t come back.” Vesta shrugged. “Randy and Sierra used to come to ski every year.” Elvis laughed. “Yeah, so did most o’ them, but after stayin’ in the Bowen House for a coupla years, they don’t ever wanna come back. ‘Cept, of course, that Fitzgerald guy. He’s never goin’ home.”

Vesta looked at him with pity and it made his stomach turn. Elvis had been the one to find that poor Fitzgerald guy, with his brains all blown out in that back room. He wondered if Kit Kat was sleeping in that same room. The McCain girl had cleaned up the blood stains, but something like that happening in a room took more than a hardwood sander and varnish to strip away. “You don’t think she’s sleepin’ in that room, do ya?”

Vesta stood up and started pulling out some flour and sugar out of the kitchen cupboards. “If she won’t take your goat, maybe she’ll take my blueberry muffins. Go down into the cellar and pull out a bag of dehydrated blueberries. I’m gonna need ‘em.” Elvis smiled. “I’m bringin’ up two bags. I haven’t had a batch of muffins in a long time and it’s no fair you givin’ alluv ‘em away to ‘er.”

As he walked down the creaky stairs to the cellar, Elvis felt a slight lifting of relief. Vesta’s baking would solve the problem, he thought to himself. Her baking always solved his biggest problems.