May 1972 Forget-Me-Not Valley
The Inn was never a still place.
Even on a quiet day, the clanking of pots and pans and the unmistakable smell of hot spice and beer signaled to the outside world that the Inn was, indeed, very much alive. Soft music would come from the chipped portable radio in the kitchen, a soothing siren that dragged tired vagabonds, dusty from the latest trip, into empty rooms and to the dinner table.
"Used to be my life was just emotions passing by
Feeling all the while and never really knowing why..."
Tonight the Inn was louder. The foyer was warm, even on a brisk night like tonight. A mosaic of extreme body heat and warm food gave forth gentle perspiration.
The reason? A new guest. Well, not guest, no. Not quite.
...
Just across from the Inn was the remnants of an old farm: a barn, a coop, a shed, idle soil, a house. A man had come from the city: a glitzy man, not much tolerance for tranquility or a hard day's toil in the pasture. Hell, he probably didn't know what a pasture was before he had come.
But he caught on as quickly as a city boy could. He learned how most new farmers do: the hard way. Some months, his family (a wife, ten years his junior, and a small child, a daughter) would barely have enough to eat. Some months, he would have enough to pay the next couple months' rent.
The man would let his daughter, a wild and rough thing, come and stay during the summers. Her mother would protest. "Stay, it's dangerous in the valley." she'd plead. The man always had his way and the child when come stay until school began in the fall. The little girl, simply named Eleanor after her young mother, charmed some villagers with her abundance of life and others, well others found her to be the town's demon.
Of course, after many summers, the man grew sick and old. He would collapse often. His bones grew brittle and his heart would often give. His lungs weren't what they once were, he'd joke. With shaky hands and poor eyesight, he wrote a single letter to his only child, his daughter of 28, just before passing away quietly.
Eleanor,
It's been so long since I've seen you, heard you, spoken to you. You must know, if your mother has said anything, that my health is not well. I fear my time is coming, eh?Don't cry. I know you wouldn't, regardless. Too tough, too strong.
That's the reason for this letter I suppose. I won't be around to care for you or your mother. She isn't well either, I know. Watch over her, take care of her the way I did and do your best for the both of us. I also had one more thing to ask of you:
The farm. It's your choice, of course. But I know you'll do the right thing. The farm, Eleanor.
Papa
...
Marlin sat outside the bustling Inn. It was so uncharacteristic of him, so unusual, to be here. To be around them all, the other villagers. He absently brought his smoking hand up to his chin and smiled a dark smile.
Oh yeah, I quit. He twisted his mouth. He ran the hand he had brought up through his thick, black, curly hair.
Inside the Inn was hell. It was hot, it was sticky, the music was terrible and all he could hear was the excited chatter about something as meaningless as a newcomer.
"A girl!"
"A girl farmer?"
"What's wrong with that?"
"She's single-"
"She can marry."
"It's so much work."
"A LOT of work."
"Is she pretty?"
"The old farmer's daughter, how marvelous.."
"He'd be proud."
"A GIRL."
"She won't last a week."
He'd had just about enough. Who cares? He'd he sleeping peacefully if his older sister Vesta hadn't forced him. Then again, Vesta forced him to do too much. Was he a man, did he have balls? He sighed. If Celia hadn't come..beautiful Celia. His eye had been on her sweet frame for such a long time. Those eyes, that smile. He groaned softly and leaned back in the chair sitting against the wood building. Even the outside of the Inn smelled comforting, but he would never admit that. He exhaled, frustrated. A cigarette, that's all he needed. A pack, or two.
The Valley children broke loose from the inviting inferno that was the old Inn and screamed excitedly, tagging and chasing. The lack of kids was almost a blessing, in Marlin's eyes. Back in the city, you had to be careful when turning a corner of groups of racing children, who would knock you down without a single apology. They were just as loud and sticky as the Inn was.
The rotting wooden doors of the Inn were open now, perhaps the townsfolk had finally come to their senses. The relief of cold was a blessing from the Harvest Goddess, of course. Maybe it was the sounds of hot tire on a dusty road that brought them outside into the cool night.
Pucker-pucker
That noise was unmistakable. Marlin knew that it all too well. It was almost soothing: a city sound, a busy-street sound, a hey-man-fuck-you roadrage sound. A car.
Marlin leaned back in the plastic lawn chair so kindly provided by the Inn owner, Tim. Coming toward them, a 1960 Ford Pickup truck. A metal grating sound, a burnt out headlight, bad shocks, worn-down tires, large rust spots layered on what used to be a sky-blue coat..
Yep, it's a total piece of shit. Marlin smirked and stood to stretch his tired legs, which shook restlessly.
Stunned from both the shock of algid night air and the din of such a beastly machine, people slowly began trickling out. Was this the new girl, the girl promising for months to come and work?
Windows rolled down, dust flying, music blaring.
"..Rave on, there beneath the silvery moon,
Dont stop your carburetor ,
Let your car run.."
The truck came to a violent stop and the one headlight went black and cold. Some backed up, afraid the old thing would explode right there, it's beat-up engine puckering and popping as it stalled and stopped. The radius of engine heat consumed the crowd. The music from the car's radio ceased quickly and, with a swift bump and kick from the driver, the heavy metal door flew open and a thin figure stepped into the wind.
