Hirv, Alfred. Natüürmort puuviljade ja lastu (Still Life with Fruit and Game). Art Museum of Estonia.

 

The Companion

by George Cole

 

When I was strolling around in the field today I came across some ticks. I had cut through the field rather urgently because the trail no longer suited me. I had cut through the field because, about a quarter of a mile away (on the mowed section), I spied Maggie coming in my direction out of the oak and ash forest with her new big dog. The field really had to be mowed, but the farmer who helps maintain it was sick— or his wife was sick. The hay had flattened in places, and soon the whole field would be lying down under its own weight. It smelled dry and I knew it would give me red spots on my palms when I touched it.

About halfway through the field I came across the ticks. I’m not entirely sure when I stepped in them. I looked down and saw a mess of them in different sizes climbing up my shoes and socks. I had tucked my pants into my socks the way my mother taught me. Once I saw them, both of my feet lifted from the grass. I’m sure Maggie could see my red hat for just a moment. I ran straight through to the other side and kicked off my socks and shoes. I brushed and picked and scraped every tick I saw off of them. The little seeds had wedged themselves in the holes where my shoelace goes through and in the loops of the heel of my boot— anywhere dark. It took me about 15 minutes to get those ticks out with my red spotted hands on the other side of the field from Maggie.

Seed

Yesterday, I found a tick on my arm. It was a dog tick and female. It had gotten itself in the pit of my elbow and made camp under my sweater. It had burrowed its head into my biggest bluest vein, right where a nurse may try and take my blood. Its head was submerged in my skin all the way up to the white band around its neck. I scampered into the bathroom and grabbed a pair of tweezers. I tucked the tweezers underneath its little legs and began to pull. The tick squirmed. I leaned my head in and could hear its disappointment. I pulled harder. The phone rang. I was expecting the call.

“I’ll let you hang on for right now; this call is pertinent,” I whispered to the tick. I wished I could feel the tick smile in my vein. I knew it was grateful. 

It was a dog tick after all, so it can’t harden my bones or make me allergic to four-legged land-mammals. I figured there was no harm in letting the tick enjoy another meal before sending it spiraling down my drain.

I was on the phone for some time—three to five hours. I hadn’t talked to the bank in weeks. Each time they call, I feel like I am just meeting them for the first time. I have to tell them all about myself. They never seem to understand that some of it is really none of their business—it’s personal. Once I was off the phone I went to  sleep. It was the type of tiredness that can only be achieved by a long and explanatory phone call. I didn’t even make the choice to skip dinner. It just happened—not that I had dinner ready, anyways.

Black Currant

About a week passed until I took my thorough shower: the one where I scrub every inch of my body until I am deep crimson and can hold the heat of the water within myself. I went through every bit of me, starting at my toenails and working my way up. When I finally got to my arm I came across my tick again. It had grown. Its little legs were beginning to get covered by its own swollen back. I sat down in the shower and held my arm away from the water and glared at it. At first I was ready to rip the tick away. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten about it for so long. It had taken so much from me. I wiggled it around with my finger and looked closer. The tick looked peaceful there and suddenly I felt sorry that I had been keeping it submerged for so long. I held my pinky against its back and could feel the tick purr—not so much like a cat but like a person. It dawned on me that this was the first time I had showered with someone else since Maggie. I finished up and stepped out of the shower—chapped— except my arm, which I left untouched. I didn’t think the tick would make it through the scrubbing. I looked in the mirror and saw my one arm looking tan and old compared to the new skin I exposed everywhere else. It was as if I was a doll that had just been repaired from a mismatched set. 

Maggie used to insist that we showered together. She would say that I needed to get completely and totally clean and she couldn’t trust me to do it myself. I loved that. She’d get out concentrated soaps and cover me until I was white all over. She’d scrub the folds of my ears and between my toes. It was so gentle. We’d stay in the shower and talk about our plans for that day. If it was the weekend, we could sit around in the tub for hours with the water pouring between us. We’d get clean and then lather again. I’d end up so soaked that my hair would feel wet and heavy for a whole day afterward. She would look me up and down and check for any bits of grime or sweat or anything else she could have missed. When she was done she’d say “There,” and pat me on the chest. We’d step out of the shower pink like newborns and completely water logged. We’d sink lower in the bed together than usual and sleep all day in clean sheets. 

On weekdays she’d set an early alarm just so we could shower longer and she could make sure I wasn’t dirty in any place. Then, she’d head off for work, leaving me heavy in the house waiting around for her to come back. 

I looked at the tick up close in the mirror. I told her, “I’ll keep you around.” Which is something I used to say to Maggie, as a joke—as if she could be discarded so easily. I think the tick liked that. She didn’t have to know it was my old line. It was new to her.

Blueberry

I bumped into Carter in the fruit section of the market today. I hadn’t seen him for  around a month or so. He had grown a beard. It was long enough that you could see flecks of red in the brown. That was something I imagine he was very proud of, and I was certainly jealous. I’ve never had the courage to keep a beard. We came across each other near the berries like two cargo ships passing with our carts. Even though we were next to each other, we had to lean in a bit to hear over the roar of the open air refrigerators around us.

