The Milkmaid Pt. 02

Something about the way she said it melted at least a couple of the icicles I was harboring in my heart toward her. The words that slipped out of my mouth weren't what I was planning to say, though.

"Your driver's license said you have blonde hair and weigh 120 pounds..."

Her earlier stare intensified before she burst out laughing. "Is that what's been bothering you? Christ! Guys all think in terms of their stupid 10-point rating system and with their dick. Okay, maybe it's closer to brown now, but I used to highlight it. And, yeah, I've put on a few pounds but it's mostly right here."

She zipped the coverall down and opened it up to show her chest, covered by one of my mom's old flannel shirts. She cupped her breasts from the bottom, pushing up and making the shirt look full to bursting even though I knew she wasn't more than a C-cup. I couldn't help but smile.

She frowned at me before giving a perturbed shake of her head. I thought she was on the verge of laughing when she said, "You asshole! Like I said, you're thinking with your dick. Of course, in your case, it is a really good dick..."

I could see she was grinning as she started putting on the milker. The first cup made a loud "PBBBBTTT!" sound before it seated, leading her to jump a little as she tried to fix it and the cow to shift nervously. Jessi focused and did better on the next three, calming the cow, before she zipped her coverall and turned back to me.

Knowing that I'd convicted her in my head based on considerable, though admittedly, circumstantial, evidence, I stepped up to her and took her hands in my own.

"Jessi, please talk to me. Tell me what's going on. I know you're in trouble, and I want to help if I can."

She looked directly into my eyes and slowly nodded, accepting what I was saying, but when she replied, it wasn't what I'd hoped to hear.

"No, Nick, I can't tell you, no matter how much I want to." She leaned into me, leading me to put my arms around her despite myself. "I want to tell you so bad, but if I do...well, there are bad people out there and they find out...they'll kill me and then they'll kill you. Or, even worse, force me to watch while they torture and kill you and then make me live with that...Nick, I couldn't do it; I couldn't live with that on my conscience."

"But we could get help. We could call the—"

"Don't you get it? There's no one who can help! They have the guns and the police in their pockets. Just drop it, okay. The main repairs on my Bronco will be fixed soon, and when it is, I'm leaving. I can't wait for the rest of the bodywork and the paint; I'll get it done somewhere else, sometime later, where you won't be in danger."

Her cheeks were wet with tears when she looked up at me for just a second before pushing me away. "We have cows to milk."

***

What she said nagged at me all evening. With Dad still on his date with Mrs. Nelson, we had dinner by ourselves, with barely a word being spoken between us; the TV played in the background but all I could do was think about Jessi. Maybe she was telling the truth, or at least, what part she could. Maybe she really was running from the problem instead of being part of it. However, whether she was part of it or fleeing from it, what she'd said convinced me the dangerous world of Detectives Crockett and Tubbs had come, without the corresponding stylishness, to my little corner of the world even though those make-believe officers were nowhere around to solve the mess.

When the dishes were done, she took my hand and led me to the couch. I sat down and she slumped in next to me, snuggling up tight. I flopped my arm around her but didn't do anything else to comfort her. After a few minutes and seeing that I wasn't going to do more, she got up and went upstairs to her room without saying a word.

I followed sometime later, intensely frustrated. I couldn't get Jessi, the state of whatever it was between us, and my own fears and weaknesses off my mind. Jessi had told me that "they" would kill me, but that might mean Dad, too, if they felt he might know something. This led to a bigger issue: it didn't matter what Jessi told me, it only mattered what those evil people, whoever they were, that she was dealing with might think.

Digging into the secret bottom of my drawer in the closet, I removed Jessi's revolver and my 1911, placing both in a bag. Quietly as I could, I slipped out of my room, down the hall, and downstairs to the basement.

The mat went down on the worktable and I pulled out Jessi's revolver. In the light, I saw that it was a Smith & Wesson Model 12, a .38 Special, with a 2-inch barrel. It looked like it had seen a lot of use over the years, and that it hadn't been cleaned since it was new, probably back in the 50s or 60s. I'd unloaded it before putting it in my hidden drawer, but now I wanted to be sure it worked in case I needed it. I'd fired a somewhat similar one a number of times before at our local gun range, so I pressed the release and popped the cylinder to make sure it was still empty before cleaning it thoroughly.

