Excerpt: Plains Gothic

Lawn chairs. Plastic flowerpots. Brightly colored toys. There's not much to stop them out here, when the wind really kicks up. By the time the storm winds down, these impromptu projectiles might end up miles and miles away, in some other person's yard, where they become mere garbage. But they meant something to someone once. It is only being ripped away, separated that makes them worthless. Today, when I was out checking on the well, I found a straw hat, and I could imagine it atop a woman’s head, perhaps while she picked the last few tomatoes on the vine. It was functional, kept the sun off her skin, and this woman, whoever she was, wore it every day in her garden. Perhaps this hat was as much a part of her as her elbow or her nose. Then, it was taken from her, battered and swept far away. The woman would buy a new hat, but this one would still be lost, homeless. Would she ever wonder about it?
Not that I get sentimental about a stupid straw hat. It’s not really my style, and it’s got a big rip in it where one of the cottonwood branches poked through it. It’s going in the trash, along with the orphaned socks and old party balloons and the rest of the flotsam and jetsam that collects along the east fence of the property. I’m just saying that I can relate. I know how things can get lost and lose whatever value they had. I’ve lost things, too. And maybe I’m saying that I’m sick of the wind. I swear, I would welcome the snow, if it would only quiet things down for a few days. When the wind blows for an entire season, day upon restless day, the land starts to look bleached, emptied out, reduced to bare bones. Everything that doesn't have roots vanishes to the ends of the earth, and sometimes, roots aren't enough.
Sometimes I wonder if this same wind spirited Ray away, in a gritty cloud along with the dust and the roofing shingles and a few gnarled remnants of old weeds. When Ray vanished, he left no explanation, and it’s been almost a year. If I think on it, I can come up with a dozen reasons, of course, maybe two dozen, but the thought that I wasn’t enough enough leaves me as sandblasted and beaten as the faded plains outside the door. Or, maybe I’m only worn out from the wind. I can fight off the feeling better some days than others. The questions, they’re always there.
So I work to distract myself, try to tune the questions out. I’ve always been someone who likes to be doing things. My cousin Jessie works in Denver, in an office, and she loves her job, but it would drive me crazy. I shudder to think what it would be like under those flurorescent lights, staring at a computer monitor all day, having to talk on the phone. I hate phones. No, I would rather have the familiar things, the chapped hands, the friendly handles of old tools, the dormant earth waiting for an inspiration. I would rather have the sun. I count myself lucky that I don’t need much else to survive. Even my job at the hospital, at least it keeps me on my feet. I can actually explain what I do in fewer than six words.
The winds are merciless this year and they bring with them the refuse and scents from towns far away. When I huddle in Dad’s old faded armchair in the evenings, a book held slack in one hand, I listen and idly imagine that the wind could lift the voices right out of people's mouths and carry them shrieking past my window. That thought makes me pull my robe tight around my body, get up for another cup of tea. The desolate howling outside, more than the temperature, raises tiny bumps on the skin of my back and her arms. Nights are the worst, when I can’t push away my misery. The house doesn’t feel strong enough to withstand the wind and the loneliness and the self-accusations. I start to see things and hear things. Even when I’m exhausted from work and from chores, I find it difficult to rest.
Last night, I was beside the hall window, bracing myself for the chill that never leaves that part of the house. And a pale blur flickered in the corner of my eye. Someone in the dark, looking in? I thought of Ray and my heart lurched deep and sickeningly in my chest, my isolation suddenly so heavy. I couldn’t bear it. I swear I saw, or imagined, a ghostly face, predatory eyes, ragged fingernails scratching on the pane- these images had been the toxic stuff of nightmares since childhood. I was freaking myself out. At this rate, I would be a blubbering puddle on the floor by Halloween.
So I went to the front door, to lock it. I’ve never needed to lock a door around here before, and I felt pretty silly. But isn’t that the subject of a thousand horror stories, the woman alone where her screams are carried away, useless and the evil looming on the horizon? And, then I had another thought, its wings mere shadows, fluttering behind my eyes. What if it were Ray out there, trying to come home? I turned back the lock and placed my hand on the cold brass knob.