The Bond

By Xavier Axelson

Four men are about to discover things are definitely not what they seem ... including themselves.

Declan Makavoy, small town farmer and single father, finds out it isn’t just his thumb that’s green. Ivan Soresceau, a local reporter, who always plays with fire in life and love, is about to discover what it means to be burned. Chester Silberglocke, the ailing but sage chiropractor, finds his death is only the beginning of an atmospheric afterlife. And Vinny Pirelli, the local swimming champ, may make waves in the pool but has no idea he is the last piece in a dangerous and life-changing puzzle.

Seduction and unearthly occurrences are only the beginning in what proves to be a race against time as Declan, Ivan, Chester, and Vinny are pitted against a dark force and face unthinkable horrors as they rely on their friendship to destroy an evil beyond imagination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Oct 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685502928

Xavier Axelson

Xavier Axelson sold his first short story in 2010 and hasn’t stopped. As a writer-columnist, he has interviewed counterculture celebrities, artisans, singers, writers, performance artists, politicians, and activists. In2012 his first full-length work, Velvet, was released with Seventh Window Publications. Contact him at www.xavieraxelson.com.

Book preview

Prologue

I am the woods.

No.

I am in…the woods…

The woods are in me…

Wood is…me.

I am…

Alone. Unafraid. I have lost everything. I have gained something. Trees, shadows, silence, I breathe in beginnings, exhale endings, alone except for animals, plants, earth…

It wasn’t always this way.

No, IT was always this way. I wasn’t always this way.

I was a father. A man. Son. Husband. Farmer.

The order doesn’t matter.

* * * *

There are ghosts, some are lost.

She saw them; they—woman, girl…saw them.

Ghosts. Dead. Chocolate.

Choc…

I remember sweet, because flowers are sweet.

But chocolate, even the word feels strange, like a memory of something I knew, forget, remembered, lost again…it’s all leaves falling, branches reaching, roots grabbing, vines twisting over flesh, heart, lungs, skin…sin, and love…but I am not lonely. I am not afraid.

In the heart of the forest I dwell, not live, dwell…there is a difference…and I wait.

Patient is the earth.

I am patience.

And I wait…

* * * *

Chapter 1: Farmer

My daughter Antonia and I live in an old farmhouse, on a backcountry road, in a town so small you hated hearing your last name by the time you were twenty. If you were here past twenty you weren’t getting out.

I was past twenty.

It wasn’t just your name you hated hearing. It was the O’Brien’s, the Muskavitch’s, the Reilly’s and countless others; the woman who ran the daycare, Megan Felber, the touchy-feely geography teacher, Mr. Musso. If you heard those names once more…

Then there were the Makavoy’s.

Us.

Dirt under our nails, soil caked on our boots, leaves stuck in our hair, perpetually working, trying to make ends meet; farmers.

Our existence relied on good harvests, fair weather, and an even fairer share of tenuous luck. Each generation passed down skills, tips, tricks, devotion to the land and the indefatigable work ethic upon which all else was judged. How much, how hard you worked, determined your value. Providing for family, friends, community was central to the structure of our lives, that and the farm, the work.

Always work. Always dirt.

My pop worked the land, as did all the men and women in our family, with a single-minded goal of surviving another season. From before dawn to after sunset he worked. When I was little, my grandfather worked alongside him, and as soon I was able, so did I. My grandfather smelled of trees and so did Pop. After a day’s work, it wasn’t the stink of sweat he wore, but the whiff of dirt and wood that clung to him.

My mother, Lila, wise in her own persnickety ways, complained that no matter how much she washed, the smell never came out of Pop’s clothes. It didn’t bother her, but she liked complaining. Since he’d passed, I received her biting complaints the same way my pop had, in relatively good-natured silence.

* * * *

It was, above all else, a farm of trees—black poplar, white ash, red oak and silver maple—most planted generations ago. Everywhere, these looming, leafed centurions kept vigil.

On Arbor Day, we celebrated.

Trees were planted. Trees were sold. People came together, celebrating things that grew, would grow and were planted long ago. Lila hocked our preserves, poured honey-sweetened tea, and chatted with customers buying bundles of herbs, and small jugs of maple syrup procured from the silver maples.

Once the last tree was carried home and the kids bundled off, exhausted and dirty with equally tired and often tiresome parents, Pop cracked a beer, poured some into the ground beneath a monster beech tree called Old Jed, and toasted the legacy of work and sacrifice started decades ago.

* * * *

According to Lila, and the story varied on her mood, Old Jed was named after some long-dead relative. Of course it could have been named after a mule, an uncle, a farm cat, or whatever Lila decided in the moment. Pop never corrected my mother’s historical tales; he’d smile knowingly, nodding at me over her shoulder.

If Lila weren’t around to elucidate, I’d watch visitors ponder the breadth of branch, limb and leaf. Old Jed provided shade during sweltering summers and awe when frosted white in winter. Countless were the times I’d climbed too high, one time falling from Old Jed’s formidable boughs and breaking my leg. The injury did little to deter my love for the tree, or stubbornness to climb higher.

