Chapter Text
be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn’d
bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell
be thy intents wicked or charitable
hamlet, act one scene four
* * *
The wind catches the door to the mudroom and makes it fly open with such a loud crash that the whole house shivers and the dog starts barking. Trixie hustles over the threshold and whistles for Dolly, has to wrestle the door closed once both of them are inside. The sky is livid-dark and churning and the wind moans low in its throat. Dolly whines and hurries away to curl up in front of the hearth. Trixie huffs a little laugh under her breath, to soothe herself mostly. She likes living alone out here three miles from town, and she isn’t usually freaked out by solitude, but the earth feels angry this afternoon.
It’s cold out today, much warmer inside the house, and her cheeks are ruddy. Trixie toes out of her boots and untucks her fisherman’s sweater from her jeans to pull it up over her head. She pads through to the kitchen in her sock feet and her thermal layer. The whole house smells rich and good and a little tomatoey. Trixie lifts the lid of the crockpot and leans over it, lets the steam hit her face. She’s grateful to her this-morning self for fixing supper and she stirs the stew a couple of times, tastes some of the broth from the end of the spoon.
She knows just what they’d say, Kim and Bob and all the rest of them. She hears them laughing right in her ear like ghouls. Today she got up with the sun and made a stew for one with carrots and potatoes and zucchini she pulled out of the earth herself. Trixie is trying to be as self-sufficient as she can, now that she’s here. That’s the whole point.
The city became entirely too loud, the kitchen louder still. She doesn’t miss the money or the respect or the power, doesn’t miss the cries of yes chef in response to every word out of her mouth. She doesn’t miss the almost of her television career, the stardom everybody kept insisting was right at her fingertips if she just stretched a little further. Trixie misses her friends sometimes and absolutely nothing else about that life.
“Dolly!” she calls out, and the dog comes trotting into the kitchen. Trixie scratches her behind the ears, stoops over to kiss the slope of her snout. “Hey, beautiful girl. Are you hungry? Dinner time?”
She gets an enthusiastic wag of Dolly’s whole body in response and then the dog disappears through to the mudroom to wait. She’s a greyhound, not a farm dog at all, but Trixie has had Dolly a lot longer than she’s lived out here. One of the very first projects she did when she moved in was to create a little feeding station for Dolly, a kind of shelf to keep her bowls off of the ground and accommodate her height.
It felt dykey in a way she never really has before. Even as a chef, opening her own restaurant in a field so dominated by men, Trixie has always clung tightly to her femininity with both neatly manicured hands. Something about kneeling down on the hardwood and drilling a hole into her wall felt so butch that she caught a wicked case of church giggles and had to shut the drill off. She had stifled them against her palm for a minute and then remembered that there is no one for miles around. Instead, she had tipped her head back and let her laughter ricochet around the room.
Trixie eats dinner by herself, as she has done every night for the last four months. She sits at the dining table in the main living space because she hates eating on the couch. From here she can see outside in the mornings, all the way across the fields at the rear of her property, but now that the evenings are starting to draw in she just watches herself chew.
There’s no television at the house. She bought the place fully furnished and hasn’t really added anything, didn’t see the point when everything she needs is here already. She doesn’t miss it. There’s the radio in the kitchen and there’s Dolly for companionship and she finds that she likes it. Trixie didn’t bring any makeup with her, or her blow dryer or curling iron. She felt herself shedding layers of performative femininity with every mile she drove north, Dolly in the passenger seat beside her and four boxes tied down in the bed of the truck.
When Trixie turns on the shower she hears the water heater start groaning two floors below her. She is long since accustomed to all of the peculiar quirks of this house, all of the noises it makes. They have had to get used to each other, the house and her. She knows that the front door sticks in the frame when it’s cold out and the lock doesn’t work great so it’s best to avoid using it if possible. She knows that the third stair down creaks the loudest and that when it rains heavily the gutter outside the reading room overflows and water pours in torrents down the window. It feels like home here, more than her Los Angeles apartment ever did, or Wisconsin before that.
