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Moving along....Chapter 7 I woke up this morning earlier th..
🕑 Added 2023-05-08 18:30:31 +0000 UTC Moving along....Chapter 7I woke up this morning earlier than expected and super-refreshed, so I decided to go for a run. Apparently, I had a good night’s sleep for once, as I didn’t seem to have any crazy dreams. I don’t think I dreamt at all, actually, which speaks to how damn tired I’ve been from NOT sleeping well these past couple of weeks. I’ve been slacking with my fitness since I’ve been home, and to be honest, I really want to look good for this weekend, so it felt great to finally get my ass in gear.
I’ve just gotten back to my room, post-run, and I take some time to stretch out on the floor. When I stand back up, planning to head to the bathroom next to take a shower, I notice through my north window that Frank is out at the barn. He’s standing at the fence in front of a water tank that the cows drink from and I assume he’s filling it. There’s a spigot with a hose at the front corner of the barn that’s always used to fill that tank, and with a closer look, I see that the hose is in the tank. He must have just gotten there and turned it on, because I didn’t see anyone out there when I first returned.
I walk over to the window to shut the curtains again, but I stop. I don’t know why, but I just stand there watching Frank, and I become very curious to know more about him. Even though he’s been on this farm for decades, I realize that I don’t know much, other than that he lives a few miles away in an old house, by himself. Where is his family? Did he ever have one?
I’m completely zoned out while watching him, silently pondering his life story, when he looks up and directly over at my window. At me. Can he see me behind the glass? I assume, since it’s daylight, that the reflection from the outside would make it difficult to see in, but when I reach up to pull the curtains, something makes me pause again. He’s wearing a John Deere hat and I see him lift his hand up to the brim and give what looks like a little nod. Just like that same nod I envisioned in my daydream. Did he just nod at me? Like a hello? I look around and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else out there with him that he could be nodding to.
I take a step back from the window, to see if I lose his attention, but he actually squares up even more in my direction. I keep staring back at him and the intimacy of the moment makes my heart start beating faster. My adrenaline is picking up and it’s bringing out that girl in the mirror from yesterday. I can’t fight it. I turn my back to the window, breaking eye contact with Frank, and it’s the first time I’m noticing how the full-length mirror on my wall is opposite the window and I can still see Frank in the reflection, albeit from a more distant perspective. It’s becoming a thing to watch Frank in mirrors, it seems. He’s also still watching me.
My whole body feels like it’s buzzing now and without thinking too much about it, I slip my fingers under the band of my sports bra and pull it up over my head. I watch myself in the mirror as I do it and, in the reflection, I see Frank take a couple of steps away from the water tank towards the direction of the house, staying along the fenceline that separates the yard from the neighboring pasture. I pretend I don’t notice, since I don’t think he can tell that I can see him in the mirror, and I continue. I kick my running shoes off by the heels, using my toes, and slide my thumbs behind the waistband of my spandex shorts. Slowly and deliberately, I slide the stretchy material down my hips and over my ass. I bend over as I push the shorts all the way to my ankles, stalling in that position while I use my hands to free my feet from them. I’m trying my best to be graceful. I glance up into the mirror and I know Frank is getting a full view of my ass in my thong, because he’s taken yet another couple of steps along the fence towards the house.
Feeling empowered by having caught his attention to this level, I stand back up and reach for the waistband of my thong next. I peel it down, feeling the moment that my pussy bares itself to the open air, and I inhale sharply at the rush it gives me. There it is, that bend. That simple movement that just took this from rated R to X rated in the blink of an eye. Although, I don’t think Frank is blinking right now.
I stand back up and turn sideways to the window, keeping my attention on the mirror, and simulate checking myself out, giving all the girly poses we do when we try on an outfit. I run my fingertips from my shoulders, down over my breasts, my waist and finally, back to my ass. I see Frank's reflection start walking backwards, back to where the water tank is, and I feel so discouraged that he’s retreating, that I instinctively turn straight to the window and start walking back up to it. It’s as if I’m “following” him. Like there’s a string he’s pulling backward with him and I’m attached to the other end.