When done, I ran through what I remembered of the so-called manual of arms (though I'd never seen the actual manual for it), dry firing it a few times to see how it felt. Pleased with what I found, I reloaded the six cartridges I'd removed the night before and set it to the side.

With the S&W done, I felt better, but without actually hearing it go BANG, I still had a bit of doubt about it, so I moved to item 2, my grandfather's Remington Rand M1911A1 that he'd picked up in the field and carried across part of France, Belgium, and Germany. He hadn't liked talking about the war, but I remembered his answer to one question that he did answer.

"Nick, sometimes it's kill or be killed. A guy doesn't like it when it comes to that, but he's either a quick learner then or he's dead. My best advice is don't ever let yourself get in that situation, son...but if you do, be a very quick learner."

Using the procedures Grandpa had painstakingly taught me, I field stripped the 1911, cleaned and re-oiled it, and then reassembled it. Four mags were wiped down, following which, I loaded them with .45 ACP ball cartridges.

Next, I made a trip upstairs and brought back most of the rest of our little arsenal. Dad kept his Remington Model 870 12-gauge shotgun and Grandpa's Springfield M1 Garand in the corner of his closet. The Garand wasn't the one my grandfather actually carried; he'd bought a surplus one some years after the war and had used it for deer hunting. While I always enjoyed shooting it, it was too heavy for hunting for my taste. This could be the same issue I thought, so I left it and went to my closet to get my deer rifle, a Marlin 336 in .30-30. I figured it could use a cleaning, too.

Downstairs I went with the shotgun and the 336 in hand.

Just in case...

***

Chapter 3

Dad's date must have gone extremely well. He got home from Mrs. Nelson's at 4 AM on Sunday. With my bedroom facing the rear, I heard his truck, the sounds of the engine and the tires on the gravel in the rear drive as he pulled into the big parking area between the small backyard behind the house and the equipment shed in the rear on the other side. While I knew that no one would ever take my mom's place in my heart, I smiled and hoped that Mrs. Nelson (or someone) would take her place in Dad's bed. He needed that and a new chance for love. I rolled over as I heard him come in the back door. I awoke, refreshed, when my alarm went off at 5:30 AM.

Sunday was basically a repeat of Saturday, with Jessi and me having a wordless truce between us except when I cleaned and rebandaged the wound on her arm. She showed her appreciation with her eyes and a tiny smile, but my lack of trust was showing, even as I felt the electricity between us when her right hand ran so lightly over my own. I wanted so much to take her in my arms and hold her, but the possibility of her stabbing me in the back while I was doing it put a damper on the idea.

After milking and chores were complete on Monday morning, Dad took off while Jessi and I sat at the kitchen table again with her arm propped up and the first aid supplies gathered around us.

"You probably ought to go have Doctor Gantz take a look at this," I told her. It looks like it's making good progress, but I really don't want to leave you with a big scar."

She looked at it and shook her head. "You're doing great. If there is a scar, I won't be too bad, and it will be something to remember you by."

"So you still plan to leave. Great."

It had slipped out without me consciously thinking the words. Did I care for her, somewhere, deep down, more than I thought?

She took my hand and that feeling I'd felt the day before now felt a hundred times stronger. Yes, I wanted so badly to kiss her, to pull her into my arms and never let go, but what she said in reply put an abrupt stop to everything.

"I have to go, Nick, or we'll both be looking over our shoulder forever."

The chair fell backward with a loud clatter on the floor as I shot up and stomped out.

***

It was a depressing walk in the woods along the creek, remembering such trips in years past with my dad, my late mother, and my late grandfather. I breathed the cool, crisp air as I walked along the bank, skipping a few rocks along the way instead of hunting deer as I'd originally hoped for the week. I couldn't get Jessi out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried. I found myself liking her, but I couldn't allow myself to trust her. That combination didn't bode well for any type of lasting relationship. Thinking of Jessi so much really bothered me; that I was thinking in terms of something long-term with her bothered me even more. If there was ever to be anything long-term with her, I had to have proof that she wasn't involved in drugs or anything else illegal. But, I reminded myself, based on what little she'd told me, what else could it be?