The water takes a while to get warm, so Trixie leaves it running while she peels out of the rest of her clothes. She unwinds her hair from its braids and inspects herself in the mirror over the sink. Most of her days are spent outside now, not being perceived by anybody, so a little jolt of unfamiliarity hits her each evening when she faces her reflection. Her cheeks are a bit fuller than she remembers, and so are her stomach and thighs. She feels good, strong. She holds her arm up across her breasts to get a sense of how tan she’s getting. The skin of her chest is still creamy smooth and pale, but her arms and face are littered with new freckles every day and the fine hairs on her forearms have been bleached white-blonde by the sun.
Trixie stands beneath the spray of the shower until the hot runs out. She washes her hair, combing the conditioner through the ends with her fingers. Her body aches in a way that is so different than how it used to, after hours on her feet in the sticky kitchen. It feels more like she’s earned it.
It’s Friday night, and Trixie has a date. She squeezes as much water as she can from the ends of her hair and gets into bed in underwear and a huge sweatshirt. When Trixie left the city she ditched her cell phone. She always felt silly having one, like she was playacting at being more successful than she really was, and she was glad to bid it farewell. Only two people in the whole world know the number for the landline here. Trixie answers on the second ring and eases down the headboard a bit. Her bare legs slide against each other beneath the sheet and the blanket and for just a moment it makes her ache with loneliness.
“Beatrice.”
“Kimberly, hello,” she says. “How are you?”
Kim launches right into a diatribe against the restaurant industry as a whole and Trixie sits with her eyes closed, only half listening. She feels it’s important to maintain some connection to the outside world, just in case the isolation makes her lose her mind and there’s nobody around to notice. Kim is so soft-spoken and gentle and kind that it’s bizarre to hear her get this heated. It reminds Trixie again why she’s doing this.
“You know I have a guest room.”
“Trixie,” Kim sighs. Trixie is holding the phone close enough to her ear that she feels the hot wash of Kim’s breath over her cheek. “I’m not quitting my job and packing up my life and disappearing into the wilderness.”
Like you, goes unspoken. Kim has been supportive this whole time. She doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand how Trixie could walk away from all of the opportunities unfolding before her like springtime. But she kept her sighs and eyerolls mostly to herself and she helped Trixie pack and that’s a lot more than most people did.
“I’m just saying. Offer’s open.”
Now that the sun has gone down it’s freezing in the bedroom. Gooseflesh erupts along the lengths of Trixie’s thighs. She lets Kim talk for a little while longer about Los Angeles and what all of their mutual friends are doing and how everybody, Trixie, misses you so much, and then she eases her gently off the call and hangs up the phone.
She has on her thickest, cosiest pair of wool socks and she skids a little bit on the hardwood in the hallway. It excites the dog and she leaps around, pawing at Trixie’s bare calves. Trixie opens the back door and sends Dolly outside to use the bathroom while she heats water on the stovetop. It’s so cold that she shifts her weight from foot to foot, hopping a little, and rubs her biceps to try and generate some heat.
It doesn’t matter how deep into the winter it gets, she hates sleeping with pants on. Trixie does a quick circuit of the lower level to check all of the doors are locked, an old habit from Los Angeles that she can’t seem to shake, and turns out all of the lamps as well. She’s done in time for the kettle to start its insistent whistling and she fills up her hot water bottle, brings it and the dog upstairs with her. Trixie sleeps with Dolly in the bed and two blankets and she is still chilly for a good half hour every evening.
On her back in the textured darkness, Trixie stares at the ceiling and allows herself to yearn for just a minute. She needs a warm, kind woman to let Trixie put her freezing hands inside of her sweater. Her whole body aches with it, how much she wants. It’s not even that she misses Bob, exactly. She just misses having someone to lay next to her and kiss her until the pink tip of her nose gets warm.
There are no curtains in any of the rooms upstairs. Trixie keeps meaning to get some, to try and keep the warmth in now that summer is rolling over into fall, but she likes being able to see out into the night. The moon’s wise, round face is peering in at her right up against the glass. Since she’s been here she’s been sleeping well, sacked out on her stomach unmoving until the rooster wakes her at six. Tonight, though, she is restless and grouchy with it.
Tomorrow, for the first time, Trixie is going to drive the three miles and visit the town.
