The Stone Fence

It was not clear what the fence had once been. It was a pile of
different types of stones, piled four feet high extending from the
drainage ditch alongside the road to the horizon, separating two fields
of rye.

"What is that for?" Rachel asked, drawing up to a stop alongside the
dirt road.

Speachfeater stopped next to her. He leaned and bumped his shoulder
into her intentionally to touch her. He spit out a sunflower seed shell
as he examined the fence. "The old stone fence."

He dropped down into the ditch and used the momentum from the drop to
carry him half the way up the far bank. He laboriously climbed the rest
of the way, using his arms to pedal his thighs. "I guess we've got to
go sit on it, now."

"Sit on it?" She checked both directions up the deserted road.

"Yeah," he called back. "Sit on it and kick our feet."

"Sit on it and kick our feet?" She asked herself, stepping carefully
into the steep, wide Vermont farm country ditch. She used her hands to
steady herself, testing the grip of her hiking boots.

That autumn afternoon was biting cold and she was wearing threadbare
and patched jeans and a thin, flower pattern blouse beneath her bright
red Antarctic research parka with the fur-lined hood pushed back behind
her. She laughed, slipping as she nearly reached the top of the far
side of the ditch.

"Get up here," he prompted. Walking along the fence, he sought out two
flat stones at the top near to one another where they could sit.

"What in hell are you doing?" She laughed, gasping from the effort of
mounting the ditch.

"Ah, ha!" He shouted, jogging a few steps to reach an area in the fence
where two flat rocks formed a small bench on top of the fence. Without
using his hands, he leapt into the air, twisted and landed on his ass
on the stone fence. His feet flew up and he laughed, heartily. He gave
the rock next to him a solid pat. "C'mon, baby, I got you one all
picked out here."

Rachel shook her head, stuffing her hands into the pockets of the
parka. "This better be worth it, I nearly died down there."

He watched her walking towards him. She looked wonderful. She was
ignoring him and looking across the rye field to the west, and the sun
was on the right side of her face and highlighting her black hair. Her
deep, Palestinian brown eyes shown with the tears that the wind had
driven and she looked wonderful, like a figure out of the Bible in a
borrowed red spacesuit jacket.

She stepped up to him and hugged him around the waist, standing between
his knees. She tried to steal some of his body heat. "I nearly died and
I'm cold."

He hugged her, too, rubbing a hand across the canvass back of the heavy
parka to feel her shoulder blades deep beneath it. He gathered up the
hair that had fanned out over the jacket and collected it into the
hood.

Finally, she stepped back and placed her hands on his knees. "All
right, now. How do I do this?"

He patiently indicated the rock next to him. "Find you some footing
down there and climb up here."

She checked around the stone fence with her hiking boot to find a
foothold. Holding onto his arm, she shrieked and pulled herself up.
Dropping heavily onto the rock next to him, laughing.

"Well," he laughed. "There's no points for the mount or dismount. It's
all in the kicking."

"Kicking?"

"That's right," he said. "Like this."

Placing his hands in the pockets of his Mackinaw jacket he began to
look around the rye field, scanning the horizon. As he did, spit out a
sunflower seed shell between his knees and then slowly, ever so slowly,
he began to kick the stones with the heels of his boots. First one, and
then the other.

She watched him. "Oh," she said,amazed. "That's pretty good. Both of
them?"

"Oh yes," he insisted.

Rachel nodded, replacing her hands in her jacket pockets and slowly
beginning to tap her boot heels against the stones. "Oh, this is nice.
Yes."

The autumn sun was two thirds of the way down and the rye field was
golden yellow. They could smell the rye and the mold and the good soil
and the apple smoke from a chimney somewhere they could not see.

"So, is this a big pastime in America?" She asked.

"What, are you kidding?" He said. "The only reason they won't put it in
the Olympics is because the U.S. would dominate the entire
sport."

She shook her head in amazement. "I don't know about that. It's very
intuitive."

"Naw," he shrugged. "You might have it in your blood, is all. It's not
this easy for most folks to pick up."

"Maybe that's it." She showed him her bright, wonderful smile.

"It was as Wild Bill Hickock's favorite drink, you know?"

"What was?"

"A Stone Fence."

"No. Really. What's in a Stone Fence?"

He thought about it. "It was a shot of rye whiskey in a glass of apple
cider with a twist of lemon. A Stone Fence."

She thought about that. "Are they any good?"

"I guess." He shrugged with his hands still in his jacket pockets. "We
should make some tonight."

"I don't drink," she told him.

"Really?" He looked at her with surprise. "Never?"

"Never." She squinted into the wind to look across the fields as they
moved like ebbing and flowing amber waves. When he did not say anything
she looked over and asked, "Is that okay?"

"I always kind of thought you might not, after we finally met." He
leaned over and bumped into her lightly.

"What is that supposed to mean?" She asked. "How long have you been
waiting for me?"

"Oh, there's been some times that I thought you might not come. Other
times I got distracted with other stuff," he said. "Other than that,
I've been waiting for you my whole life."

She studied his face to try and tell if he was serious or not, then she
smiled and looked down to concentrate entirely on the heels of her
boots on the stone fence.