Next to the farmhouse and behind Old Jed was the farm’s storefront; to the right of the store were display gardens. Depending on the season, flowers spilled out of ancient birdbaths, and an equally archaic claw-foot tub overflowed with a variety of vines, blooms and plants. The rusty sundial, surrounded by unruly bushes and wildflowers, was a particular customer favorite. Beyond the display gardens were smaller sub-divided plots, currently used for pumpkins and winter squash. There were assorted fruit and nut trees bordering the plots which were harvested and used to make goods to be sold at the farm. Behind the storefront, which was a remodeled part of the main barn, were the green houses, the largest of which you entered through the back of the store. One barn was in sad shape—on a farm, something always is—housing old tractors, machinery, and a couple of antique cars time forgot. As much as Pop wanted to empty and renovate the structure, he never found time. Farming is all about time—found and lost, never enough. By the end of the day, he’d be too tired to do more than eat, shower and pass out.

Fields stretched behind the property to lush woods. We took countless nature walks with family and friends, and each time, we discovered some new, unexpected part of the seemingly endless expanse of trees.

The heart of the property was the house; a comforting pile of wood, nails, beams, paint, history. Built in the 1800’s it had its quirks. It needed attention as much as the land. After Pop died, I did my best to finish the many projects he’d started, but as is the way of farmhouses nothing is ever done.

There weren’t streets when the house was built, Lila told me, friends, customers, anyone who asked. She relished the long history of my father’s family. "Settlers, farmers, hard workers, the hardest working…"

The history held me in its ancient, callused grasp, as much as my skin held my bones, veins and blood…I knew history, and it knew me. It’d been drummed into my and everyone else’s skulls, neighbors, city council members, teachers…and I could name each person smiling, listening to my mother’s ramblings, some yawning, because they, like everyone else, had heard it all before.

As a teenager my life was school, then farm, eat, sleep, repeat.

The monotony was slow suffocation. Monotony is like that; you don’t know you’re in it until something snaps you out of it. Two things did that in thunderous, rapturous ways. I discovered death metal via a local college radio station and I had sex with a stranger in the woods next to the high school. I was seventeen. Suddenly my world went florescent, opened wide like some flower getting spring thrust upon it suddenly, gloriously, terrifyingly.

The metal came first, the roar, the chaos of the sound filled parts of me I didn’t know were empty, and the harder, louder, faster, the more I wanted. My parents were naturally mortified and many were the nights of my parents banging on my door to, Turn that crap down!

I escaped into sound, and bought as much as I could afford from the small alternative record shop the next town over, that catered to community college kids.

That day in the woods I’d been listening to death metal, loud, lost in it, I might have had my eyes closed, so familiar were those paths I walked without fear, I’d never lose my way, couldn’t…

Then he was there.

The rapturous part, unlike the roar of metal, came from within, something came undone, not just my jeans, but some wall I’d not known existed. I’d hit puberty with the same stumbling exuberance as anyone else, I loved looking at girls, lusted, masturbated, and fantasized, got pimples, hair everywhere…my voice changed, but I didn’t know there was more, or that there could be more. Like the well-worn path I walked without thinking, or realizing there were forks…other ways things could go, another way home.

When he touched me, I heard things; a crow squawking, the sound of our shoes crushing leaves, even the distant ringing of the final school bell, I don’t know how it started, what he said, or what I said. The rapture came like a wave: swollen, wet, flooding, and when it was over, I was left panting against a tree, my shirt torn open, my underwear lost among the ferns, and music still blasting from headphones lost among dead leaves, twigs, and green plants.

Those woods, once familiar, reeled and rocked with our fucking until even when he wasn’t there, I smelled our sex; piney, bleachy, and smoky. The more sex I had the more my desires demanded. When he stopped showing up, I pined for him just long enough to fall for a girl I met bumming around the record shop. We bloomed under more exploration; learning from the other until she took off for some city, somewhere, and I caught my breath, stilled my heart.

Sitting on a tractor, one sunset-colored September afternoon I had a moment of actualization. I was bisexual. I could and did desire both men and women. I remember wishing I could look into a mirror, certain this realization must have changed me…this knowing. Pop shouted for me to get moving…but everything had already moved. Everything changed.

This realization shattered what was left of my suffocating monotony. My best friend, Ivan, was the only other person who knew. He’d come out as gay when we were juniors, much to the town’s collective shock and disdain. Ivan didn’t care. He exploited the people’s hatred by being outrageous, defiant and brazenly sexual until he became untouchable like some infamous deity.

I remained silent, and guarded my secret like a treasure.

* * * *

Chapter 2: Gorgon

Dark Treasure was the name of the death metal band I’d gone to see. She’d came to see Native Charms, an indie folk trio of which I had no interest.

Colliding is what stars do, and cars, and meteors.

Clara and I collided, and I never recovered.

The collision left me reeling. She’d worn a gossamer-like shawl over shorts, T-shirt and sandals when this clumsy ass ox banged into her. She didn’t fall, but her drink splashed everywhere.

Oh shit, sorry, I mumbled, deeply embarrassed.

For a second I was frozen, her gaze sent chills down my back.