She brought a lot of supplies with her, cans and dried things like rice and pasta. The teenage son of the family in the house closest to her, a half mile down the road, gratefully accepts the ten dollar bill Trixie presses into his palm each Wednesday afternoon when he brings her milk and cheese and fruits. She has learned to bake her own bread, likes the process of working at it and how it has made her arms firm and strong. Now that the crops she planted are starting to yield, her neat rows beginning to spill over in abundance, she feels much more self-sufficient.
There are things that she needs that she can’t put off for much longer. Things she is not comfortable asking a fifteen year old boy to buy for her. And she supposes she ought to show her face to the townsfolk, now that she’s been lurking on the outskirts for almost half a year like a cryptid.
Trixie comes awake into the crisp, clear morning and can immediately see frost on the windowpane. She pulls on jeans in the bedroom and her duck boots in the mudroom and heads outside to let the chickens out. The coop structure has a kind of sliding door with a long handle that Trixie can pull from the outside and the girls all come clattering down the little ramp.
She opens the door of the pen to let them roam around the yard for a while. Dolly darts back and forth, her graceful body low to the ground and her tail in the air. She’s a city dog, and a sighthound with a high prey drive, but Trixie doesn’t need to worry. She’s patient with the girls, and they are obsessed with her.
“Good morning, Patsy-girl,” Trixie says when her favourite Rhode Island Red pecks insistently at her boot clad foot. She scoops the chicken up and cradles her to her chest, supports both of her feet in the palm of one hand so she’ll stop flapping and settle down. “Hi, princess. Hi pretty lady.”
Her voice is so soft and melty when she talks to any of the animals. She hears it in herself and can’t seem to do anything about it. Trixie has to set the chicken down because the others are squawking and hopping about her ankles, distressed that their sister is getting all of the attention. She squats down instead and has to put four fingertips to the ground to steady herself when Loretta and Shania immediately hop up onto her thighs. Trixie is long past being precious about keeping her hands clean. She’s always kept her nails short anyway, and she’s gotten used to scrubbing the dirt out from beneath them before dinner each night.
The cow shed is her next stop. There are no actual cows in there, as much as she would like to have them, but the previous owner of the property had thrown into the sale of the house a pair of cantankerous, curmudgeonly goats. They spend their nights tucked up warm amongst the hay and, she’s pretty sure, plotting ever more convoluted ways to make Trixie’s life difficult.
“Good morning Cash, Guthrie,” Trixie says when she opens the door and gets a stony stare from one and a disgruntled bleat from the other. They are the only men in a half mile radius, so of course they are ornery and smell disgusting and fight constantly with anything nearby, including each other.
Trixie opens the gate to let them out into the paddock. She likes how her mornings look, the routine of going around feeding all of the animals and making sure they have water and wishing them all a happy start to their day. She’s always been a country girl; nine years in Los Angeles couldn’t beat that out of her. Sometimes when she wakes in the morning to Garth’s insistent crowing she feels as if she’s in her thirteen year old body again, too big for her skin and stretching taller and thicker every day.
Once everybody is fed, including herself, Trixie tries to become a little more presentable. First impressions matter: it’s why she always vetted her front-of-house staff so thoroughly and why she was so obsessively detail-oriented when designing the façade of her restaurants. She’s going to be meeting a whole lot of new people today. She’d rather they didn’t clock that she’s a loner and a lesbian before she even gets a chance to open her mouth.
The truck engine rolls over twice before she gets it to start and Trixie mutters something under her breath that might be an incantation. While she drives into town she has a very difficult time not looking at herself in the rearview mirror. For the first time she wishes she’d brought a little makeup with her, even just some mascara and lipstick. Her face is pink and weathered and her hair had refused to cooperate so she’s wound it into her usual two braids and jammed a beanie over the top to at least try to look intentional.
Trixie parallel parks on the street and hops down from the cab of the truck. The step is muddy, but her boots are caked with crud anyway so it hardly matters. There are kids playing further up the street and all five of them stop what they’re doing and turn as one to look at her. It’s creepy, a bit Children of the Corn, and a shiver rattles up Trixie’s spine. She wraps her men’s cord jacket tighter around herself and arranges her scarf at her neck. The cold is a copper taste in her throat and the skin of her face feels pulled taut, pink-raw.
The whole town is serene and lovely. Trixie walks slowly down the main street, hands stuffed low into the pockets of her coat because she forgot to bring gloves with her. It’s big enough that it makes her feel delicate and tiny and precious, all hunkered down inside of it.