It was a long, slow, thought-provoking walk back to the house.

Dad knocked on the door to my room a little later. "Nick, we need to go get Jessi's Bronco. Are you coming, or are you going to stay in here pouting?"

"Sorry, Dad. There's...ah...there's just a lot going on with Jessi and me right now...and I...ahem...I don't know what to do."

Dad nodded. "Yeah, just got the same basic comment from Jessi, without all the hemming and hawing, of course, so I'll tell you the same thing I told her. It will work out for the best if you let it. Now, get ready and let's go."

We spent the next couple of hours righting Jessi's Bronco with the boom on our International Harvester 1066 tractor, pulling it to the edge of the field, and prying the fender off that tire. Fortunately, the tire wasn't punctured, so using a chain from the drawbar of the tractor to the frame of the Bronco, I towed it to Hadley's with Jessi steering the Bronco and Dad riding in the truck behind us.

Joe Hadley wanted a payment up front, so Dad pulled out his checkbook, but Jessi shook her head. "No, Mr. Buice. I have this." She pulled out a stack of $50 bills and calmly started counting out twenty. "Mr. Hadley, here's $1,000. Receipt, please?"

Mr. Hadley and Dad looked surprised at that amount of cash in her hand, but maybe my calm acceptance gave too much away. Dad and Jessi went home afterward and I followed, but even in road gear on the big 1066, they beat me by several minutes. Dad had gone in the house, but Jessi was waiting for me, leaning against the rear bumper of the truck with her arms folded across her chest and a stern look on her face.

I backed the tractor into the equipment shed behind the house, turned it off, and climbed down to find her standing there waiting behind me, right beside the tractor.

"Nick, where is it? What did you do with it?"

Playing dumb, I replied, "Jessi, what are you talking about?"

"Nick, I've suspected since your Dr. Jekyll-Mr. Hyde transformation and your questions that you knew about the money. I don't care about that, but I can't believe you'd steal my gun. That's the only thing I have to protect myself with. Where is it?"

I looked back at her with equal intensity. "Where it's safe so you can't use it on Dad or me."

The anger on her face morphed, in a split second, into one of complete disbelief. Tears seemed to burst forth from some hidden reservoir as she shook her head before turning and running away.

***

We barely spoke to each other for the rest of the day. The air was so cold between us during milking that night that Dad stayed to help milk and referee instead of taking off early as he'd planned. When we got home, he took me into the dining room and pointed to a seat at the table. As I sat down, I felt like I was ten again. Or maybe eight?

"Nick, I don't want to butt in but sometimes a parent has too when he sees one of his kids screwing up. Since you're an only child and since I'm an only parent now, you get all the attention in this case and I get all the dirty work rather than splitting it with Ellie. You're fucking up bad, son—"

Dad almost never cursed. On the rare occasions he did, I knew he was angry. When he said that—

"—pushing that young lady away without giving her a proper chance. Maybe you two really aren't meant for each other, but I hate to see you give up a chance at a good thing at the first little bump in the road."

I sighed, trying to control my anger and to keep from cursing to match his own. "You don't understand, Dad. That 'little' bump is like Mount St. Helens. It looks big, really big, as you get close to it, but then you find out the real danger isn't the size but what's inside. By then, though, it's too late. I know what I'm doing, so please, Dad, drop it and don't get involved."

He glared at me, before he finally nodded. "Okay, if you're sure you have it under control..."

I thanked him, got up, and walked away, hoping he believed I really knew what I was doing. At least that way, one of us would believe it.

Dad headed out to see Kate Nelson after a shower; the nice outfit and a hint of aftershave as he passed gave me a good guess where his evening was headed.

Jessi retreated to her room and I did the same, but I couldn't get Dad's unsought advice out of my mind as I tried to read a book. I wasn't getting much out of it after reading the first few pages, so I walked back and forth, trying to decide what to do. My frustration level was building and I debated over and over about what I should do. I made my decision several times, some on one side and the rest on the other before I finally chose and found myself knocking on Jessi's door before I had time to change my mind again.

"Go away, Nick! I don't want to talk to you right now," she called with a quiver in her voice.

Not an auspicious beginning, I thought, but I didn't want to walk away like a defeated fool, so I asked, "Okay, when do you think you'll be ready?"