I’m now standing in the window, totally naked, just as he stops at the tank. Both of us are perfectly still for a moment, staring in each other’s direction. Then all of a sudden, Frank lifts his hand back up to the bill of his hat and nods, turns around, shuts the water spigot off to the hose, and walks away, totally out of view.
What was that? And where did he go? I’m not sure what I expected to happen next, but for some reason I’m annoyed that it ended like that. He walked away. Did he not like what he saw? Is he fucking with me? I feel like I should’ve been the one to walk away first, to shut the curtains on him, or to cover up and leave the room. What was with the head nods? Maybe I should be creeped out by it, but honestly, the mysteriousness of it has me more curious than creeped.
I flip the curtains shut more aggressively than I expected to, knocking one side of the curtain rod off of its anchor. Damn it, now I’m all flustered. With a big sigh, I grab my desk chair, slide it over to the window, pick up the curtain rod and step up to rehang it. It’s right then that I realize I am now stark naked on a chair in front of my window, and I feel so exposed. A little late for that, Fiona. I quickly finish hanging it, pull the curtains closed (more gently this time) and leave to go take my shower.
When I finish and head back to my room to get dressed, my mom is in my room putting away my laundry.
“Mom, you don’t have to do that. I can do my own laundry now,” I remind her before adding, “but I do appreciate it. Thank you.”
“Honey, I don’t get to have you home very often, so believe it or not, I want to do this for you. It’s funny what you don’t think you’ll miss, until it’s actually gone.” The way she said it was so full of sadness to me. I can feel her loneliness in it.
We used to do everything together, but with me being away the majority of these past couple of years, I can tell my absence has taken a toll on her somewhat. She seems like she’s aging faster or something, but that could just be from me not seeing her every day. Instead of a slow, steady progression that seems unnoticeable day by day, I’m only seeing new snapshots of her every few months. It makes a big difference.
“Oh, by the way,” she starts again. Her back is to me while she hangs something up in the closet. “I didn’t see that white shirt you had on the other day in the load.”
Oh, shit. Why is she so observant about that damn shirt? My face flushes as I scramble for an explanation.
“Oh…yeah…I noticed that it had a hole in it from my fall, so I threw it away.” I feel pleased with my quick thinking.
“Hun, I probably could’ve fixed it for you. You should’ve given it to me.”
Crap. She is pretty handy with a needle and thread, which slipped my mind. Lie better, Fiona.
“I thought about that, but it wasn’t on a seam. Must’ve snagged it on a stick or something. The hole was right in the middle of the fabric. It’s fine mom, it was a cheap shirt.” I think I hit it out of the park this time. I make a mental note that if I ever find that shirt, I have to throw it away immediately.
She lets the issue go, thank God, then picks another shirt out of the basket, and I see that it’s Frank’s, which causes my face to grow even hotter, especially after what just happened in the window.
“I can give this to your father to give back to Frank,” she offers.
Can she please just be done with laundry now.
“No, it’s ok mom, I can do it. Dad didn’t seem to like that he gave it to me to begin with, so maybe we don’t make him do that.”
“Yeah, true. You’re probably right. I just didn’t want you to have to do it.”
“Why not? It’s no big deal.” But as I say the words, butterflies take flight in my stomach and I realize that it’s actually a bigger deal to me than I first thought. Either way, she has me curious.
“I don’t know, hun, I just get a weird feeling about that man. I always have.”
Ok, now I’m extra curious. “Weird feeling? Like how? Why?” I try not to look too interested, but I doubt I’m succeeding.
She gives a small laugh in response. I don’t think she expected me to ask so many questions, so it’s more of a laugh she’s using to stall giving an explanation, than it is that she thinks it’s funny.
“I guess it’s a lot of things.” She backs up two steps and sits on my bed, looking up to the ceiling like she’s seeing an invisible list up there and trying to figure out which “thing” to start with. I follow her gaze, trying to see that list too, wondering how long it could be. She lets out a sigh as she starts, “Well, when your dad first hired him, I was like thirty…..six, I think. And I looked a lot like you, believe it or not,” she says with a shy smile. “I looked more like I was twenty-something still and I was thin. I hadn’t had you yet. Anyway, Frank was about the same age at the time and I know this will sound conceited, but I always felt like he was checking me out. He’d walk into the house to grab a pop out of the fridge to take back out with him and he’d just linger a little too long. He’d compliment me often — my hair, my clothes, things like that. You’d think I’d enjoy the attention, since you know, your father isn’t exactly the over-complimentary type, but it was the way he did it that grossed me out. He didn’t come off as just friendly when he’d say it. It was more….leering? If that makes sense? I don't know…it just wasn’t comfortable.”