Each building has a different coloured siding and all of the storefronts are neatly kept and welcoming. As Trixie walks she hears the susurration of the water against the shores of the cove and the crunch of her own footsteps. It’s not so quiet here in town as it is back at the house, but above the shouts of the children playing and the occasional car rumbling by it’s still peaceful.
There’s a pharmacy at the end of the street, close to the dock, and Trixie ducks inside. A bell over the door signals her arrival and the old man behind the register looks up from the newspaper and smiles at her. He’s missing one of his front teeth. Trixie gives him a tiny nod of her head and waves away his offer to help find what she needs. It’s a much faster experience than back in Los Angeles because there is only one choice of shampoo, one soap, one brand of analgesic.
She sets everything down on the counter. The man begins scanning everything, not watching what he’s doing because his eyes are raking up and down Trixie. She’s wearing a lot of layers today so it’s not like he’s getting an eyeful, but it still makes the skin at the back of her neck prickle.
“Well hey there, little lady. You must be new in town. I’m Tom.” He gets done ringing everything up but makes no move to bag it or ask her for her money.
Trixie pulls her wallet free from the back of her jeans, has to wrestle with it a bit because it gets caught on the corner of the pocket. She gives Tom her well-worn, please don’t try to have a conversation with me right now smile. Very carefully does not offer him her name back.
“I live a few miles outside of town. Out on Fort Casey Road.”
“Well, everybody here’s real friendly. Can’t get steered too wrong. Just-” He props an elbow on the counter and leans conspiratorially in. Trixie tries very hard not to physically recoil. “Just steer clear of Verbena.”
“What’s Verbena?”
Trixie hands over a couple of bills, hoping to hurry along this interaction. She’s trying not to let impatience crease the space between her eyebrows, trying not to ruin the first conversation she’s had outside of her phone calls with Kim in four months. It’s a little like her muscles have begun to atrophy; she’s working to stretch them out, but it’s uncomfortable.
Tom hands her change over to her, folds her fingers closed around the handful of coins in her palm. She finds that absolutely reprehensible. Trixie stuffs the coins hastily into the pocket of her coat and wipes her palm off against her thigh, not at all caring whether he sees. She hopes that he does.
“Verbena is the apothecary across the street.” Tom pauses, swept up in the drama of it all. He turns to look over his shoulder and Trixie follows his gaze, spots an unassuming little store almost directly opposite. When she looks back at Tom he drops his voice an octave. “The witch owns it.”
“The what?” Trixie snorts, and then realises that Tom is deadly serious and clamps her mouth shut. He nods fervently at her but doesn’t offer any more information. Trixie feels a sigh forming in the base of her throat and swallows it back down. She’s a lesbian. She feels an automatic, ferocious kinship with spurned women. “Right. Okay. Thanks.”
She takes her purchases in their brown paper bag and leaves the store. Outside it’s bright and crisp, and she doesn’t feel like getting back into the car just yet. She can feel Tom’s eyes on her still, through the glass frontage of the pharmacy. The violation of it is rapidly making her furious. Trixie has never liked being told what to do, especially by old men. She doesn’t allow herself to hesitate for even half a beat before she strides across the street and right on in to Verbena.
It’s a cute place. The exterior is painted all white and there are planters full of lavender either side of the door. It will be beautiful in the springtime. Inside there are bottles and jars and packages of all different sorts, so many that Trixie can’t even begin to decipher them all on her first sweep around. It smells wonderful, there’s an aromatherapy burner on one of the shelves and Trixie takes a step closer to it, bends at the waist to breathe it in a little deeper.
“Oh, hi. Hello. Welcome.”
The voice startles Trixie a bit and she straightens again, turns to look. All of the breath stutters in her chest. The most beautiful woman she’s ever seen — the most beautiful woman she will ever see in her life — is standing there. She’s grinning at her with a set of perfect teeth that Trixie stares at for probably a beat too long. Her white-blonde hair just skims the tops of her shoulders, heavy bangs a little long so she has to blink them out of her eyes. She’s lovely. Trixie’s palms are sweating.
“Um. Hi.”
