When I flip the switch on the kitchen light, it comes on, so I pick up the phone and dial the power company, a number I’ve memorized by now.
It rings. I look through the window over my kitchen sink and into the back yard, bordered by forest. I wonder what happens if the road still isn’t clear.
Probably, I drive her back to town the long way, up the western side of the mountain range. By the time we’re there, surely the road will be clear, and I can come back home via the parkway.
But maybe she’d stay another day.
“Hello, you’ve reached the Blue Ridge Power Company,” a bored voice says.
“Hello,” I begin, standing up straight as if it’ll mask how much I hate talking on the phone. “I’m calling to inquire as to whether the Appalachian Parkway has been cleared, specifically a downed tree that was near mile marker—”
“Whole thing’s clear, honey,” she says. “And it’s a beautiful drive, so enjoy your day, all right?”
“Thank you,” I say, and we hang up.
That’s that, then. I pour myself a glass of water, walk to the sliding door to the back porch, and look out.
She’s right. It’s a beautiful day. I don’t think June’s awake yet, or at least, I don’t hear her moving around upstairs. Her keys are on the coffee table. I write a quick note, leave it on the kitchen counter.
It’s a good time for a walk.When I come back into my house, there’s no sign of June. The note is where I left it. The lights are as I left them. I wonder, briefly, if she’s gone, but then the ceiling over my head creaks with footsteps.
The door to the office is open, and I can see in as I come up the stairs: she’s sitting on the floor, cross-legged, papers spread around her, and she’s leaning over, staring at something on my laptop.
My pulse quickens, and she looks up.
“I signed in as a guest user,” she says quickly, like she can read my mind.
I nod once.
“Thanks,” I say. I don’t think there’s anything particularly salacious on my computer, but I also know that naked women have graced this screen in the past and I’d prefer June not find that.
“I got to thinking about the trees again,” she says, looking up at me, pushing her hair from her face. “The vandalized ones. Well, except I don’t think they were vandalized, because that doesn’t make any sense because they were in the middle of nowhere and just cut down and that’s not usually what people do when they vandalize something. Vandalism’s for other people to see, you know? To mark territory or tell others how cool you are or make sure everyone knows that Stacy is your girl, stuff like that.”
I come into the room and lean against the desk, listening.
“I did a whole series on graffiti for the Sun-Dispatch,” June explains. “You know, the whole debate, is it a victimless crime, is it art, should we be prosecuting it as gang activity, does that needlessly incarcerate teens who just like writing their names on things, et cetera.”
“I have a feeling this wasn’t gang related,” I tell her.
“You are a wiseass,” she says, but she’s smiling.
“When the situation calls for it.”
“And what about this situation called for your wiseassery?” she teases, leaning back on her hands.
“Are you going to tell me what you think is going on if not vandalism?” I ask.
June’s eyes drop to the papers on the floor. They’re the maps from the coffee table downstairs, alongside a few atlases, a few other maps that she found in the office, and an old book on the history of the Cumberland National Forest that my mom once found at a yard sale and thought I might be interested in. I think I skimmed it once.
“It’s gonna sound weird,” June says.
“All right.”
“You have to promise not to laugh.”
“I’ll promise no such thing,” I tell her.
“Come on. At least don’t ridicule me until I’m done?”
I shift my weight and fold my arms over myself, trying to keep from smiling. June is doing the same, but failing.
“Just tell me that you think it was aliens and get this over with,” I tease, and it finally gets laughter from her.
“Okay, not that weird,” she says. “Do you know who the Harte brothers were?”Chapter SixJuneLevi goes silent and still, his gold-brown eyes staring at me, slightly narrowed. I let the silence stretch out because I’m starting to get comfortable with Levi’s quietude, his thoughtfulness, and I fight the urge to fill the void with talking.
“The country band?” he finally asks.
“The outlaws,” I say.
“Outlaw country?” he tries, cocking his head slightly to one side, and I grin.
“They were brigands in the early nineteenth century,” I say. “I’m not sure whether they could pick a banjo or not.”