“Is that all he did? Give you some compliments in a kinda-creepy way?” I don’t want to sound like I’m downplaying her experience, but it doesn’t seem like a big deal, so I continue, “It just seems pretty typical of a guy that’s the same age as you, when he sees a really pretty girl. I mean, I’m not saying you shouldn’t have been creeped out, but he’s like almost 60 now, so I guess I don’t see how what he did back then has to do with now. Did he do something else?”
She looks back up at that list. Damn, I wish I could see it for myself.
“He did that a lot, so yeah, that was a big part of it. I guess you had to be there.” I might already be, Mom. I take a seat next to her on the bed, realizing I’m still in my towel, then she proceeds, “Have you noticed his fingers?”
She surprises me with the odd change of direction. “What? His fingers? No, what about them?”
“He’s missing two of them, on his right hand,” she explains. “A few years ago, he somehow got his hand caught on some baling wire as it was feeding into the baler and the wire sliced two of his fingers clean off. I think it had jammed or something and he was trying to fix it.”
I gasp in shock. Holy shit! Frank’s words from yesterday replay in my head, when he was giving me his gloves: You’ll need’em to grip the wire. It can cut through yer hand pretty easy. How did I not notice that? Why did his gloves have all 5 fingers? Wouldn’t the empty two get in the way? I have so many questions.
“Oh my God, that’s awful! What happened next? Was his family upset? What did Dad do?” So. Many. Questions.
“Oh, he doesn’t have family,” she answers. “You’ve never learned any of this? I thought I'd told you before.”
“Uh, nope. Unless I was a kid and forgot.”
“No, I wouldn’t have told you all that when you were little.” Right. Why would she? “His wife, Lilly, passed away from cancer not long before he started working for your dad, and they hadn’t had any kids yet. They had just started their own farm, but as soon as she got sick, he couldn’t keep up with it since he was taking care of her, so he sold most of the land, but kept the house he’s still in. I guess he just never bothered remarrying or dating or whatever.”
Suddenly, a wave of sadness fell over me for Frank. I can’t imagine getting married and maybe wanting to start a family, and then your other half gets sick and dies before you two even get to really start your lives together.
“That’s horrible, Mom. Jeez, maybe that’s why he liked hitting on you. He was still grieving and lonely and just mentally messed up.”
“That’s why I didn’t say anything or put up a fuss to your dad about him. I just let it go, even though it still gave me the heebie jeebies. But that’s not the part that bothers me about him anymore.”
As if my interest isn’t already piqued, she just keeps throwing perfect pitches. I look at her with raised eyebrows, urging her to continue the story.
“After the finger accident,” I hold back a giggle when she says the phrase finger accident because I feel like I’ve had one or two of those happen myself, “he filed a workmans comp claim, which we expected, and he did get a payout, but apparently it wasn’t enough to him and he had a big falling out with your dad after that since your dad wouldn’t pay him extra. He quit working here for a while, and then he tried to sue, but he wasn’t successful.”
“Jesus. How much did he get?”
“I don’t remember exactly, it was a while ago and your dad was handling it. I was just happy he was gone. I don't think any amount would’ve been enough for him, though.”
I can see why she didn’t care if he got paid out enough. As long as he didn’t, he and my dad wouldn’t get along and he’d stay away from the farm.
“Ok, so why the hell is he back working here then?” That seems like the next logical question. Although, I still have ten thousand more.
“Language, hun,” she scolds. Oh, shit, I forgot she hates when I curse in front of her. Whoops. I apologize and she finally answers, “I think he realized after a year or so that he was being greedy and he just needed the work.”
“Why didn’t he go work for someone else, then?”
“No one else would take him. A lot of the farmers around here are friends with your dad, as you know, and of course everyone was aware about everything going on. I don’t think anyone wanted to get on your dad’s bad side, even though he really wouldn’t have cared. He’s not catty like that. I guess it just didn’t feel right to them, plus, I don’t know, maybe they were worried Frank would try to pull the same thing if he had an accident with them?”