“I’m Katya.” She offers her hand and Trixie takes it, has to maneuver the bag from the pharmacy into one arm. Katya squeezes instead of shaking and it’s so completely charming that Trixie feels her face getting hot. At least she can blame it on how much warmer it is in the store than outside.
“Trixie.”
“Trixie,” Katya repeats softly, like she’s trying it on for size. She’s still smiling so wide and Trixie finds herself grinning back, goofy Wisconsin teeth and all. “Hello, Trixie. Is there anything I can help you find today?”
The heat in her cheeks and neck is getting to be a bit much. Trixie sets her bag down on the countertop, takes off her jacket and folds it over her arm, pulls off her beanie hat as well. She definitely has hat hair and she smoothes her hands self-consciously over the top of her head.
“I. . .kind of came in here out of spite?” Trixie chews on her bottom lip, but Katya throws her head back and a pneumatic burst of laughter ricochets out of her.
“So you met Tom?”
Katya is still laughing and she reaches out to grab Trixie’s arm. Her fingers are thin and she clutches tight and everything in Trixie’s body knots up into Katya’s grip. She’s a few inches shorter than Trixie is and she smells good, like earth and springtime. When she straightens up again she slides her fingertips down the length of Trixie’s forearm as she lets go.
“I did. So no, I’m not looking for anything specific.”
“I can show you around?” Katya offers.
Trixie nods, certain that she’s completely failing at reining in her enthusiasm. Katya is the first new person she’s met in the last four months that hasn’t irritated her immediately. She lets her take her hat and coat and hang them up by the door, lets her hook her arm through Trixie’s elbow and lead her around like they’re old friends.
All of the products in the store are homemade and Katya explains the properties of each one, allows Trixie to smell things and try samples at her leisure. Katya is effusive and intelligent. Her whole face comes alight when she talks about the merits of mugwort or how close she is to perfecting her mint oatmeal shaving cream. Trixie works a lotion into her hands and lifts them both to her face to breathe deeply. Her skin feels immediately softer, and the places where her knuckles are chapped from working outside look less red and angry.
The two of them are standing with their heads bent together, studying Katya’s collection of beeswax candles. Katya’s got both hands in the back pockets of her hunter green cords and her elbows are pointy and jut out away from her. It means that every time Trixie shifts, the right one nudges into her. She likes it a lot. Katya holds up one of the candles and Trixie leans in to smell it, closes her eyes as she does.
A crash makes the windows of the storefront tremble in their frames and Trixie jerks upright, one hand flying up to land at her chest. Katya doesn’t even twitch. They turn together to see a pack of teenage boys sprinting away from the store, and a mess of egg white and yolk and shell sliding slowly down the window. Trixie is fairly sure she spots the neighbour boy, Peter, in amongst them.
Trixie makes as if to head for the door, but Katya grabs for her elbow to stop her where she stands. That’s probably best. What is she going to do, chase them? Outrage bubbles hot and insistent in her stomach and she turns to look at Katya.
“Aren’t you going to do something?”
“Sure I am.”
Katya reaches down behind the counter and comes back with a soft cloth and a spray bottle. Trixie follows her outside and stands and watches as she cleans her windows, one knee propped on the bench out front so she can lean in close. She’s shoved her sweater up past her elbows and Trixie likes the flex of the tendons in her forearms, her intricate tattoos, her delicate hands. It feels like she’s standing guard, and she finds herself glancing over her shoulders to watch for the mob coming back.
After a few minutes Katya’s arms get tired of scrubbing and she takes a break to shake them out. Trixie takes over, makes sure to meticulously spray every inch of the glass and get all of it off. The winter sun sits low in the sky and if the egg is allowed to bake onto the window it’s much harder to remove. Katya is watching her with both hands shoved into the pockets of her pants again. She has the bottoms of them rolled up so a strip of skin shows above her Dr. Martens, and Trixie is focusing very hard on not looking at her pale ankles.
When they’re done, Katya holds the door open for Trixie and flips the lock behind them both. She has a tiny little break room at the back of the store and she makes tea for the two of them, presses the cup into Trixie’s waiting hands. She doesn’t seem affected, and somehow that’s worse.
“This happen a lot?”
“A beautiful woman coming into my store? Never.” Katya grins at her over the rim of her mug, but when Trixie keeps her face carefully slack she falters. “Yeah. I’m what the kids call an outcast.”