Jett? She thrust her now empty cup at me, before turning her gaze downward. Jett! She dropped to her knees.

Then it was over, and I thawed. She grabbed my leg. Don’t! You almost crushed him!

Who? I asked confused, still getting used to being able to move.

She lifted a tiny spotted snake.

Shit! I backed away.

Scared of snakes? She asked, getting to her feet.

No, I said. I wasn’t expecting a snake.

He’s harmless. She removed the snake from her hand and I watched, mesmerized, as she coaxed him onto her shoulder and eventually around her neck. He’ll end up in my hair, she said casually. Jett loves my hair.

Someone pushed past and Clara bumped against me. Our hands touched, and I smelled her hair, floral and herbal. Resisting burying my face in her curls, I awkwardly backed into someone else.

Crowded, I said, offering the guy my apologies.

You ever come to a music festival before? She asked, shrugging out of her shawl.

No.

It shows.

I’ll get you another drink, I said.

Don’t bother, she took the beer from my hand and drank.

Watching her down the cheap beer made me smile.

Handing it back, she pulled on my T-shirt. Dark Treasure?

Her touch sent my body into something between panic and lust.

Metal head?

I nodded.

Figures.

You like metal? I asked.

I like all music.

What else do you like?

I like everything, she said.

I believed her.

* * * *

We heard Dark Treasure, Native Charms, and a million other bands that weekend.

When Sunday came and the festival ended, I was in love.

I wanna see the farm, she said, scooping Jett off my shoulder. By this time Jett and I had become old friends. We were heading toward the exit and the abandoned baseball field that now served as festival parking.

Sure, I said.

What?

What? I repeated, unsure what she meant.

You sounded sad.

Huh?

Sad, you look sad, just now, in your voice, your eyes.

I said one word, how can I sound sad?

But you are, she sighed, and tucked Jett into her shawl.

I don’t know, I said, yawning. The sun was rising. The grounds were covered in concert trash. I was thinking about Pop, feeling selfish for leaving for the weekend.

Tell me, she said.

It’s my pop, he’s real sick…cancer…

She took my hand. Stop walking.

What?

I’m sorry about your father.

Yeah, me too.

She hugged me, and to my embarrassment I cried. Those were the first tears shed since he’d gotten sick. When it was over, I looked at her. I shouldn’t have come, my mother is alone with him. She’s the only one taking care of the farm, the business.

Did you ask them if you could come, or did you just take off?

They insisted I come, Pop especially.

Well, then maybe they needed some time alone.

Maybe, I swiped the tears from my cheeks.

You sober enough to drive? she asked, stroking my cheek.

Sure, I said, not entirely certain, though I hadn’t touched weed or booze since the last show the night before.

I’ll visit, she promised, standing on tiptoe, kissing my scruffy chin. You need a shower, she sniffed.

I nodded. She was now wearing my Dark Treasure T-shirt. I was wearing some free shirt a radio station handed out at some point.

Can I come visit your campus? I asked.

Uhh-huh, she said, kissing me again.

I lifted her and carried her to my truck.

You wanna? I asked, practically feral with wanting to fuck.

She nodded. But let’s wait. She smiled, feeling my hard-on.

Really? I asked.

Yup.

She kissed me again. I gotta find my friends.

* * * *

We exchanged numbers, kissed a long time, then she left.

I’m gonna marry you, I whispered, watching her disappear into the dissolving mass of hung-over festival rats.

* * * *

Chapter 3: Wife

Clara loved music. She danced, swayed, hummed, kept a diary, and believed in chakras, crystals, and read tarot cards.

Dual desires, she said when I finally allowed her to read my cards.

Until that moment I’d been half listening, stroking Jett, who lay coiled atop her deck of tarot cards. The secret treasure I’d hidden in my heart had been discovered, and I felt fear. I didn’t want to lose this woman.

There’s a lot of duality in your cards’ paths, desires…

I love you, I said. My heart was pounding, so I thought it would break.

Decco, the night we met I saw you making out with a guy at the festival.

What? My brain feverishly tried rewinding to that night. There had been someone…a roadie? Maybe he worked the band’s merch table. That had been hours before we’d met.

Fuck!

Clara came, reached under my shirt and pressed her palm against my heart. It’s okay.

No one knows, I whispered.

Not even Ivan?

He’s the only one.

So, someone knows.

He’s my best friend, I said. Telling him was like telling myself.

How did he take it?

He didn’t care. He came out in high school.

That’s brave, she said, considering the size of this town.

He doesn’t give a fuck what people think. My being bi meant nothing, except I could sneak into gay bars with him.

I hope I get to meet him, he seems so mysterious.

He’d agree, I said.

She smiled. How long has he been in Europe?

Months, since before we met.

Does he know about me?

I nodded.

And?

He’s intrigued…as much as Ivan can be by something other than himself.

He’s selfish?

He’s…Ivan.

When did you come out? She asked.

I think I just did.

First time with a guy?

Years ago, I answered.

That’s a big secret, she said.

I shrugged.

