The Birch

I came without warning.

When I left the house earlier, I had closed the door carefully and firmly behind me. On approaching the end of the road, the point of choice, I could either turn right to the interstate and the outer world — the safety of my parents — or left onto a meandering country road. It led over a mountain strewn with clapboard houses and long stretches of woodlands, where deer browsed and an occasional bear could be seen scratching his belly on a telephone pole.

The car drove itself, knowing its destination. As it descended the steep road to the river, I could feel my body relaxing. The air in the car seemed lighter.

The red truck was parked in front of the cabin. The generator was running with a steady hum. The cabin door was closed, and all seemed quiet within. I wondered if he was showering, as the generator provided the power for the water system. The river rushed over the sandstone boulders, murmuring over the generator's purr. I waited outside. Surely he had heard my vehicle and would come out. I walked to the side of the river and sat on a flat rock. Time passed. The generator hummed. No sound came from the cabin.

I gingerly walked toward the cabin. In the past, I had stayed out of the cabin when he was there. If we talked, we sat across from each other at the picnic table, or I stood while he sat in his yard chair with a book across his lap. We talked of books, reading, writing, or his life in the cabin. I never spoke about my life at home and never about my husband. On these visits, my son came along to swim in the river, an escape from the summer doldrums and heat.

I realized later that I had never looked directly at Shaun, the cabin-dweller. I did not know his features. My eyes avoided his face and eyes. His voice was soothing, calming. He was interested in my projects and offered to read my story. I shared my books with him. He listened attentively and gave me acknowledgment.

When summer ended, my son returned to the school routine. I yearned to go to the river but lacked the ostensible reason for going: taking my son for a swim. In my mind, I practiced the words I felt needed to be said.

The first time I came alone, I dressed carefully in an embroidered peasant blouse and faded jeans. Shaun greeted me at the gate. I spoke my oft-rehearsed words: how I needed to see him, to come down here, to be by the river. How I wanted him to be my friend for life. How I wouldn't do anything to interfere with the friendship. Would it be okay if I visited once a week or so in the afternoon?

I could come twice a week if I wanted, he said. Whatever time I wanted to come.

As he talked, a bee flew into the sleeve of my blouse. I focused on remaining proper while trying to get the bee out. I kept smiling and then explaining my dilemma, I reached inside my sleeve, shaking the thin cotton fabric to release the bee. His eyes shone, but he stayed on his side of the picnic table. I said, "There was a bee. I wasn't lying."

He said, "I never thought you were."

He later told me that my blouse was beautiful and that he yearned to take it off me, that despite my attempts to be careful, he had seen my breast as I wiggled the blouse to free the bee. He was disappointed that I had on a sheer, skin-tone brassiere.

After chasing the bee from my blouse, I gave him a token gift of a notebook and a pen. "Pick a color," I said. "Red or purple?"

"Purple" was his reply. I left a pen with purple ink and encouraged him to write his stories. I gave him a quick hug and walked to my Jeep to go back over the mountain.

On my next trip, we sat on the patio, and I left a mason jar of homemade vegetable soup and a piece of banana bread. "Do you do vegetable soup?" I asked.

"That is an odd question," he replied. "Yes, I have been known to." Little did I know that I would be the one to heat u the leftover soup for a noontime meal.

"If you would ever like to go on a road trip, an adventure, I would like to go with you," he said, explaining that he had not seen other parts of the state.

I muttered that yes, if I went, I would invite him. In my mind, I could not figure how that might happen. How was I to know the outcome of that conversation?

On that second visit, he left me alone to sit on a rock in the middle of the river. I waded in the cool water, and the bottoms of my jeans became wet. As I walked to my car, he came down from the hillside where he had been weedeating, and stood close to me. This hug was different. The earlier hug had been tentative, safe. This time our entire bodies touched, and he rocked me from side to side. My body would remember that hug, and I continued to tingle as I drove back over the mountain to my house.

Now I had left my home for good to drive to the cabin. I opened the wooden door slightly, calling his name. He answered, calling my name. "What are you doing here so early?" I asked if he would go on the road trip with me, adding the catch that my Jeep was shaky.

He never hesitated. "Sure, why not? Just give me time to take a shower and we'll go. Where do you want to go?"

Blackwater Falls was on the other side of West Virginia and my favorite state park. I stated that I had just left my house and husband for good. I asked if I could rest on his couch while he showered, as I had not slept well the night before.

I pulled the afghan over my head while the emotions of the day and night coursed through me. For some reason, the day before I had brought in groceries, done my son's and husband's laundry, carefully folded their underwear, and cooked a nice meal. Then, after a night on the couch, I had opened my duffel bag from within my closet and stuffed random belongings into it. As I packed the car, I had told my husband that I needed space to think and was not sure where I was going.

