I wrote this after a several-month-long mix-up with several rabbits.
I have decided, after some time, to give it to you.
peace and love,
emma
Mrs. Gracie Johnson was a slight and nervous woman. She and Mr. Johnson lived just outside of town on a squat few acres. Their house was fair sized, and the property was really quite pretty. Mrs. Johnson never did get many visitors, which was fine by her, as guests had the tendency to make her a bit itchy. These nerves of hers used to be nearly too much to bear, but after visiting with a doctor friend of Mr. Johnson, she was really feeling quite a bit better. This was thanks, for the most part, to the little chalky pills he had given her. He hadn’t even given her a prescription. Just pulled out a jar and shook some into her husband’s hand and said, “These ought to help Herb, if not, go ahead and give me a call.” And that was that. New process, she guessed.
The pills DID help, at least, she thought so. She didn’t feel so anxious anymore, but then again, she didn’t really feel so anything anymore. She did, of course, stick to her same rigid schedule. Clean the house, do the laundry, buy the groceries, and make the dinners. The only difference was that now she didn’t take scrubbing to the point of bleeding fingers, and now she had to take a nap in the mid-afternoon to make it through the day. Not so bad, she thought. And it wasn’t so bad.
It was rare that Mrs. Johnson spent a night alone, but every once in a while, Mr. Johnson would have to leave town on business. She was more nervous then, and sometimes questioned the effectiveness of the little chalky pills. She wasn’t able to nap on the days that Mr. Johnson left town. Which was odd, but she would take more pills and try not to worry about it. She was not supposed to worry. She took to walking in the napless afternoons to escape her thoughts. Often, they would follow her, but that didn’t seem to dissuade her. One dry grey day in mid-fall, Mrs. Johnson had, after pacing the kitchen for an hour, decided to take a walk around one of the little fields that surrounded her house. As she walked, she debated on what to make for dinner the following evening when Mr. Johnson was to return home. He was rather fond of a roast, and it was to be Sunday, so perhaps a roast, she thought to herself. Oh, but she had no carrots, and you really shouldn’t have a roast with no carrots, should you? No, perhaps not. She was deep in thought and in the field when she was struck with the sudden and painful fear that she had left the stove on after her tea. She stopped a moment, paralyzed by the thought of it. She looked ahead in the direction she was going. No, too far, she thought, looking back over her shoulder in the direction she had come. That’s nearly just as far in the other direction, she cursed. God damn it, Gracie, can you not do anything right? The house is liable to be up in smoke by the time you make it back there! She continued her silent reprimand for a moment before making the sign of the cross on her thin chest (best not to be caught using the Lord’s name in vain), then decided the only way to go was through. Between where she was and where she should be was divided by a heavily wooded draw. It was shorter, of course, as the crow flies, but the thought that had not occurred to Mrs. Johnson was that she was, in fact, not a crow. Concerned not by her lack of wings, Mrs. Johnson set off to beat the brush and save her home.
By the time she made it to the bottom of the draw, she had runs all the way up both stockings, and she was absolutely sure there was a tick augering its way to her brain. She herself was halfway to her brain, picking at her scalp, when she realized with quite the shock that the sound of birds chirping had been replaced quite seamlessly with another sound. Someone was whistling, she thought. Ice shot from her ankles to her earlobes in an instant, and she froze. No. No, it can’t be whistling, she tried in vain to soothe herself. No sooner than she had the thought did the distinct whistled melody of Yankee Doodle Dandy come floating over the tops of the oaks. Mrs. Johnson was, for once, drawing a complete blank. Now, Gracie, she thought, you have got to get back to that house before the whole thing burns up; Mr. Johnson needs his shirts for his lunch with the boss on Monday, you absolutely must get back there. Besides, she goaded herself, you know what the doctor said about your overactive imagination...it could very well be all in your head, Dr. Glass DID say that this is common in women. So, with barely any breath at all, Mrs. Johnson trudged on.
I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy, yes, I’m a Yankee Doodle boy.
Still tearing at her scalp and occasionally beating at her ears, she kept walking what felt like miles when, just as suddenly as the whistling began, it stopped. Oh, thank God, she thought, perhaps it was all in my mind...just a bit of stress is all. The good news is, once I get home, another pill should put me right to sleep after all this activity.
“Hello, Missus,” came a pleasant velvet voice from behind her.
Mrs. Johnson could do nothing but freeze. There was a man behind her, for God’s sake, what was she supposed to do?
“Don’t be scared, Missus, I don’t bite.”
Slowly, painfully slow even for herself, she turned to meet his eye. Standing before her was a tall man of slender build. He was wearing a blue seersucker suit, pressed quite well considering, and dark black sun shades. His hair was well-kept, and he smelled distinctly of pomade. Aside from the obvious strangeness of his location, the only really strange thing about him was his shoes. On his feet were a pair of tan leather lace-up boots in a state of such disrepair that one red socked toe was visible through a split in the boots. All things considered, Mrs. Johnson found herself rather flustered by his presence and had to avert her gaze a moment to gather her thoughts.
“Who are you?” She finally asked.
“I am Hiram Walsh,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “you must be Mrs. Gracie Johnson.”