Decco, I don’t care, I’ve been with women. Sexuality is, she shrugged, like everything else, moving, changing, I’m not scared of it.

I don’t want you to think I’d…

She put her hand over my mouth. I don’t.

In a minute we were in each other’s arms.

When Pop died, Clara’s love and compassion were unfailing, and in some strange way, our love was deepened by my father’s death.

I think it gave me something to grip when the grief became too much. The farm, the work, the dirt, spoke so clearly of Pop, it practically wailed with his loss. My mother grew morose. Her usual crankiness became edged with cruelty, we fought, and she cried until the day she told me she was moving. I’d just come in from the fields, trying to comprehend what needed to be done, how to pick up where he’d stopped.

I can’t stay here, she said. I want to, but I can’t.

My mother lost what I’d gained—love, a partner. There was nothing for her to hold on to, except memories, and the place screamed with them, so much I thought I’d leave or go mad, but again, Clara came, brought life, love, and light. My mother needed out of the shadows, I wish I’d been more understanding.

All I said was, Don’t.

She touched my face, patted my shoulder and used part of my father’s generous life insurance money to move across town into a smaller house, with new carpet, where nothing was falling apart.

What are you going to do? Clara asked. She’d come over after class, tucked herself into my father’s chair, the sun was setting, the light bathed the room in crimson gold. She smelled clean, I smelled of sweat, dirt.

Don’t know.

She toyed with dust motes, blinked, and said, Let’s get married.

I’d been lying on the old couch and nearly fell off. What?

Married, let’s do it. She laughed.

Serious?

Yup.

Yup?

She got off the chair, came and kissed me. Let’s do it, she unbuttoned my jeans.

It?

Yup.

Right after she graduated college we got hitched; tiny justice of the peace ceremony, lots of music, food, family and friends. The party was held in one of the barns.

My mother, mostly absent from the farm and my life, decided the news of my wedding was the ideal time to come out of mourning and back into my life.

"Doesn’t she have any family?" Lila asked, looking around.

Don’t start, Ma, I said, pulling on my necktie.

You couldn’t wear a tuxedo?

No, I said.

I’m surprised she wore such a shabby dress, she said, watching Clara dancing with Ivan. When did Ivan get in?

Twenty minutes after the ceremony.

Lila liked Ivan, but I could tell by the way she pursed her lips she was fighting a salty comment about his unexpected appearance.

Perfect timing, I’d said, hugging him.

I hate churches, he’d whispered.

There were no priests at the town hall, I returned.

I hate town halls more, he laughed, and drifted off into the party.

It was her mother’s dress, I told Lila, who was still staring.

Poor girl, Lila sighed, then sipped wine from an equally old glass. Nothing here was ever new, so it surprised me how much Lila was concerned about Clara’s dress.

She looks happy to me, I said, wishing I could kick everyone out and commence the honeymoon.

"I can’t believe she has no family…"

Her parents died when she was a kid, I said. Her grandmother raised her.

I know the story, Declan, Lila snapped.

Luckily, a cousin came and swept Lila onto the floor to dance.

Staring at Clara, I hoped she was happy.

Later, when everyone left, Clara, Ivan and I smoked a bowl, lit candles, put on music and I watched them play with Jett, whom she’d retrieved from his terrarium.

He didn’t go to the wedding? Ivan asked, taking a hit, then passing the pipe to Clara.

No, he doesn’t do parties, she replied.

Only music festivals, I added, dropping down beside her and resting my head in her lap.

That’s right, she smiled.

She’d changed into shorts and one of my T-shirts, and I still wore my suit without the tie. Ivan was wearing black and dark purple, stylishly handsome, untouchably groomed. He smelled of wine, and spice.

Decco, this chick, he pointed at Clara, good catch, man.

I lifted my beer. Thanks.

"Chick? Clara, about to hand the bowl back to Ivan, reneged. This prick, she pointed at Ivan with the pipe, good catch, man."

I toasted Clara.

She kissed me on the cheek. "I’m going to take a bath, this chick will see you upstairs."

I sat up. See you in a few.

Clara hugged and kissed Ivan. Welcome home, friend.

We watched her leave, Jett wriggling between her fingers.

Ivan came and sat beside me. You happy?

Oh, yeah, I said.

Good.

You two hit it off, I said. Secretly, I’d been nervous, uncertain how they’d react to each other.

She’s gorgeous, smart, and walks around with a snake in her hair, that’s pretty badass.

That she is.

What’s Lila think about her?

Surprisingly cool, Lila’s come a long way since Pop died.

Really? Ivan sounded surprised.

Lila is still Lila, but they like each other, asking for more would be expecting trouble.

True, Ivan said. What about her family?

Doesn’t have any.

How’s that possible? Ivan asked.

Her parents died in a car accident when she was teenager, then she lived with her grandmother.

That’s rough, Ivan said. Though, family is massively overrated.

You back for good? I asked, wisely deciding not to take the bait.

Absolutely not, fly out day after tomorrow.

Good to see your parents, I said, standing. I offered Ivan my hand.

He accepted and I hauled him to his feet.

Yeah, he nodded.

You good? I asked.