“Oh honey, an outcast honey? I’ve been out since ninety two, honey.”
It’s a dumb joke, but it makes Katya scream and slosh a little of her tea onto her hand. It’s hot still and she sucks on the webbing between her thumb and pointer finger. Trixie looks at the red stain the lipstick leaves on her skin, looks at the pink tip of Katya’s tongue.
“That’s awful,” Katya points at her. “You’re awful, Trixie. I think the homophobes might have a point.”
They’re both laughing then, and clutching at each other. It seems like Katya’s whole body is full up with joy, and she’s looking at Trixie like she’s so pleased to find her here. Trixie hopes that Tom is squinting at them from across the street and turning slowly to stone.
She sips her tea and lets her eyes flutter closed. She doesn’t know what’s in here but it’s good, kindles a small fire in her gut that spreads outwards into all of her extremities. It could just be Katya, smiling at her and calling her beautiful.
Once they’ve both emptied their mugs, Katya takes a gift bag from a stack beside the register and wanders around the store for a little while, choosing things to fill it up with. She is careful, each choice considered. Trixie watches her, lets herself look at Katya’s tight ass in her pants when she bends over. It’s been six months since things ended with Bob, and Trixie isn’t one to have a casual fling, so the heat between her thighs is more insistent than usual.
“Here.” Katya presses the bag into Trixie’s hands. “To say thanks.”
Trixie doesn’t open the bag, doesn’t want to seem too eager. She has a sense memory of her grandmother slapping her hands and tutting at her, telling her it lacks decorum to open gifts in front of the giver. Instead, she holds it against her chest and meets Katya’s eyes. They are blue-grey, clear and abundant as a winter morning.
“Thank you. This is. . .this is really nice. Suspiciously nice.”
“If you start feeling feverish and vomiting it’s absolutely nothing to worry about, Tracy.” Katya studies her cuticles, feigning disinterest. Trixie notices her short nails and feels it between her thighs, takes a stuttering breath. “Just do me a favour and leave your door unlocked so I don’t have to commit breaking and entering when I come to harvest your bones. That’s a felony, you know.”
Trixie snorts and snatches her hand back from where Katya has grabbed it. “Oh sure, anything else I can do to make it easier for you?”
“Come back soon?” Katya says, and all of the teasing drops right out of her voice. She can’t seem to look Trixie in the face, studies the floor instead, and tenderness for her swells in Trixie’s chest.
“If I live through the night, I’ll come back.”
Trixie leaves then, has to. The way Katya is looking at her, like she can’t seem to choose just one thing to stare at, is making Trixie want to shove her hands inside of those tight pants and haul Katya against her.
In the car she rolls the windows down and cranks up both the heat and the volume on the CD player. She sings at the top of her lungs, elbow propped on the door and her other hand holding the wheel in two fingers. It’s freezing cold in the car and she’s shivering in her seat, barely able to grip the wheel in her numb hands, but her face is still warm.
When she moved here she was fully prepared to be the only gay person for miles and miles. It doesn’t bother her; growing up in Wisconsin desensitised her to that. But now here is Katya, beautiful and enigmatic and funny and asking to see Trixie again.
Dolly can tell that Trixie is excited and it’s infectious; she hops around while Trixie unpacks the few groceries she picked up. Trixie feeds her treats, crouched down on the kitchen floor to let the dog eat out of her palm and give her scritches behind the ears.
Trixie has always enjoyed anticipation. Bob used to complain at her, irritated by the way she would spend an hour or more gussying up before coming to bed. It makes her feel attractive and irresistible, to make herself wait. She leaves the gift bag on the dining table for the whole afternoon and refuses to even look at it while she makes dinner. After she’s cleaned up and all of the animals are down for the night, she settles cross-legged in the middle of her bed to open it.
There’s a tube of the lotion she tried, which makes her smile. She’s been smelling her hands all afternoon. There’s an aloe face cream that professes to be good for redness, and a candle that has the same scent as whatever essential oil Katya had been burning. Underneath everything else in the bag is a little notecard with the store’s name and logo on one side, and on the other Katya’s name and the store address. And at the bottom, hand written in red ink, is a phone number.