Before she could open her mouth to begin a line of questioning, Hiram was speaking again, “You really do not look well, Mrs. Johnson...here, let’s get you a cup of tea and a seat,” he said, slipping her hand into his arm as he led her to a white canvas tent at the bottom of the draw. As they walked, Mrs. Johnson couldn’t help but think that this was where her life ends — in the arms of some crazed trespasser. Better than if Mr. Johnson finds out I burned up the checkbook book she thought. So, rather amicably, she followed.
Inside the tent was nothing special. An oil lamp burned above their heads, and a small pot-bellied stove warmed the place nearly to suffocation. Hiram bade her to sit on a large hide on the floor while he fetched her a cup of tea. He set the pot on the stove to boil and came back to her on the hide rug. She looked at him a moment, or rather, looked at herself in the reflection of his dark glasses, and thought that she really did look sickly, and turned her eyes to the stove instead. You don’t look so sickly, Gracie, she heard him think. She snapped her eyes back to his face, no, no, it can’t be, she thought, just my nerves completely shot.
“Everything alright, Mrs. Johnson?” Hiram purred out.
“Oh, yes, everything is fine...thank you,” she said. But she was thinking, Christ, no, everything is all mixed up, what would Mr. Johnson think? Me sitting here with this strange seersuckered man in a tent? Then she heard it, his distinct voice saying, Mr. Johnson doesn’t have to know, Mrs. Johnson. Only, this time she had been looking at him when she heard it, and his strangely perfect lips hadn’t moved an inch.
“What?” She questioned breathlessly.
“I haven’t said a thing, missus,” he said from behind his dark glasses.
Gracie, she thought, get a hold of yourself, this man is not in your mind, you are having an episode. Oh, but I absolutely am in your mind, Gracie, she heard the voice like feathers up her knotty spine coo. At this, she felt a flutter so deep in her belly it must be sinful that she sprang up, hitting her head on the top of the tent.
“What is it?” Hiram asked, standing up as well.
“You know perfectly well what it is,” Mrs. Johnson managed to eke out through her ever-increasing breaths. It was hard to tell what went through his mind then, but she thought she saw the corner of his mouth pick up a fraction of a smirk.
“Really, I ought not be here,” she began to arrange herself as if she was leaving a friend’s house, “I am a married woman after all.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Johnson, my intentions are purely innocent,” Hiram said, but his thoughts papering the rooms of her mind said otherwise, and the way they warmed her to the core confirmed her worries. Mercifully, the teapot began to whistle, reminding her of her own home on the brink of disaster.
“No, no. I must be going, I have left the stove on before leaving, and I have to get back before the whole house goes up in flames and–”
“Please, won’t you stay? I was just about to put on a pot of white rabbit stew,” he purred out softly, sounding genuinely hurt.
“White rabbit stew?” She asked, considering for the briefest of moments, dining with the man in the tent.
“Yes, it is really a treat, Missus, please let me show you,” he said, like he was charming a snake from its basket. The teapot then, ever the savior, reached a fever pitch, knocking her from the idea.
“No, thank you, maybe some other time,” and with that, she walked out of the canvas door into the darkening evening before her. She kept walking away, willing herself not to return her gaze to the tent or to Hiram until she was sure he could not hear her thoughts. Once in her yard, she looked back. She could not see him, but she could see the smoke from his fire and hear the tune of Yankee Doodle Dandy being whistled somewhere beneath the canvas. Somewhere, in her mind, she could see herself reflected in his glasses and feel his wicked little smirk following her from behind her eyes.
It took everything in her to turn her back to the smoke and go inside. Once safely within her own walls, she checked the stove. Which, as it would turn out, had been off the whole time. Weird, she thought, I was sure it would be on. Mrs. Johnson then concluded that, given the past hour, she had earned at least two of her pills to put her out for the night, so she took them and waited for them to kick in. Several times in the intermittent time between consciousness and unconsciousness, she peeked through the curtains to see Hiram’s fire still glowing in the distance. She watched the light for a long while. So long, actually, that she had fallen asleep in her lookout position on the couch.
Mrs. Johnson slept rather well, all things considered, and she dreamt for the first time in a while of pleasant things. Like running her hand through decadent furs, and someone humming softly to her. When she awoke late the next morning, she decided she ought to apologize to Hiram for her hastiness last night and set off to his camp. When she arrived, she could still smell the smoke from the fire, but to her shock, Hiram was gone. In fact, everything was gone. There was not so much as an imprint on the grass from where they sat on the hides. She looked around, scratching with some force at her scalp, asking herself if she could have possibly formulated the whole thing in her troubled mind. Perhaps I should go back to the doctor, she thought, picking at her fingers now, he did say I was prone to this kind of thing. No sooner than the thought crossed her mind was a tune whistled in the tree tops that snapped her out of it. Mrs. Johnson walked home, spine tingling like it had been tickled, and she scratched at it furiously.
Mr. Johnson arrived home late that afternoon. There was music playing in the house, and he could smell dinner from the yard. This is strange, he thought. I wonder if Gracie has company? He walked in, scanning the room for friends, only to see, for the first time in a long time, his darling wife in the kitchen with a genuine smile. He had forgotten how beautiful her smile was, and a feeling like feathers ran up his back.
“Hello, honey,” he said over the music, “what’s for dinner?”
“White rabbit stew.”
