467. Susan

She sat on a stout three-legged wooden stool, her legs, spread, supporting her elbows. Her rubber boots were splattered with mud still wet from the morning dew, her pant legs neatly tucked in as they always were. He saw the back of her shoulders, fit and petite, working. Lower, the soft curve of her mature wooled breasts nestled snugly in the slingshot of faded denim overalls. She wore a brown leather hat with a shaped brim, old, worn, smart (it was her husband's) and her hair flowed as wheat around her ears, as golden and rich as the yolk of twilight sun. He took a step in the soft mud, its failed suction squealing his arrival. Without turning her head or stopping her chore, she said, "Morning Roger."

The milked Kawai turned its massive indifferent head, nostrils glistening in the morning sun, and looked at Rog with the dull eyes of unembarrassed pleasure. The woman's hands moved in firm strokes, pulling on slick teats tender with nourishment. He watched. And listened. Milk shot into the pail, sometimes hitting the side like rain on tin, sometimes hitting the collected milk with a softer sound. He wondered if she alternated her aim to ward off boredom or whether the left hand pulled in one direction while the right in another. Either way, he didn't much care. Her back was toward him and he couldn't quite tell, but he sensed she knew her audience and the spell every massaged stroke cast. "Morning Susan," he said. She kept milking. He kept watching. And listening.

Susan was twice his age, maybe older. Her husband had passed away a few years ago and although she was completely capable of taking care of herself, Rog's father sent his sons to check on her often. She never objected. Rog worked hard to convey a sense that he did. "How's your father?" she asked, not breaking stride.

Rog moved a step to the side, mud objecting like an irritated younger sibling, to improve his view. He stepped slowly as if to mask his intention, removing his hat under cover of politeness to a position more advantageous to his condition. The sight of those teats in her hands magnified. The sound of each wet stroke, of flesh manipulated with educated purpose was better than any concert he had attended. The Kawai looked disinterested. She had yet to look his way. He hadn't noticed. "He's doing just fine. Mom thinks he works too hard."

Susan smiled. "Too hard." She said. She said some other words too but Rog didn't hear them. There was a tone. He played the words over in his mind as a mint on the tongue, savoring each syllable, committing them to memory, recording the exact nuanced articulation. He would hear these words again later. Like a soundtrack. To his own private movie. "Rog?"

"Yes . . ."

"Rog, wake up," nudged Yul. We're coming to port. Our last stop before we get busy. Now wake up."

Rog rubbed his eyes.

"Baby?" said Yul.

"What?" yawned Rog.

Yul smiled.