Gray
It’d been a few days now since Betty entered my world. I watched her read in the armchair from where I stood in the kitchen, pouring yeast into a bowl with water, flour and salt to make a loaf of bread.
She needed me sometimes, and I craved those moments, though they were rare. I won’t lie, I assumed she’d need me more, especially out here, but she’d made it her mission to refuse my help and instead fight to figure everything out on her own. She was an efficient and smart woman. Underestimating her was futile.
She no longer let me make her coffee, taking control of it before I even got the chance to try. She’d made it her unassigned duty to visit the greenhouse often, selecting vegetables and feeding the fish. While she was at it, she’d even organized the entire space, moved things around and made it her own. There were new labels appearing on shelf bins in her handwriting, and the tanks were clean of every last speck of bad algae. I’d never seen the water look so fresh and clear.
In the evenings, I caught her reading my books on aquaponics, marking pages with ripped pieces of paper and making a list of new tasks.As long as those books were on the shelf, she’d never bother to ask me a single thing.
It was clear she was still mad, telling me this with each unapproved action she took. I’d forgotten how women communicate. It was often a puzzle of backhanded actions, accentuated with long bouts of silence.
I couldn’t hate her for it. In fact, it’s part of what I liked about her. She was confident and knew what she wanted and how she liked things. She didn’t wait for permission when there were things to be done. No part of her sat idle, and she was hungry to learn. This was an important quality to possess out here. Problem-solving was a major part of survival.
So, it’s not like there was something I wanted to change about her. I just wish she didn’t hate me. Patience was the only thing that would work on her. I’d wait until an opening arose and she let her guard down, then I could make my move.
And, honestly? I wasn’t the most organized person, so her anger-fueled organizing spree wasn’t such a bad thing. I generally knew where everything was in my unique system of disaster, but she seemed to think I’d brought her along for the sole reason of tidying up my life. As long as she kept busy, it was fine; she could have at it all she wanted. If that’s what she needed to feel better, then good.
Betty turned a page in her book. I pushed the bread dough down, kneading it against the counter until it was smooth before placing it back in the bowl to rise near the warm fire.
While she’d been spending her time in the greenhouse, I’d spent my time in the shed searching for parts. I had a plan in mind, something I hoped would please her and bring her attitude back around.
“I’m going out to the shed,” I announced, cutting the silence.
She glanced at me over the back of the armchair and nodded dismissively. She’d barely spoken a word today, hardly a paragraph since our conversation about the FBI and family. Almost daily I reassured her that the family was safe, but I could tell she still didn’t believe me.
I felt so much for her, but my possessiveness ruined it, just like it ruined everything else. I’d never regret stealing her away, though. Even if she never stopped hating me, saving her from my family was the right choice—theonlychoice.
I pulled on my boots, not bothering with a jacket. The weather was balmier this week, but it was a trick and we were still in for a few shifting cold snaps. Spring was unpredictable out here, warm one day and snow the next.Storm season was upon us.
I slid open the shed doors, catching Larry scurrying across the floor to escape the sunlight. He had a nest in here somewhere; I was sure of it. With all the junk piled up and spilling from the shelves, it was prime nesting ground. There were rat nests in here too. I’d seen signs of it. Maybe he’d clear them out. Better a pine marten make a home here than rodents.
The shed was the size of a three-car garage, haphazardly expanded over time with scraps of metal siding I’d hauled up when I first got the homestead started. There was an old wood stove toward the back. I used it to warm the space when the coldest months crept in, making a cozy place to get work done.
Before the cabin, this was my only refuge. The first year out here was brutal, with endless snowstorms and record-breaking cold. I remember wondering if the universe was against me, punishing me for escaping the destiny that befell my sisters, mother, and father. The survivor’s guilt was crushing.
I deserved to suffer for failing to save them, and suffer I did.
I moved a few dusty bins aside, rolling the spare oval stock tub down and away from the wall. It was a leftover from the greenhouse build, an extra in case one tank ever leaked and needed replacing. It rolled down with a clatter, then I dragged it across the cement floor and closer to the wood stove.
I found a coil of copper piping next. With a drill and a hole saw, I cut two holes in the tank’s side, feeding one end of the copper tubing in before wrapping and spiraling it around the chimney pipe of the wood fire stove several times and feeding it back to the tub and through the second hole.
With my welding torch, I pulled my hood on and got to work, attaching the pipes to the stock tank and sealing them up. I couldn’t believe how simple this project was; I should have done this ages ago. The real challenge was filling the tank with water. There wasn’t plumbing in the shed.
The hope was to reroute the water from the ram pump I’d built down by the river. That pump, powered by gravity and valves, slowly pushed water uphill. Fortunately, the shed was slightly lower than both the greenhouse and the cabin. I was hoping a simple hose connection would work, saving me the trouble of burying a pipe the entire distance. Out here, the pipe would need to be buried four feet deep to avoid freezing, and I wasn’t keen on digging a trench in the already hard, cold ground.
I collected the PVC pipe fitting and valves, glue, pipe cutter and the equipment I’d need for the modification before heading up the hill to the ram pump. I spotted Betty through the front window of the cabin, still sitting in the armchair reading.
She glanced up as I passed, expressionless.
I waved and winked at her, catching a returned visual trifecta of insults—an eye roll, a head shake, and a middle finger—before she looked back down at her book.
After about an hour of installing the diverter, pipe, and valve, it was finally time for a break. I knocked the mud from my boots on the porch, then kicked them off and went inside. My first impulse was to check the fire, but as I approached the stove, I saw it already stoked.
I raised an eyebrow, glancing at Betty. I didn’t expect her to know anything about wood stoves, but she’d watched me tend it for days now. She must have figured it out. An ember of pride bloomed in my chest.
Abandoning that duty, I checked the bread dough, shaping it and letting it rise a final time while I made myself another cup of coffee.
Betty sighed and stood.“What are you doing out there?”
