Marshal's Law

MARSHAL'S LAW #2: SILENCE IS SOMETIMES THE BEST ANSWER

Marshal’s Law #2:  REMEMBER THAT SILENCE IS SOMETIMES THE BEST ANSWER

Morning: The sun finally reached through the stable door to touch Marshal as he worked.  Knocking his cap back, he wiped his brow with his relatively unsullied forearm and looked towards the house.  As expected, Monica walked his way in her robe and oversized rubber boots- his morning coffee balanced beside hers in her delicate hands. 

The kids must already be off to school.

The old hound dog stretched out of its curled sleep with a groan and worked the kinks out of its joints before it lumbered out to greet her, that whip of a tail thumping steadily.

Marshal smiled and returned to the now clean stall to throw fresh hay over the floor.  If you’d ask him to name the tune he whistled, he couldn’t have answered you.  He was unaware that he did it.

Two years ago he’d come to this farm, not really knowing what he was looking for.  Life had betrayed him.  He’d done what he was supposed to do- everything from college to career to marriage to children.  They had mislead, sold-out, abandoned and despised him, each one in turn.  He faced the fifth decade of his life with well-earned bitterness.

Unemployed and bach-ing it with his youngest son, he’d been searching for a foothold in a life that should’ve come easy when he’d seen the farm advertised in the newspaper’s classified section.  There’d been nothing else to do.  None of his job leads were turning up anything.  So he went.

When he stood on the hill behind the house and overlooked what was less than a dozen acres of mostly pasture, he had himself a moment.  He could see what it could be.  He could see himself turning possibility into reality.  He’d known right off that it wasn’t going to be a lush life.  But, he wondered, if he got back to the rural roots that he’d run from, might he find a bit of peace?

He moved into the soft widow’s basement apartment that very weekend.

“Morning, Marshal,” she called at the door.  With the sun behind her, she was hardly more than a shapely silhouette.  In her hands, two mugs breathed a fragrant steam and, under her arm, the newspaper. 

“Well, now, you didn’t have to go and bring me anything,” Marshal said, taking the gift.   

Monica laughed lightly. “So you tell me every morning.  Maybe I just want to come and visit your horses,” she said and deposited both her coffee and her newspaper on a nearby table.

Marshal took an appreciative sip and sighed his contentment.  Leaning against the wall, he waited for the rest of the ritual.  Monica didn’t disappoint.  She jumped to lean over the stall door until her feet lifted off the ground, shedding the oversized boots.  Her shapely legs kicked under a luscious moon and Marshal smiled, enjoying himself.  Oblivious, Monica reached into the stall, coaxing the horse inside to meet her hand.

“That one’s headin’ back home next week,” Marshal said, a warning in his voice and his eyes glued to his daily dose of beautiful.

Monica sighed. “I know.  You always warn me not to get too attached.”

“Nah,” Marshal rumbled into his mug. “Good for them.  Some of those horses, not hardly more’n pasture pets.  Hadn’t had the attention they’re needing.”

Still perched on the door, Monica smiled back at him from over her shoulder.  Happy years had left their mark around her eyes.  Then, with a bit of a shove, she landed back on her feet.  “Business doing okay?” She asked lightly, fishing her delicate foot back into her late husband’s oversized rubber boots.  Her eyes didn’t stray from the lone shoe, the task taking an inordinate amount of concentration.