Yeah, I guess that makes sense. But then I wonder, “what about all the money he got from workers comp?”
“I don’t know. He managed his money terribly — he still might, for all I know. I guess, right after his wife died, he fell into alcoholism for a while, and I think he racked up some debt in the process. But by the time he started working for your dad, he had sobered up. I think he’d just been playing catch-up for years and the money he got disappeared quickly. Or maybe he fell off the wagon after the accident, who knows. I didn’t keep up with any of it after he left.”
Oh shit, this guy has been through the ringer.
“But, he came back to your dad, hat in hand, and made amends. Your dad hired him back and he’s been here ever since, but something about how that all went down still doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Why not? It sounds like they buried the hatchet to me.”
“Well, they don’t really talk much to each other, for one. You know how much your dad likes to chat when he’s out and about. He can’t pass another human being without stopping and having an hour conversation. Right?”
Yep, that’s accurate. He’s either not a man of many words, or he’s all of the words. It just depends on the topic at hand. Farming stuff is one of those topics where he will have all of the words.
“How often do you see your dad standing around chatting with Frank?” She raises an eyebrow as she looks at me, and I don’t know if that’s a rhetorical question or if she’s waiting for me to answer.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I decide to answer. It’s true though, even in my short time at home, I don’t ever see my dad near Frank. That explains why he’s always working alone when I’ve come across him. You’d think that if my dad didn’t fully trust him again, he would want someone there to watch him, in case he purposely tries to have another “accident” in order to try for more money again or something. “Do you think they’re still fighting? I mean, what else is weird besides that they don’t talk or work around each other?” I’ve lost count of my questions, but I’m pretty sure there are at least nine thousand, nine-hundred, ninety-two left.
“Well, it’s not just that your dad doesn’t talk to him much. It’s also that your dad doesn’t talk about him much either. If I didn’t know the whole story, I’d think that Frank doesn’t really work here and he’s just a ghost I see around the farm.”
Whoa, that’s weird.
“Like, dad just pretends he’s not here?”
“Something like that. I mean, I’m sure he gives him instructions on what needs to be done for the day I suppose, but then they just go off to work and usually it’s doing separate things. Frank finishes for the day and heads home, then comes back the next and it’s the same thing all over again. Even during dinner yesterday, when your dad made that comment about this shirt,” she holds it up as she addresses it, “was the first time in a while that I’ve heard him speak of Frank. And even then, I did notice he called him ‘that man’ instead of by name.”
I nod silently at her statement. I noticed that too, but I thought it was just because he got ruffled at the thought of me changing around him. I know now, there was so much more behind his few words. So much more.
“So, anyway, I just don’t want you around ‘that man’ Fiona,” she echoes my dad’s words. “There’s something — unstable about him. I’ll figure out how to get the shirt back to him.”
“No mom,” I stop her, “it’s fine. You know, he actually didn’t seem to care if he ever got it back, so let’s just forget about it. That way no one has to do it. Not you, not dad, not me.”
“I suppose.” She raises her eyebrows. “I don’t know though, he might try to sue us for stealing his shirt.”
We look at each other at the same time and start laughing hysterically. I love my mom’s sense of humor. It’s a bit morbid, so her way of coping with uneasy situations is to make jokes about it. I’m totally the same way.
I take the shirt from her and nonchalantly tell her I’ll just rip it up and use it as dust rags when I clean my room, and toss it onto my bed. She seems to accept that, and proceeds to finish putting away the rest of the laundry while I finally pick out something to wear.
Earlier, she mentioned making a run to the grocery store, so I find something casual — jean shorts and a tank top — and we make a plan to leave in twenty minutes or so. A trip to the store from here is a whole event, since it takes thirty minutes to even get to town, where the closest big grocery stores are, which means we’ll do more than just grocery shop. Much to my dad’s disdain, we’ll also hit up a bunch of clothing stores while we’re at it. He hates my mom’s spending habits, but as she always tells me, “we can afford it, and it’s not like I can take it with me when I’m dead.” Maybe I’ll look for a new outfit for tomorrow night. ;)
