At the end of a long stretch of rarely-used road, the old farmhouse yawned in the morning breeze. That elderly elm tree with its stretching branches tapped on Elli’s window. The morning routine was about to start. Elli took her time. She slipped off the grey quilt, swung her legs out of bed, and sat on the edge listening to songbirds cheer her on. Her greyed hair had escaped in curls from her tightly-tied white sleeping scarf, catching the first morning light.
A stretch later, Elli dressed in her pale day-clothes for the daily chores of rooting in her sparse garden and herbs. It was enough for her and no one else; exactly the way she wanted it. After being fed, her chicken’s eggs were brought into the kitchen’s ice chest. The house creaked from a draft; it had wanted a nice dusting a week ago. Elli allowed her mind to wonder how much these rooms would smile like they had so many years ago with such a simple task. Over a smoke and a simple plate of eggs prepared at the old wood-fire stove, she noted the dust and grim that decorated the sides. The unkemptness of her kitchen weighed on her nerve. She made a bet to herself: if she couldn’t chop a log into firewood in a single swing, she would take this day to clean the whole farmhouse—or at least this room. Nearly a lifetime ago, her mother had made bets like this with her and her siblings. Clean or go into town with her. The wood will decide.
Another cloudy day with a rowdy wind waited for her. She set the thick wood on the wide sturdy stump. Hefting the axe, she held her breath. From the past the voice of her mother was in her ear, those encouraging words trying to tell her young daughter the secret to chopping it right. Elli came down on the block.
Today would be a cleaning day.
She came into the kitchen with a bucket of water, and tried to close the back door. A rogue wind slipped past her, knocking her breakfast napkins to the plank floor. She slammed it shut and exhaled. Calmer, Elli put on house slippers and found her gloves and a sponge, and got to work. A knock at the front of the house interrupted her. Elli froze, remembering how to react. She poked her head from the kitchen and watched the door and surrounding windows. There were no neighbors left to stop by for small talk, and this house had long forgotten what invited guests were under Elli’s care.
She leaned besides the front door beside the new hinges and below the cramped corkboard. Her list of grocer and chicken feed deliverers was pinned beside an outdated calendar. She cleared her throat.
“Whozat?” Ear to the door, Elli looked into the unused parlor with its drawn curtains, dust-covered paisley furnishings, and framed pictures of her late family. She added, “No solicitors.”
“Hello!” It was a man’s voice, more youthful than Elli, but above an adolescent range. “This is the Ruckhead Place, right?”
“Yeh, who’s askin’?” She demanded.
“Oh, thank god. I was worried.” The man said quietly, he spoke up to Elli, “I’m with the Salvia-Memantine firm. From town, I got here as quick as I could; I’ve got something here, from Daniel Patrick. This is sudden, I realize, and you might be busy, but if you please. Might I come in?”
“Yer right, I am,” Elli hid her surprise, a frown splashed onto her face, “and I ain’t know no Daniel.”
“Are you sure? I have a picture here if that would help. I can come in and show you—this is very urgent, Miss.”
“Drop it through the mail slot.”
He did as she requested, and a single Polaroid dropped through and slide on the floor. Weathered with a hole punched in the margin,
It was a beautiful bright day at the beach, back when people would spend whole days and into the evenings at beaches. It was Danny’s idea to go one July day, and without a hesitation in the world they drove out there and joined the couples and kids on that warm sand. While the two held each other, a young photographer came up to them. Drawn to the large bow on her swimsuit, Danny joked. For only pennies he captured the couple’s smiling faces while Ellaine’s black curls blew everywhere in the sea breeze.
Elli slid the photograph with a dark spot in the corner back out mail slot, “Don’t know him. Mister… listen you outta go.” Her voice was unwavering. He mumbled below what Elli could pick up. She shouted, “Ya heard me?!”
“Mrs. Patrick, please, may I come in.”
Elli covered her wrinkled mouth at the sound of her last name. She emboldened herself, but caught a shape dart past the curtain toward the rear of the farmhouse. She raced out of her slippers to the back door locking it. The wind had died down, so her chickens’ excited clucking became the only noise from outside.
“Mrs. Patrick,” He said still at the front door, “this is very important, you need to let me in”
She peered through the back door’s drapery and scanned the backyard for anyone else. Nothing out of the ordinary.
“It’s about your husband!” He called.
“I told you to git the Hell outta here!” She yelled back, stony in her resolution, “I don’t know no Daniel—never have, now leave me alone!”
The house sighed from a gale draft. Elli heard her heartbeat, the fowl quieted along with the winds outside. An exhale couldn’t escape her mouth before a bang came from the front.
“Mrs. Patrick!”
“Whoever you are,” Elli hurried to the closet by the stairs, “if you don’t leave— ”
“I just ask to come in and talk.” The knob rattled, but the locks kept the door shut.
“I have a gun!” Elli’s older voice trembled; her mother’s shotgun, loaded and ready. “You try that again and I’ll blast you straight through this door!”
Another figure ran past the curtain, and she whipped her head to see another running to the rear through the living rooms draped windows. Back in the kitchen, she shuddered spotting a tall shape trying to see in through the drapes. Teeth gritted, she pointed the gun at it. As if it saw her, it ran out of sight around the farmhouse. “All a’ you! Git!”
“Ell-Bow?”
It couldn’t be Danny’s voice; sounding strong like before. It shouldn’t be Danny’s voice, yet as if speaking to her from her past, using that silly nickname… She lowered the gun a little.
“Ell-Bow, ya in there?”
Just beyond the front door, she imagined his thin face beaming back at her again, and he would embrace her in both arms, like before. Thoughtlessly she reached for the doorknob. From the corner of her eye, a shape pressed up against the parlor window. Elli swung the double-barrel toward the figure.
Faceless like a half-remembered woman in a crowd, they tapped on the glass twice, and the gun went off. Glass flew and shattered against the lounge chairs. She held her aim at the outside world in case anything dared to climb through the hole in the window. Her concentration broke when that same photograph came back through the mail slot. The wind had picked up and whistled across the broken window remains. A stillness followed that Elli endured, with shallow breath. She felt as if hours had passed before she set the gun down beside the door. Her heart pounded in her ears as she reached for the photo. The past smiled back as she gazed at it. Elli tensed and pulled open the door.
Another cloudy day loomed above, a little too blustery for her liking. Weeds grew through the gaps on the worn, paved path from the farmhouse to the main road. She stepped out onto the porch, the sparse forest greeted to her. She looked around the corner and saw the damages. Glass and splintered wood lay upon the grass. Bits of the frame bent outward. Fixing this would be worse than the door last week.
Elli returned inside after another of her rolled cigarettes. She brushed her hair back into place and bent down for the yellow photo. On the corkboard, just above the spare key on its tiny hook, a dustless spot perfectly welcomed the Polaroid. Its return sealed with a spare push pin. The farmhouse settled in the breeze. She retrieved her cleaning supplies and made good on her bet, letting her thoughts blow past.