When we arrived at the car and were strapping the bike to the rack Ian’s colleague Cortez Reed walked by and congratulated Ian for a few minutes. He had a newspaper under his arm and he was as excited for Ian as I was. He handed the newspaper to Ian saying I wanted to be the one to show you this before anyone else and he left. Ian and I looked at the news article. The article announced the inevitable. The young man Ian had defended, Trees Smith, was in custody, in Madrid. He had kidnapped and raped a college student. Ian and I were shocked to silence.

I drew Ian a warm bath and he laid quietly wetting a hot washcloth and placing it over his face. I paced around the house and when he finally emerged helped him into bed. I knew Ian would sleep for a few days as is his pattern following a race. I watched television, checked on the animals and chose not to draw or think about the college student.

After a few quiet days Ian and I went to the municipal pool together. The monks were there as I thought and they congratulated Ian on his victorious day. I left early and was home asleep in bed when Ian arrived. He came in the bedroom drunk. He turned on the stark light and was eating food out of his hand that was spilling on the floor. He slammed drawers and staggered around tripping over the door stop and cussing at the door.

“Who put that there?” he asked.
“It’s been there since we moved in three years ago,” I whispered sarcastically.

I chose to ignore him and soon after that he fell on the bed and passed out until the next afternoon. I awoke to the sounds of the cow’s mooing as they needed milking. I pushed Ian’s leg to get up but he was deep asleep. I went out to handle all the animals in the yard including cats and raccoons that come for a bowl of milk. It was four in the morning. I angrily squirted the milk from the cow’s cornucopia and aimed a hard line of milk at the animal’s waiting for their breakfast. “This is not my job…I have a job…no…I think I’ll quit and be a farmer,” was some of the dialogue I had with the uninformed animals. Ian slept and dragged around all day while I arrived late to the factory to find that the wheel quilts were not going to be bought by anyone. I angrily yelled to the seamstresses, “We’re back to sunshine, flowers, and rickrack.”

I got home that night to find Ian was not there. The house was empty and cold, it was obvious Ian had not been there all day. The animals needed feeding and the oxen had busted the fence and were grazing on the greenbelt well into the yard of the house across the way. I handled what I could, gathering animals and throwing out hay with no sign of Ian returning home. When the darkness was upon us all, I turned to go into the house feeling like an angel to the animal’s bottomless pit.

The next few weeks proved much the same. Milking the cows at four in the morning and getting home early to feed the animals and handle the emergencies of the day. I was angry with Ian. I hid money, car keys, and made up excuses for him, answering my own saddest questions, alone, every night. Going to bed without even a suggestion of where he was but guessing he was in a pub drinking beyond his capacity, was loathsome. He was coming home during the day as I saw his clothes and occasionally passed by him unwilling to speak or look at me.