"I've had enough of your bullshit" were his parting words.

As I lay on the couch in the cabin, I heard Shaun in his room, gathering supplies. "Pack an overnight bag," I called out. "If we are going that far, we will have to spend the night."

"I am" was all he said.

I drank a half cup of his sweetened, strong, black coffee, and soon we were getting into my Jeep. I asked if he would drive, as I was weary.

The Jeep hiccupped along the interstate, shifting between third and fourth gear. I laughed each time. "Should we try to make it to Blackwater? What do you think?"

"I don't know," he said. "We will have to see."

Once again, I was rehearsing words I felt I needed to say to him, words that had to be said before we left the gas station and convenience store.

A police car pulled up beside us. We were unsure of the directions to the park, so I volunteered to ask the policeman. Shaun had a map spread out across the passenger seat. The policeman walked to the car, gave us careful directions, and told us about the nice accommodations at the park. After he went back to his cruiser, I pulled dollar bills out of my purse and held them like a fan

"I'm forty-six years old, and I still bleed every month. As funny as it sounds to me, I guess I still have the potential to get pregnant. I've been living with a man who has had a vasectomy. Would you be willing to go in and buy some condoms? I can't do that."

"Of course you can't. I've got some," he said in a calm, even voice.

We drove on, the Jeep still jerking and hiccupping. The trip took longer than expected. With each town we passed, we congratulated ourselves and the Jeep for getting us that far.

"Weston. Yes!"

"Buchanan. Yes!"

"Elkins. Yes!"

It looked like we were going to get there.

Shaun turned off the main road and then onto back roads. Several times we pulled off for him to consult the maps. We were surprised that there were no signs directing us to the state park.

The Jeep brought us to the front of the lodge. We walked in together. I arranged for a room in my name, visual proof of our weekend foray. He went up to the room first, and I followed with my bag. We looked at each other. Where did we go from here?

"I don't feel like going anywhere else," I said.

"Neither do I" was his reply.

"If we are going to do this, I want to do it right," I said. "I want to take a nice bath first."

"Absolutely."

We considered our options. I felt funny about taking a bath. He looked out the window at the beautiful mountain scenery. On the side of the building, the Jacuzzi was visible.

"We could go in the Jacuzzi," he said.

"That sounds nice," I said. "I'll put on my bathing suit."

In the bathroom, I pulled on a green one-piece and covered myself with the light blue denim jumper I had been wearing all day.

I came out. We looked at each other. "Kiss me," I said. "We have never kissed."

Our lips touched. His hands began searching and found my thighs and the bathing suit under the denim. Soon the jumper was off, and we were lying on top of the bedspread.

"It has been a long time for me," he said.

"I've just been married for a long time."

We spoke no more, drawing into the language of our hands and bodies. I could hear his quickened breathing in my ear. I relaxed and stayed in the moment. The condoms never left his overnight bag.

We lay in each other's arms later, savoring the hum of our bodies. I took some time to explore his body. Even his cheekbone and the lobe of his ear were unfamiliar to me. I touched his face, hair, neck, and shoulder with the tip of my finger. He lay on his back with his eyes shut. I asked about his earring, his tattoo, his freckles.

"My mother said that freckles are angel kisses," he said. His sun- darkened skin was covered with freckles.

"I don't have any freckles," I said.

"You now have mine," he answered. "I guess this makes you an adulteress."

"Yes."

"And now I am an adulterer. I've never made love to a married woman before."

Later that day, on the other double bed by the window, our passion went to an even deeper, more unbridled level.

"You like that, don't you?" he asked me.

"Yes, I do," I said.

The first time I had not been able to open my eyes. The second time, my eyes were wide open.

We took a break from our lovemaking to walk the established trail to the waterfall. The trail was soft, covered with the brown needles of the hemlocks above us. We walked in a soft rain. An older couple was on the bridge, looking over the waterfall, smiling through the raindrops.

In the dining hall, we had a nice meal together. He enjoyed the television in our room. The cabin had no electricity — no phone, no television. Shaun channel-surfed and watched one movie after another. I closed my eyes and pondered all that had passed in the past couple days. I had stepped out of one life and into another.

Now was the time to move forward and not look back. Shaun had offered me a cool drink of water after years of living in a desert. He had sensed my sensitivity and spoken freely, affirming other parts of myself. The little voice inside me that had drawn me to him was not one of logic. I had given up on the world of logic several years earlier.

I listened to the voice without knowing, without attachment. His greatest gift to me was to come with me without hesitation on our road trip. Where we went from here, neither of us knew. No promises or wild declarations of love had been made. We were living in the now, and giving life the best we had to offer.