“What are you doing in a long-sleeved shirt when it’s 95 degrees out?” He laughed and asked at once.

“I’ve been lazy on laundry and I’ll be inside most of the day,” I lied.

“I’d sooner go shirtless than wear a long shirt this time of year,” He laughed again at his own comment. I smiled. “Anyway I haven’t seen you out on the trails in a while.” 

“Oh well–” I started an excuse but he interjected.

“It’s not because of Maggie is it? She had to stop too because she found her dog covered in ticks beneath his fur. His joints tensed up one day and I guess the collar and the pills and the special shampoo weren’t enough. She’s had to take a break to take care of the thing.” 

“Well no—” I said.

“Those ticks are a real problem this year,” he leaned in close to me. “You know, Susan and I are raising a few dozen guinea fowl in our backyard away from the road. Once they get a bit bigger we’ll  release them into the fields by the trails. The town isn’t doing enough to handle these things, especially now that the Farmer’s wife is sick. Maggie and her dog certainly don’t deserve this pain.” He was almost whispering now. “We know they aren’t native but I think it’s for the best.” He said this to me as though he was defending hitting his own child. “I hear those birds will eat fifty ticks a day. I may even hunt some fox out of season to keep them safe.” I nervously felt up my arm and bumped up against my tick. I could feel my own fast heartbeat through her. She was threatened and hot to the touch. Carter looked at me. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked. I felt the heat from the tick fill me up to the ears.

“I’m great, fine, really. Carter, if you’re worried about being too hot you should really cut that beard. It looks a little bit filthy up close.” I said.

“Well, I hope you’re all right,” he repeated. 

“I’m great. I just told you.” 

“If you say so.” He paused. “Anyway, I’ve got to go and pick up Susan, she’s got her car in the shop.” 

I looked at him. He was still leaned in close. I felt the tick wiggling and her heat coursed back again from her belly into my skull—hot and angry. I thought for a moment that I should just bite him, right at the top of his cheek. I could sink my teeth in there and it would hurt him. He might have even cried.

“Okay,” I said, and we continued along the fruit aisle.

Grape

I woke up and my arm felt heavy. I looked over and examined the tick in my arm. She was larger. I stayed in bed for about an hour with the tick. I felt as if I had sunk into the mattress a year ago. Both the tick and I were most comfortable in the covers and I then understood that this tick would never get tired of me. She was special and could stay with me forever as long as I took care of her.

I remembered the first time Maggie and I ate roast chicken in silence. We had roast chicken every Tuesday. That Monday, I had called her barren after she held a long overdue roofing bill about two inches from my face when I was drinking coffee. I’d also tossed the coffee, then the mug against the tile floor. 

She had been at the salon one town over for about six hours. She looked beautiful when she came home. She was the only woman in town who dyed her hair. I thought I was the only man in town who liked that. She walked into the kitchen, barred the door and started dinner at about four o’clock. 

She cooked perfectly that day. The chicken was usually dry. This time she had been exact with the timing. The potatoes were crisp and tightened in your throat when you ate them. The chicken had good skin; it was seasoned and moist. It occurred to me that this might have been the first time she measured out spices. The onions had burnt edges but melted away beneath the chicken. The house smelled warm and covered in thyme. The whole event took about forty-five minutes longer than usual. I sat in the living room chair that needed to be reupholstered last year and listened to her cook. 

She served us both and finished before I got half way through mine. She put her fork sideways on her plate, looked me in the eyes and said,“I’m tired.” 

“Do you want to head to bed early and I can handle this all?” I asked, and gestured towards the kitchen. 

“I think so,” she said, and got up. She went upstairs and grabbed a packed bag and then drove away for three weeks. 

When she came back, she watched me do the dishes from three Tuesdays ago, washed me, and left again. I don’t think I saw her eyes. After she drove away, I called a friend and told them I thought she was seeing someone else. By dinnertime that day it may as well have been printed in the town paper. 

Apple 

I wore my puffy jacket in the market today. The tick bulged under anything else. I held my arm in a sling and shopped with my head down and my ears hot. The tick had become a part of my life. I filled my cart with items from the frozen and canned aisles and left quickly. I’m not entirely sure that I paid. 

I reached my car and sat in its warmth for some time. I saw Carter and Susan walk in from the parking lot. I hoped that most of the town would walk out in protest of them and their Guinea Fowl when they walked in. No one stepped out. I remembered when a close friend and I discussed on the phone that Maggie was completely and totally out of line for moving into the house in the same neighborhood as Carter and Susan, where the yards blended into the trail that I liked to walk along—and that she had bought a large happy dog, and that she was happy now (or at least said so). 