She gave me the silent treatment in response, but at least she hadn't said anything about Hell freezing over or pigs flying. After giving her a little more time, I said, "I'll tell you what, I'll start and you jump in whenever you like. How about that?"

Again, she said not a word, seeing right through my little trick to thaw her tongue.

"Jessi, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, and I sure didn't like thinking that you might try to hurt us with the gun. It's just that I like you, a whole lot actually, but you're not telling me the truth—the whole truth, I mean—and what I'm seeing makes me scared that the part you're leaving out may be even worse than I'm imagining. It's all I can do, though, since you won't tell me the real story. So please, just tell me a little. You know, something, whatever you can, to help get me past this bump in the road."

Fuck! Now I'm sounding just like my dad!

"Nick! Can you get it through your head? It's not a little bump! It's fucking Mount—"

"—St. Helens!" we finished together.

She opened the door dressed in another of my mother's old nightgowns, staring at me.

"How'd you come up with that?" I asked, not believing that she'd come up with the same outrageous comparison as me.

She studied her feet as she said, "Did you know, when the furnace isn't running, someone in the guest room can hear what people are saying downstairs in the dining room? It sounds like they're a long way away, but you can hear them discussing all sorts of things like being stupid, bumps in the road, Mount St. Helens, and such."

I cursed, leading her to grin before she said, "Come on in." She sat down at the head of the bed, propped up by all the pillows, and she patted the bed down toward the foot, well away from her.

"Nick, I'm sorry, but I told you why I can't tell you more. They'll kill you or worse if I do. As much as I hate it, I'm completely serious about that."

"Jessi, listen to yourself. You make it sound like these are cruel, evil people. If they're even half as bad as you're implying, do you honestly think they'll leave a loose end if they even think there's a chance I might know something? You may not want me to be involved, but in my eyes and in their eyes, I already am. Not knowing exactly what I'm dealing with makes it worse. Can't you see that?"

She looked at me like she hoped I'd get up and leave, but she finally gave a tiny nod and an exasperated sigh. "Okay, Nick. Okay."

The long pause that followed made me wonder if she was trying to make up a suitable lie, but she gave another sigh, a defeated sound this time, before she continued. "I don't use drugs. Yeah, I smoked pot a few times in high school, but I drew the line there and stopped. Some got stoned, but fortunately, for me, the stress about getting caught by my mom wore on me even worse, so I quit before getting drawn further in like some of my friends who kept chasing that high, always looking for something better. They got into cocaine or pills; I got into cosmetology school."

"Wow! You're a cosmetologist?"

"Was, I'm afraid. I always wanted to open my own shop someday, to be my own boss."

"That's so neat! What do you do? Cut hair? Do makeup? Nails—"

Sitting there cross-legged, she planted her fists on her hips and frowned at me. "Nick, do you want to hear this or are you doing a job interview?"

"Sorry!"

It was like she deflated then, drawing herself in into a tiny ball, pulling her legs up, and, after making sure all was properly adjusted with the nightgown, putting her arms around her knees. "Anyway, I wasn't making any progress on saving money for my dream shop, but then one day, one of my clients told me about a new dance club downtown. It was supposed to be really up-scale and hard to get into. It's like that place in New York' the line took hours, if you were lucky. She said I was the type they wanted, so she gave me a VIP guest-pass that allowed me to bypass the line. I went that weekend and it was...I don't know, just...WOW! I met Owen Bartelli, the owner that night, and he was really interested in me and my background."

I looked away, not wanting to hear about her adventures, but she grabbed me. "Not like that, idiot. Well, not then, anyway. He latched on and showed me around the place, and, before I knew it, he asked me to come in for an interview. I'd waitressed before in high school and tended bar for a while when I was in cosmetology school. Most of all, I think he liked my looks; that was important to him so the club could present a good front."

"Yeah, and he probably thought you'd be a good fuck," I griped.

She scowled at me. "I'm a great fuck when I want to be, asshole, and don't you forget it." She gave an amused smile at my surprised expression before continuing. "So...he offered me a job as one of the specialty hostesses, making well over twice what I was making at the salon. I entertained and served some of the special clients who came in from all over."