I’m always good. When he smiled, his teeth gleamed in the candlelight. Walk me out?

You don’t have to go, I said.

Um, yeah…I do. He nodded toward the stairs. I can practically feel your boner from here.

Yeah, well, anticipation…

Far be for me to cock block the wife, he said.

Wife—I like the sound of that, I said, following him out, my gaze lingering on the staircase.

Outside the air was cool, pleasant, the world smelled of flowers, summer, and sweet expectation.

Sorry about your dad, he said.

Yeah, it’s been tough. I’d forgotten how long he’d been gone. Ivan had sent flowers with his parents to the service.

I hear business is good, he said.

Getting there, I answered.

Fuck, Decco, you’re married.

Yeah, I guess so, I said, marveling at the words as though hearing them made the world new.

Ivan leaned on his car, black, stylish and sleek. She knows? He turned his dark eyes on me, and for some reason I shivered.

Of course.

Fuck, and?

It’s all good, I said.

Wow, good on her.

I’m in love with Clara, period. There’s no one else for me.

Ivan opened the car door. Good for you, too. He slid in, not unlike a snake himself. There’s a lot of someone else’s waiting for me across the pond.

I bet, I said, closing the door.

He put the window down. I kept your secret a long time.

Thank you, I said.

It made me feel special, like I knew something no one else knew.

I grabbed his arm. I appreciate you.

You better, he laughed. The sound was cold, and brittle, like the breath of winter had snuck through summer’s back door.

What? I asked, sensing a shift in his mood.

How’s it feel to be out of the closet?

Something in his tone irritated me. Was I ever in the closet?

Mr. Perfect, Ivan sneered.

You fucking kidding me?

"Are you?"

Somewhere a dog howled, a car passed, wind chimes hanging in front of the store tinkled in the breeze.

I don’t want to fight, I said.

Ivan started the car. You never do.

What do you want from me?

Our eyes met, some history, secret and long, passed between us. His cell phone buzzed, and the moment, whatever it was, passed.

Congratulations on your marriage.

Staring into the darkness of Ivan’s car, his gleaming eyes and flashing teeth were the only distinguishable features.

Ivan—

He held up his hand. Don’t. Go inside to your wife.

Before I could say more, he drove off.

Everything okay?

Clara startled me.

Yeah, yeah, come on. Let’s go inside.

You sure you’re alright?

Yeah, I smiled, except for one thing, I picked her up. Me horny…me want wifey!

She laughed and I tossed her over my shoulder, and she playfully beat on my back as I raced through the house, both of us laughing like fools, as I knocked stuff over to get her upstairs to bed.

Our bed.

This bed. The bed I am in alone, and it is cold, and the night is swarming.

* * * *

Chapter 4: Baby

Marriage made me a better man.

Suddenly, she was everywhere, and everything was her, wonderfully enriched and exciting. The farm blossomed. I incorporated landscaping services, expanded the farm’s storefront and brought the place into the modern world with farm-to-table events, Community Supported Agriculture boxes, and transforming one of the old barns into an event space. While at first reluctant, Lila came around once she saw the positive impact all the changes had on not only our finances, but the reputation of a business she loved and respected. She even started selling antiques out of the newly remodeled storefront.

The farm was a giving, bountiful partner. All it needed was attention, care, and my hands in the soil. I knew the truth, the same truth each member of my family understood: the land owned us. We owned the work.

The landscaping business took off before I’d fully understood what was happening. I hired a couple guys seasonally, one guy, Luke, stayed on full time. I’d kept him employed during a couple of stints in jail and through a rocky divorce. Between his man bun and super-manicured beard, you’d have thought he’d fallen out of a Hipsters R Us catalog. His cool attitude made him a favorite with customers, and his ability with machinery, a favorite with our larger accounts.

We raked lawns in the fall, plowed corporate driveways in the winter and planted flowers in gated communities.

Clara, who’d studied business and economics, went to town on our books, systems, and streamlined our antiquated methods, patiently explaining everything to both Lila and myself. Oddly, Lila took to the more efficient way of keeping records, inventory and receipts quicker than I did. Soon, Clara and Lila could be found laughing over bunches of sage or a stack of contracts with equal enjoyment.

It was quiet moments, seeing Clara bundling herbs into beautifully wild bouquets, or tucked into her favorite bench by a window, reading, the light catching her hair, the way she sighed when she smelled roses, or broke into dance every time she heard music when she thought no one was looking—though she wouldn’t have cared if anyone did. It made life joyous. Joyous—a word I didn’t understand until my wife taught me.

A kitchen garden—another culinary success of the farm, famous for its herbs, particularly rosemary, sage and pineapple mint—was planted next to the greenhouse, by Clara and Lila.

Numerous were the local kitchens decorated with wreaths crafted from our bay bushes. Chefs from all over took notice, and our produce popped up on their menus.

Clara delighted in making the old new again, transforming the derelict into beloved. A dilapidated old shed was turned into a place where shoppers could refresh themselves with herb-infused waters and buy bundles of dried or fresh sage, lavender, chamomile, thyme and dozens of other herbs grown on the property. If the mood struck, my mom and Clara handed out cold drinks spiked with honey and fruit. Sometimes Lila’s homemade shortbread or jam thumbprint cookies accompanied the drinks.

