Once We Had a Country Read Free Page A

turns toward the lens, he crosses his eyes and blows a kiss. There’s the sound of some unseen object bumping against the microphone.
    “How was that?” he says. “Hey, why don’t you drive and I’ll film you?”
    “It’s okay,” says Maggie. “Let’s keep on the way we are. I’m just getting the hang of it.”
    She films him until they leave the highway for a gravel road. Then she puts away the camera, wanting to see properly what’s ahead. There’s only one other house along the half-mile stretch, a mobile home with a gated lane. Soon afterward they reach a dead end and the driveway to the farmhouse. The building is red brick with gabled dormers and a broad porch. An overgrown lawn sprawls in all directions. Fifty yards behind the house, countless rows of cherry trees begin.
    “Fletcher, it’s gorgeous,” she says, and he beams.
    Once he has brought the camper to a stop, they exit on their separate sides, Fletcher stretching out his long legs, Maggie pulling her dress away from her body where it clings. For a time they stand there looking at the house. Then they exchange a loud, playful kiss and start up the porch stairs. At the door, he pats under the welcome mat, but there’s nothing to be found.
    “Maybe Brid and Pauline got here ahead of us,” he says.
    “There’s no car,” she points out. “Wale, maybe?”
    He hollers Wale’s name. No one answers, so he goes around behind the house while Maggie lights a cigarette and retreats down the steps to take in the place again. The roof is missing a few shingles, and the eavestrough is held up at one end by a loop of wire. In the middle of the lawn, an old wooden sign reads
Harroway Orchards
. At the entrance to the driveway there’s a mailbox on a post, and beside it stands something obscured by the shadow of a tree. When she looks closer, she realizes it’s a man. Tentatively she waves at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice her, only starts along the gravel road toward the highway.
    From behind the house, there’s the sound of breaking glass. Fletcher doesn’t respond to her calling, so she stamps out her cigarette and starts after him. A moment later the porch door rattles open and there he is, licking a cut on his hand.
    “First order of business,” he announces, “replace the back window.”
    When she goes to examine his wound, he dips and catches her just above the knees, lifts her off her feet, and heads for the door.
    “It’s not like we got married,” she says, laughing. With a grunt, he carries her across the jamb and sets her down.
    Inside, the foyer is dim and cramped. On the left, a wide staircase leads to the second floor; on the right, there’s a corridor with a few nails protruding from the walls. He starts searching for a light switch, but she takes his hand with a wink and leads him upstairs. Pink roses stare from the wallpaper as they ascend. At the top, Fletcher takes delight in pointing out the hardwood floor, the rectangles of natural light falling from open doorways.
    As he pulls her into the first room, there’s the smell of stale booze and something burnt. Then she sees the mattress in the corner. It’s scorched in the middle and stained at the far end. A pile of sheets lies beside it, singed and streaked with ash. The only other furniture in the room is a dresser that has been emptied of its drawers, which sit on the floor filled with food wrappers, empty beer bottles, and cigarette butts.
    “Was it like this when you checked out the place?” she asks. Maybe she should have taken the time off work to come up with him after all.
    He shakes his head. “Somebody must have found the key. Probably just some kids.” With an anxious look, he starts for the hallway.
    “Where are you going?”
    “To check the other rooms. If they trashed the house—”
    “Hey, we’ll manage.” She grabs his hand to pull himback. “You said it was a fixer-upper, right?” If the whole place is in bad shape, he’ll want to clean it