Panther Meadows
Flash Fiction Story
by
Terry Sanville
In the late afternoon Lizzie tended the campfire, intense, like some
white-coated laboratory technician studying bacteria under a microscope. I had
amassed a huge pile of twigs, dead branches and pinecones, gathered from the
dense forest next to our meadow campsite. She carefully selected each twig and
laid it on the burning coals, the feng shui of fire building.
The green grass, bright sun,
and electric blue sky almost blinded us. I had tried trout fishing but gave it up,
hypnotized by the braided stream that flowed resolutely across Panther Meadows.
The water turned into coloured ribbons. It draped itself over stones and moved inexorably
downslope between moss-covered banks toward the far-off valley floor to join
the great Sacramento River. We had the place to ourselves.
For a few moments, everything turned rose-coloured. Mt. Shasta and
Shastina, the tops of the fir trees, our naked bodies, all glowed in sunset.
Then the grey set in and a cool fog out of nowhere rolled through the trees and
smothered the meadow. I heard trout jumping in the stream, glad that I had left
them alone to enjoy their evening feed, flashing silver in the dusk. I think Brautigan
had been there years before. It felt like his kind of dream.
We checked each other’s bodies for ticks and other unwanted critters
then made love on the blanket beside our fire, staying quiet, not wanting to destroy
the peace, invite intrusive memories of city life, nor think about why we
decided to camp in early March when snow patches still covered the shaded earth
beneath the trees. We took our time. The fire crackled, the fog flowed over our
bodies until everything beyond arms’ reach got lost.
“What now?” Lizzie asked, her eyes blazing rainbows.
“Food.”
“But you caught no trout.”
“Make something up. I’ll eat it.”
“All the stuff’s in the car,” she said.
“No, don’t go. The fog will take you away and you’ll drift forever.”
“You mean, like we are now?”
“Yes, sort of. But without me.”
“I can’t do that. Just let me think.”
“I thought we gave up thinking for Lent,” I said.
“I’m not Catholic. And I can’t turn it off.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
Lizzie kissed me, pushed herself up and dressed. She rummaged in her
knapsack while I snoozed, dreaming of trout fishing the lakes and streams along
the North Coast where they drained downslope into the ocean. She woke me with a
gentle shake.
“Here, drink this.”
I took the cup. “What is it?”
“Mint tea mixed with dandelion wine.”
“I need food.”
“Wait just a minute, it’s coming.”
I sipped the hot brew, shaking my head to try and clear my sight.
But everything looked like I stared through a kaleidoscope – Lizzie’s body
divided into symmetrical patterns that pulsed in the firelight – scary at first
but then becoming magnificently beautiful. She handed me a plate with something
on it and I popped it into my mouth. The mystery food tasted like fried
grasshoppers topped with melted jack cheese. Don’t ask me how I knew that. Not
bad. I gobbled it down.
We sat by the fire and watched the fog slowly dissolve as the stars
burned through, some so bright that it hurt to stare at them, so close that we
could almost see their solar flares.
“Ah, Jeez, I forgot,” Lizzie cried and bolted to her feet.
“What? What?”
“The baby. I left Tina in the car.”
“No you didn’t, silly.”
“Well where is she? It’s time for her to nurse.”
“She’s back at home. Your sister is taking care of her, remember?”
“No, I don’t. I think you dreamed that.”
“Come here and lie with me. I’ll phone her in the morning. Did you
bring the alarm?”
“Yes, it’s right here, set for dawn.”
We snuggled in my Sears and Roebuck sleeping bag, the one with the
flannel duck-print lining. The fire burned low. Overhead, the heavens closed down,
as if Morpheus drew his thick purple cloak across the sky. Everything became
soft and comforting: the air, the ground, Lizzie’s body, the sweet meadow smell,
the low calls of the night birds. Somewhere in the distance, a panther cried. Then
nothing.
An infernal buzzing bore into my skull and wouldn’t let go. I swung
my arm into space and knocked the alarm onto the floor. Wait! The floor?
Lizzie groaned and rolled over in bed. “I ain’t gettin’ up. Make
your own breakfast.”
“What about Tina?”
“She can wait.”
From the other room the baby began to cry. Lizzie threw back the
covers and stomped off, grumbling. I turned on the TV and watched the early
news before getting depressed and turning it off. In the background, morning traffic
on the 405 sounded like high surf rolling off the Pacific. I got up, dressed and
downed corn flakes and coffee. Afterward, I sat on the edge of the bed and
struggled to tie my shoes, my head still wrapped up in Panther Meadows and
trout fishing.
Lizzie padded into the room, Tina burbling in her arms, breast-feeding.
“You know, you’ve got that appointment with the DMV this afternoon.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah . . . and the dealership called. My car is out of warranty.
It’ll cost us three grand to replace the catalytic converter.”
“Double shit. Enough already.”
Lizzie sat next to me, balancing the baby in one arm while massaging
my back with the other. “You know, I’ve . . . been thinking.”
“What? Remember, we gave that up for Lent.”
“Maybe you did. I’m not Catholic. I was thinking that you’ve got
plenty of time coming. We should go camping . . . just the two of us . . .
leave Tina with my sister.”
I stared at Lizzie, could almost feel the crackle of the chilled
mountain air, see the stream, the trout jumping at stoneflies.
“Screw work. I’ll call in.”
We couldn’t leave soon enough.
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