I loved watching people freak out when Clara’d be chatting and suddenly Jett would slither from her hair and wind around her neck, like a necklace. Clara would remove him, and hold him like he was a kitten, and kept talking as if it were all perfectly normal, which to her, it was.

Our preserves and maple syrup were as popular as ever, and with Clara boosting our online presence the stuff developed a cult following among foodies, and flew off the shelves faster than we could make restock.

Sorry…We do not offer a waiting list, could be heard on repeat once word got out that a fresh batch of preserves had hit the shelves.

Social media is shit, I complained, but no one listened.

The major barn that housed the farm store had a hayloft, which Clara loved. She’d turned it into what she called a goddess getaway, adorned with her favorite plants—which were myriad—crystals, stones and various images and icons of female deities, especially those connected to fertility and motherhood. Her final touch had been the installation of an exquisite stained-glass window, which, when hit by the sun, swathed the room in rainbow-colored light.

For the chakras, she told me when she’d caught me marveling in the prismatic splendor.

I didn’t know about chakras, but the way she moved in the colored light was fascinating, arousing and mystical.

We’d had a lot of sex in the loft—she believed our daughter had been conceived in the space. We’d smoked weed, hosted friends and drank too much tequila. She’d meditated in front of the stained-glass windows, bathed in jewel-toned sunlight. I found her sitting lotus, writing in her diary, lights and colors washing over her, shadows dancing over her pearlescent skin, her goddesses watching—some benevolent, some cruel. Beneath their gaze, we made love and lay entwined until dark.

Why don’t you like it here? she’d asked, biting one of my nipples.

Who said I don’t? I retorted, wincing.

But you don’t, she insisted.

No.

Why?

Doesn’t matter, I said.

I can see it in your face, every time you climb the ladder, she continued.

What do you see?

Fear, sadness…you look anxious, she replied.

Forget it. I tried getting up, but she tackled me.

Tell me, she said.

Seeing the worry on her face and the concern in her voice, I relented. My first dog died here.

How? She asked.

Wasps, I said. We disturbed a nest and they swarmed.

She stroked my cheek. It was an accident, she said, a long time ago.

I hate anything with a fucking stinger.

She got to her feet, lit incense. You’d be out of business without the pollinators, most of which have stingers. She blew on the incense and watched the scented smoke waft into the loft.

Waft into the loft, I’d laughed.

What? She waved the stick.

Nothing.

What was the puppy doing up here?

I’d carried him up, I sighed. One hand around the dog, the other around a bologna sandwich we’d intended to share.

Bologna? She made a gagging sound.

Hey, I used to love a fried bologna sandwich.

I’m going to puke. She placed the incense in a wooden holder.

Come over here, I said.

She joined me, joining the best word to describe our mutual need for our bodies to be as close as possible, each vessel needy, wanting to mesh.

I remember when my first pet snake died, she said. His name was Abas.

Abas? I laughed.

I was a Greek mythology nerd, she said, elbowing me.

You are anything but a nerd, I said.

Hey, what do you have against nerds? She grabbed my balls.

I winced. Nothing!

You sure? Her grip tightened.

Yes! Jesus. Uncle!

She let go. I cried when that snake died.

Why didn’t you get another one? I asked, rubbing my sore crotch.

My grandmother wasn’t a fan. She told me I could, but I knew it would bother her, so I didn’t.

What was she like?

Evvie? Clara sighed, rested her chin on my chest. Fabulous. Truly, I know everyone uses that word, but she truly was…fabulous. One of those old ladies everyone hopes to be.

Not like Lila?

Lila is a good mother.

I know.

But Evvie, Clara sighed. Evvie was…

Fabulous?

Clara looked at me and laughed. "You saying fabulous, is either gross or a total turn on." She covered my mouth when I started saying it again.

Why? I asked, nibbling her fingers.

Because, she couldn’t stop smiling, it’s like hearing a bulldozer purr like a kitten.

Snake loving nerd, I whispered before kissing her.

She got up, collected a journal and sat in her rocking chair. I stretched, lazy, savoring our nakedness in the warm loft.

Come over here, I said.

No.

Come on…

Later.

Reluctantly, I forced myself up and put my shorts on. It’s a date.

You didn’t have to get dressed, she said, eyeing me over her journal.

If I don’t, I won’t get shit done.

So?

What are you reading? I asked coming over and touching the velvet-covered book.

An old journal.

Diary?

She shrugged. I wish you knew her.

Who?

She closed the book. Evvie. She would have adored you.

You think?

Oh yeah, she loved men. Clara pulled her hair back, then let it drop. Men, a good frozen cocktail and anyone who could make her laugh.

Your grandmother was a drinker?

She knew her way around a blender, and was not unfamiliar with a martini shaker. Clara said. Some of my favorite memories are of us sharing a blender full of strawberry daiquiri’s watching a summer thunderstorm from the garage. Mine were virgin, of course.

You sure? I joked.