I wondered if Carter and Susan would approve of my new companion—or if they would speak through laughter and pity if they saw it. Maybe they’d come up to me as if I was pregnant with a newborn. They’d be proud and rub my tick. They’d ask how far along and I’d say three months exactly! They’d say I bet she’ll have your eyes. They may even feel a bit envious of me and speak about my tick as if they could never manage such a thing. I’m sure I’d see the wonder in their eyes. They don’t know how lovely this tick is to me. She can surely do things for us that Maggie couldn’t. I drove away thinking how good I have it now. 

Honeydew 

One morning I woke up and I saw that my tick had laid about seventy beautiful wet eggs along my bicep. They looked like little blackberry seeds lined up along my skin. I grinned and leapt out of bed and made the last of my canned breakfasts. Today, I had to go to the market. I hoped I would run into Carter there and show him what I’d done—that we had kids on the way. He might even shake my hand. 

I flew to the market that day. I had my right arm under a seatbelt now to protect the cargo —the next generation. The car would yell at me now if I didn’t strap her in. She weighed enough to register in the seat. 

I carried my tick around in one of the complementary forest green baskets, proud, with short sleeves. 

I was turning heads down every aisle as I loaded up on health foods. I wouldn’t be buying anything else for my new kids. I turned the corner of the bread aisle and there, with dark-dark hair, was Maggie. My arm was heavy. The tick was stretching my skin with its head as it sat there in my basket. It was trying to get deeper into my arm. She stopped and looked at me. I had lost some considerable weight. I’m sure she noticed. 

“I thought you were out of town,” she said. 

“No, I’ve just been so busy here. I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’m very happy now.” I gestured into my basket, where I held, like a cradle almost: my tick. Maggie  dropped her baguette on the linoleum floor. “She’s just laid some eggs last night,” I said, holding the basket close to her so she could see inside. The tick was massive and gray and the little trichomes on its back were as thick as my thumb now. Maggie  was so jealous, I am sure of it, that I could have had this success so quickly. She stepped back for a moment and furrowed. Then she stepped up to me and tried to grab the tick and rip her off of my arm. She was so jealous that she tried to take her from me. I really think she was acting like a complete lunatic. We wrestled there for a minute before I shoved her back and she fell into the shelves. She screamed when she landed. She started wailing and thrashing and throwing loaves of sliced bread at me and the tick, who I shielded. Her face clouded to purple and people rushed to her side. I looked down at her and said, “You’re ruining everything.” Then I walked out of the side exit. 

I sprinted into the lot, dove into my car with the basket and drove away. I got onto dirt roads and drove until it was dark. I couldn’t stop thinking of the guinea fowl with their speckled feathers and Carter with his filthy beard. They were going to come for me after that scene in the bread aisle. They’d already taken sides. They were going to come for her—my tick. They’d get their guinea fowl on leashes and hunt us down like fugitives. The birds would keep their beaks low to the ground and pull against their leashes like bloodhounds. They’d peck out our eyes and go after our children. They’d find us soon, I knew it. 

I needed to strike first. I drove up to Carter and Susan’s house and parked across the street. Their lights were off. My arm was heavy so I got down on all fours and crawled into their back yard, away from the road. I pulled myself into the chicken wired section where they kept the birds. I looked one in the eye, grabbed it by the head and wrung it out. Then I killed another. They stood there patiently and may as well have lined up for me to crawl up to them and twist their lives away. I had gotten through about twenty of the birds when a light came on in Carter and Susan’s. The light exposed the tick and her babies and the fowl went into a blood lust. I wailed and protected my babies. I was being held down by the birds when I heard Carter run out, cock a gun, and yell “a fox must’ve gotten in.” I screamed. The shot echoed in the yard and the bullet ripped through the tick and burst it. 

Inundated 

I laid there cold and wet—covered in her. The blood washed away the babies and the birds were pecking away at them on the ground. Carter started walking down off of his back porch and I scrambled out of the coop and into the woods behind their house. Carter rang off a few more shots and bawled when he saw over half of his fowl lifeless in the coop. 

I crawled through the oak and ash forest and into the center of the field. I laid there wet and cold and begged for new ticks to come and that I could provide for them. I looked at my arm in the moonlight. It was shriveled and gray. I was tired. I rested there, and died. 

Hay Field 

Maggie’s dog found me a few weeks later. He escaped from her backdoor and he ran right into the middle of the field and began sniffing me. She sprinted after him and found me there. 

She looked down at me for a while. Then she went back into her house and returned carrying two buckets of soapy warm water. She washed me there in the hayfield almost as if to prepare me for embalmment. I don’t think I had ever felt her treat me with such care. When she was finished, she scanned me, looking for dirty parts, and knelt down, put her hand on my chest and kissed me on the forehead. I was clean. She left. Soon, the hay grew through me and I sunk deeper into the ground. 

 

 

George Cole is a short story writer who lives in Boston, Ma. His work has previously appeared in Half and One magazine. He holds an MFA in fiction from Columbia University. He teaches composition at North Shore Community College in Lynn, Ma.