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But She Looks So Healthy
When she rustled in her sleeping bag it reminded Luke of dry leaves crumbling into dust. The zip of the tent door tore into his ears as she slipped out. Cold took the place of her body. Through the mesh flap their shoes rested on the grass, toes facing each other. She set them there last night to keep the frost off, said they were kissing.
Outside the sun tilted over the glassy highway, off dead squirrel eyes near the yellow dividing line. It rolled over the pond and soaked into a blue plastic outhouse. Dead trees forked and stretched at gray patches of sky above the trailers. A white puppy with dirty paws stretched its spine with a whimper.
RVs in the campground hummed as generators and coffee makers woke up. Unlit Christmas lights clung to awnings. Yellow circles of grass cried out from under flat tires because some people just stayed. A bearded man in long johns and a sheepskin coat stepped bare feet onto the grass outside a giant off-white rig, melting the frost under warm toes. A sliver of white caught him between two trees as he lit an old brown pipe, and unzipped his coat exposing a broad red and black chest. The light made his eyes squint and his skin glow.
Luke watched his red and black chest heave through the open flap, the smoke curling slowly from his pipe, and was full of hope. There was still time before winter, still time for pipes and bare feet.
The man finished his pipe and rapped the wooden end on his palm. Luke felt her familiar lips meet his. She shifted toward him, blocking his view of the barefooted man.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” she whispered into his ear.
“In a place where we don’t know anyone.”
He stretched and pretended to be asleep until he actually was. She zipped up the tent and left for years. When she came back for the car keys he hardly recognized her.
“Here let me help you,” he said wrestling out of the sleeping bag.
“No, I just need the keys, you sleep.”
He felt her hot tongue through dry lips; saw the sun dance over the freckles on her nose, turning her hair from bark to wine. Years ago he said that he would kiss all her freckles. She had laughed in her little way, and he had smiled because he meant it.
It was much brighter outside, and the campground had lost the early morning shine. Each minute stretched, reminding Luke that these people lived out of a trailer all year, their fat children whining and their diseased dogs tearing at trash bags for scraps. He had forgotten the man with the pipe entirely, and looked at his enormous RV with nausea.
They set up for breakfast and spoke little. White breath leaked from their lips. She was cold. She was always cold. He swirled the special pumpkin pancake mix she bought for the holiday in an old pot while she lit both burners on the camp stove: one for the skillet and one to cup her hands over.
He knew the batter was ready, but kept mixing anyway. Once he looked up to meet her eyes with a sideways smile, but then went back to mixing.
“Skillet’s good and warm,” she said watching her breath rise in the air, turning her fingers over the blue circle of flames.
“I have a good feeling about last night. I think this might be it,” he said to the pancake mix.
“Here, I’m sure the batter’s ready.”
A squirrel rushed by crunching dead leaves. She kissed him on the cheek, took the pot, and spooned a circle onto the skillet. It sizzled and smoked at the heat.
“I know. I know it’ll be fine it’s just that I’ve been doing everything that he’s said to do for months now, and we still-“
Suddenly the white puppy with brown paws flashed from behind the trailer next to them after the squirrel. The squirrel bounced up a tree easily. The dog barked once and lost interest.
“Come here, you.” She cooed and patted her thighs. The dog leaped twice and already had a big pink tongue in her face, paws up on her stomach.
“Hey, down. You’re a cute one, who do you belong to?” She asked wiping her nose and cheek.
“Sorry ‘bout that, you know how puppies can be, gets excited when she sees a new face around the park.” The voice came from a skinny leather man with an oversized coat that made him look like a turtle. He had deep-set eyes and thin lips tightened to his face. His voice was low with a deep southern accent that mismatched his body.
Luke saw the man with a surprise that melted quickly into indifference, and lost interest by the time the sentence ended. She kept her hands on the dog, looking up at the man.
“She’s a cutie, what’s her name?”
The man stretched and picked at something in his ear. “Dunno. I been callin’ her Daisy, but she goes by lotsa names around here. We kind of take turns taking care of her, making sure she stays off the highway. She’d be a great pup for a good home though.” The man trailed off and found what he was looking for in his ear, wiped it on his coat, and scratched Daisy behind the ears.
“She’s a stray? But she looks so healthy. Can you believe that? Who wouldn’t want this cute little guy?” She asked looking over to him.
The pancake sputtered in the skillet. He sniffed at the thin smoke as the edges blackened and began to curl up. He took a deep breath. Cold filled his lungs. A glint from the blue plastic outhouse across the highway made him sneeze.
“It’s burning,” he said.
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Max Moore is an unpublished college graduate living out of his car. He is an avid writer and rock climber.
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