Mostly, she smiled.

I bet, I said, searching for my jeans.

What happened after? She’d begun rocking in the chair, her eyes closed.

After? I struggled into my T-shirt.

The wasps and the puppy.

The loft was locked, I replied.

It’s open now, she said.

Because of you, I said.

The following summer, wasps invaded the goddess getaway.

Decco, let me handle it, Clara said.

Are you kidding? If they swarm, you could get stung to death and I’d never know.

You’d know, she said.

I don’t know how she’d gotten rid of them, but they’d vanished. She kept the nest, saying that as long as she had it, they wouldn’t return.

And they didn’t.

When Clara announced she was pregnant, my world, our world, the entirety of the universe exploded with warmth, light and the stings, the pains, anything even remotely shadow-kissed vanished in the goddess-like glow of her.

I immediately became one of those annoying dudes obsessed with the miracle of pregnancy. Clara, my wife, was carrying our child. I laugh now, because she wasn’t mine, no matter how much I wanted to believe it, because I was, am, mostly a man…though now I am something more…but then, in the blush of our marriage, I saw, felt, needed the future to be perfectly laid out in my mind.

We were having a child. We belonged to each other.

Mundane became miraculous, flowers bloomed like I’d never remembered, the honey was sweeter, the farm busier, the air gentler, and people kinder…I was in expectant ecstasy and demanded the world bask in my surreal pleasure.

Of course, I still sold fertilizer.

But even that made me smile.

You’re beaming, Lila said when she caught Clara and I gazing into each other’s eyes while eating a massive bowl of strawberries splashed with balsamic vinegar. Clara’s cravings swung from sweet to sour and sometimes wanted, needed, both at once.

More vinegar? My mother squawked, tasting a piece of drenched fruit.

I know, Clara said sheepishly. I can’t get enough. She sipped a glass of bubbly water, tinged ruby with raspberry vinegar.

Leave her alone, I said, kissing her hands.

You two, my mother snorted, though secretly I knew she was as delighted as we were.

Most the time we stared into each other’s eyes. Even when I was working and she passed, greeting customers, our eyes would meet, and I’d blush with her attention, her desire to be a mother and my wife. I couldn’t have felt luckier, or more alive.

My sweet tooth is out of control, she’d warned when she’d wrestled the better half of a shared candy bar from my grip.

A sweet tooth? I think you’re a chocoholic.

She shrugged. I’ve always been, but now it’s crazy.

Vinegar and chocolate…weirdo. I joked.

She stroked her belly. I think we’re having a sweet and sour sugar cube.

Clara’s cravings often led us driving all over creation for various and expensive Belgian chocolate, which was a particular favorite.

I knew a guy once, when I was kid, who turned me onto Belgian chocolate.

That sounds ominous, I half-joked while trying to pry a piece from a bar she’d nearly annihilated.

Maybe, she said. She opened her hand, let me take the chocolate and coaxed me into her lap, where I rested my head eating the candy, hoping to feel our baby kicking.

So? I asked coming out of the dreamy trance I’d melted into, thinking about our future.

Clara looked at me. So?

The creep with the chocolate?

He wasn’t, just an old man, lonely, kind. He worked at the cemetery.

I sat up, looking at her. What?

She laughed. Nothing…I was a weird kid. She kissed me and snatched back the bar.

One lazy, humid summer evening we were walking in the empty fields, holding hands, not in any hurry toward anything, savoring the sunset.

I love this wildness. Clara said, surveying the fields.

My family made a commitment to leave part of the land wild.

Commitment to who? Clara asked.

I couldn’t answer, but pulled her close.

There’s so much space, she said, tugging, leading me farther into the golden, insect-buzzing depths.

It owns us, I said, allowing myself to be led.

It?

Nature, I guess…the land.

She sighed and leaned on my arm. I love you.

I love you, I replied.

Six months later Clara was bed-bound. She’d lost her color, wept, and held my hands as though clinging to something other than my body.

If something happens…

I shook my head, but didn’t speak. The words were gone, too trite for what I prayed, begged nightly wouldn’t happen.

Decco, if something does, don’t worry.

One afternoon, I came in from the fields sweating, filthy. It was hot. I poured two glasses of lemonade, went to our bedroom and found my wife bleeding. The glasses dropped. There was so much blood. In the madness I spotted Jett wriggling in the crimson pool.

She looked at me, hair plastered to her face.

If something… She lost consciousness.

Her blood was on my hands, in my hair. I tasted it, smelled it, and every time I blinked, I saw the snake writhing in the red pool of her blood.

Clara!

The delivery was sudden, early, and in a hospital, not at home as she’d hoped, as we’d both planned. I wasn’t by her side.

I stared at the hospital doors, waiting for them to open, praying my wife and child would emerge and the radiance I’d known would return.

But when the doors opened, only my daughter Antonia came home.

Home.

The day after Clara died, I went into the fields, threw the chains of the plow over my shoulders and pulled until I was numb. My shoulders became permanently scarred from where the chains broke flesh.