The next day we left Blackwater Falls, as he had to go back to the cabin to feed the horses, May and Juniper. The Jeep hiccupped, of course, so Shaun drove at forty-five miles an hour down the interstate, the emergency lights flashing. We laughed and knew we would get back somehow. The important part had been getting to Blackwater Falls, and that had been accomplished.

Midway, we talked about me coming to live with him in the cabin. He seemed to like the idea and said that he had fantasized about having me there with him for the winter. I explained that the one thing I needed him to know was that I wanted to be there with him, and that I had other options. My brother was aware of my discontent and had encouraged me to come to Denver to visit him; my parents had apartments in Johnstown. I wanted Shaun to know that he was the chosen sanctuary.

He agreed, and I moved in with my duffel bag. We rearranged his sleeping setup so we could have a double bed to share.

Sleeping together posed another problem, which I had yet to discover. Shaun had been sleeping alone for years. If I so much as touched his back or foot, his whole body jumped, and I jumped too. I had to learn not to touch him while he slept, to stay on my own side of the bed. Meanwhile my body craved his warmth.

The first week involved complication upon complication. There was a barrage of people in varying states of emotional distress about us being together and me leaving my husband. In many ways, we felt as if we were the eye of the storm.

* * *

We had lived in the cabin for almost a month. I learned how to turn on the generator to flush the toilet, take a bath, wash clothes, or wash dishes. Since I'd never been a smoker, I hadn't mastered the use of a lighter, so lighting the propane-fed lamps was interesting. Left in the dark, I did learn.

Shaun was patient even when I made mistakes, and I made many. The refrigerator developed a horrible smell and smoke started pouring out of a pipe from the back. What could I have done to the refrigerator? Shaun assured me that it was nothing I had done. He dug the directions and warranty from a dresser drawer, and sat with his open toolbox on the kitchen floor, checking out the problem. A mouse had become trapped on the pilot light and fried to a crisp. I was relieved to know that the problem had not been caused by me.

Shaun kept clearing rocks from the meadow. He had a pile as high as himself. He raked and limed and fertilized the pasture. Together we gathered the bags for collecting soil samples from the agricultural extension office, bringing back memories of going there for 4-H project materials for my children.

The landlord, who was Shaun's cousin, and his girlfriend came after dark on a Sunday night. Shaun's intuition had been alerting him of the visit. The first thing the landlord noticed was an ant crawling on the kitchen counter.

Shaun's cousin stated that we needed to leave. "Business is business," he said, and then demonstrated what he had been learning from his guitar lessons.

We listened politely.

Before they left in the morning, Shaun made them a pot of coffee; then crawled back into bed to give them space. He was shaking. I curled tightly around him until their white Jeep drove up the hill. They never drank the coffee.

We lived for the next few weeks determined to look forward, yet not sure how that was to be done. Shaun kept clearing the meadows and using the rocks to fill holes in the road.

I made periodic trips into town to call my daughters and parents. I wrote to my son, who was not ready to have contact with me. I e-mailed a friend who was building a facility for retreats near my former home. Would she be interested in having caretakers for the winter?

Shaun and I talked about how not knowing where we were going to live was strange and scary. Mostly, though, we were calm. I realized that life is uncertain even when we think it is certain. Certainty is an illusion. As I have been told, the only certainty is change.

Part of our business during our first weeks together involved getting the Jeep fixed. I drove her to a shop owned by Dick, a mechanic who had worked on the transmission repeatedly over a six-month period. I had paid him a lot of money already. He agreed to look at the problem for free and to take me back to the cabin. He used the Jeep for the trip, to see how it was running. We took a back road. The mechanic, a big man, sat in the driver's seat in his faded bib overalls, belly bulging. I sat in the passenger seat in my faded denim jumper with embroidered edges.

"If someone would be willing to sit on the edge and wiggle some wires while I'm driving, I could probably figure out what's wrong. It's not the transmission. That is in right this time. It's something connected to the transmission."

I countered, "If your son were here, how would he sit on the front? I want this car fixed so badly, I will do almost anything. Would the hood be open?"

"Yes," Dick said.

"Let me try it. Show me where to sit."

I perched myself on the side next to the battery. Dick watched as I hoisted myself up. He warned me that the battery was hot, and showed me what wires to wiggle.

I had one hand on the wires and another hanging on for dear life to the open hood. I sat in a ladylike position with my long jumper pulled over my legs and my sandaled feet hanging down. Heat came from various parts under the hood. I was careful, practicing being in the now. Dick drove down the road. He was looking out the side window because the hood would have obstructed his ability to see the road ahead.

When I got back into the passenger seat, I said that if someone had seen us, they would have laughed their heads off. Fortunately not a car or truck had passed us. I declared that if the scene had been videotaped, we would have won prize money from Americas Funniest Home Videos.