Lila found me straining like an ox against the weight. I could smell the blood, the dirt. I’d pissed myself at some point but hadn’t realized it, and I’d kept going, inch by inch, fighting the constraints of my body, fueled by rage and grief.

Seeing my mother holding my daughter at the edge of the field brought me back from the animal to the human. I dropped the chains.

You’re bleeding, Lila said.

Yeah? I covered the wounds with the freshly churned earth.

Honey, don’t, you’ll get infected.

It’s in my blood, I said.

Always dirt.

Declan, come inside, Lila begged. Please.

Inside? I looked at my baby, the sleeping innocence, and my chest heaved harder than it did under the burden of the plow. Is she real?

Lila nodded. Come inside.

Decco? Chester, one of my best friends, had joined Lila. I’d forgotten he’d come over. Manic anguish left me oblivious and blind to anything beyond fury.

What will I do without her? I asked, not sure who or where the question was directed.

Chester came, put his arms around me. You’ll go on, because that little life, he gestured at Lila and Antonia, needs you, the land needs you. Clara would expect you to give her the amazing life you’d both dreamed of giving her. He leaned closer and whispered, after all the months I’ve worked on fixing your back, this is how you repay me? He smiled. You’re a bastard.

I don’t know how or why, but he made me laugh.

Time to get up, he’d said. Time to be a father.

So I did, and was, because Antonia was real, and the heartbeat of new life shattered the heartache of death.

Chester had become a touchstone and helped me, along with my mother, care for my infant daughter. Ivan had taken an extended trip to Europe, and while we’d kept in regular communication, it’d been Chester’s kind resilience that had anchored me.

Work became scripture, a way forward, a thing to do, and I needed to do everything to stay sane for my newborn daughter. I existed for everything, everyone else. Labor and the struggle were paramount to my sanity. While raking leaves, tapping maples, pruning, chopping and selling the farm’s bounty—always selling—my grandfather’s voice repeated in my head: Trees are in our blood. Land is in our blood.

I killed every errant wasp around the place until my hands were swollen with stings. Each time I was stung, the grip of grief lessened, only to return once the physical pain faded.

Jett disappeared.

No matter how many times I’d tried climbing the ladder, my feet would slip or I’d get a splinter. I never made it back to the loft.

It’s funny. Memory. Glossy with time the darkness is almost a lie, something made up to douse the true joy of a moment, but it’d happened, the blood, the snake, her death. I know it did because despite the halo-glow of memory, I feel it like my own pulse, and see it in my daughter’s eyes.

Thinking of Clara makes my brain melt with longing-loss, and emptiness.

I want her.

I listen for her voice; sniff the air for lavender, Neroli, lemon, and always chocolate.

* * * *

Chapter 5: Oil and Dirt

So here I was, Declan Makavoy, widower, thirties, father, son, no holy ghost.

But there were other ghosts—my father, Clara, and the scariest ghost of all, the life I had before she died. That ghost loomed monstrous until my heart nearly broke beneath its weight. My devotion to Antonia was the only thing sparing me from desolation. There would never be another love like the one I shared with Clara, never.

Five years later I met Adam.

Self-loathing, sexy, rude…Adam was a piece of broken work. Prime real estate for a grieving heart looking for an obsessive distraction.

In a city, my sexuality wouldn’t have mattered any more than the difference between one or two shots of espresso in a morning latte. In a small town, a widowed father living with a man after having been married to a much beloved woman as all but a headline in the local paper: Bereft and apparently bisexual farmer loses hope in love, shacks up with local gay mechanic…do you really know your neighbors?

Even without the headlines, whispers, stares, and not a few raised eyebrows trailed behind us, and I understood. It is shocking when something or someone you thought you knew dissolves. There is a gap to fill, so whispers, eyebrows, remarks, comments are a quick way to fill that space, because if I truly know anything, it is this, the world hates a gap. Nature, as my friend Chester once quoted, abhors a vacuum.

The town now knew who I was.

I knew.

At least I thought I knew.

When things got serious with Adam, I told Antonia.

I like Adam, she’d said.

So do I, I agreed. What do you think about him moving in with us?

Cool. She offered me a teacup full of imaginary tea.

Cool, I said, taking and drinking it.

I knew this innocent ignorance would be short lived and decided the best thing was to let her ask questions and be as open and honest as her maturity dictated.

If Antonia liked Adam, he doted on her. It was when he was at his most loving, and protective. When she came home telling of a playground bully, I nearly had to chain him to the bed to avoid him going after the kid.

Unfortunately, his love for Antonia, me, our life, wasn’t enough to overcome the ravenous demons gnawing Adam’s insides.

He hated the town. He hated himself.

Our love—or what I’d thought was love—couldn’t withstand the hate.

Miserable, and unaccommodating, he stood in direct opposition of my professional reputation. Sure, I was antisocial, but my work, the farm and our livelihood depended upon my ability to crack a smile and show genuine interest in people, no matter how painful this could be at times.

Adam, a skilled mechanic, had a take it or fuck off attitude, supported by his unparalleled quality of work.

Don’t like it? Go somewhere else, he’d say without flinching.

Countless were the times I wished to tell any number of customers to get the hell off my land or a