Featured Short Story

A Sunset for Claire

It was unusual that Chet Winters drove his tractor into a rut, because he had plowed the field for more then half of his fifty-five years. He knew the location of every rut, rock, and fence post in the field. He tried restarting but the engine stalled.

“Flooded! Dag gone it!” He thumped the steering wheel.

He leaned against the back of the seat and propped his foot against the fender waiting until it could be started. The sun in his face exposed every wrinkle like a sun-baked apple. Years of hard work and anxiety are etched on his forehead. His fat callused hands like little sausage links combed through his long grey strands of hair. Peering over the tops of the spring foliage he squinted at the most incredible sunset he had ever seen. He seldom watched the sunsets. There was simply too much to do.

The sun was like a glowing ember behind blazing wisps of purple and lavender. The clouds stretched above the horizon like silk scarfs freely fluttering in the wind. “How magnificent!” he said.

Chet jumped from the tractor and walked toward the house like a field hand late for supper. He stopped to examine the field and the work he might miss. He waved it away with his hand and continued walking.

A pick-up stopped on the road next to him. The man inside leaned toward the passenger’s door, rolled down the window and said, “I got a chain in the back. I can pull you out.”

“That’s ok. It’s flooded. I’m just walking up to the house.”

“Hop in, I’ll give you a ride.”

“Sure, thanks.”

“I don’t believe I know you,” Chet said. “Your trying awful hard to look like a farmer, but you got city written all over you.”

His clothing was new and stiff.

“I’m Bill Thies,” he said extending his hand. “My uncle Drew lives down the road from you. I’m on spring break from college. Uncle Drew broke his leg and I’m plowing for him.”

“I know Drew. Known him all my life. How’s his leg coming along?”

“He’ll be back on his feet in a month or so.”

“Chet Winters is the name and thanks for the lift.” Chet shook his hand.

“You’re a little old for college aren’t you?”

“I teach there.”

They pulled on to the road.

“I see, a professor. Well I’m a farm-o-cologist.”

The professor laughed and said, “Chet, glad to know you. I hope your not going to hold being a professor against me. I was raised on a farm.”

“Nah, just never knew a college professor before. Well that’s nice of you to help your uncle out. You ought to know if you want to fit in, you better dirty those jeans up a bit and get some cow shit under those finger nails. The lady cashier at the elevator don’t have nails that clean. A… what do you profess?”

“I teach a course in poetry.”

“Claire reads and writes poetry. Poets are all perverts and misdirected liberals. Most are communists. A… Claire’s not one of them though.”

The professor chuckled and said, “Well perhaps some of them are. Sure I can’t help you pull the tractor out?”

“No, I can get it myself. Just give me a ride to the house.”

“Where abouts?”

“Just a half mile down the road. I want to get home before the sun sets and show it to my wife, Claire.”

“It is very beautiful,” the professor said.

“College professor, humph! You can do better then that,” Chet said.

“That certainly is resplendent!” The professor smiled.

“Claire’s got a calendar picture from a few years back of a Pacific sunset hanging in the kitchen. She says it is the most beautiful sunset she has ever seen. We were supposed to go to California a few years ago, but I had a heart attack. Took nearly all we had saved to get me back on our feet. She said the Ohio sunsets are just fine with her, but she’s never taken down that calendar either.”

Chet studied the sunset as they bounced down the road.

“Professor, Ya married?”

“No.”

“Been married for thirty-four years this June.”

“You don’t see many lasting that long,” the professor said.

“It’s easy with a woman like Claire. That sunset reminds me of Claire’s smile. It makes me feel warm. Her smile unfolds like a blooming flower and satisfies like a soft summer breeze that rolls and rustles across a wheat field.”

“You’re a poet Mr. Winters.”

Chet squirmed and ran his hand down his face and said, “I ain’t no poet.”

“There’s nothing wrong with seeing beauty in the things around you and expressing it in words.”

“You’re right there, Claire’s as wonderful as they come. She’s the only woman I’ve ever known. Ain’t never kissed anybody but her either.”

The truck pulled into a stone driveway beside the house. It was a white two story house, typical of midwestern farms. A rusted windmill next to the house twirled madly, sounding like

the rumble of a crop duster.

“Come on in professor. I’ll introduce you to Claire. She’d like to meet you. Did I tell you she reads and writes poetry?”

“Yes.”

“Oh that’s right. Maybe she could show you some. If it don’t embarrass her.”

“I’d be happy to meet your wife and read her poetry.”

Chet walked through the back porch door with the professor behind him. Chet turned and whispered, “Better wipe our feet.” Then he called, “Claire, got company. Drew Thies’s nephew. He’s a poetry professor.”

Chet spotted a stack of newspapers and said, “Should have been burned this morning. I better take care of them before Claire gets on me.”

He sniffed-smelling the garbage overflowing the basket next to the door. “Better take care of that too.” He sat it outside the back porch door and fanned the door open and shut a few

times. “Gotta get that smell out of here.”

“Claire!” he called, “Claire! Come on out here and take a look at this sunset! It’s as pretty as that Pacific sunset! You just got to see it.”

Chet said, “Any minute now she’ll say, ‘Chet hold your horses I can’t drop everything every time you call.”‘

“Claire! Claire! Claire?” He searched the house.

The professor went only as far as the dinning room. The sun cast a dull light through rain specked windows. Although the room was cluttered it seemed empty-void of care or breath. The professor saw discarded unopened mail in disarray on a mahogany table covered by a white lace table cloth. An artificial red rose center piece was laden with dust and entombed by cob webs. The constant tic of an oak table top clock on the buffet slowly relinquished its seconds. Powder blue candles in silver holders stood like sentinels at each end of the buffet. A silver knife wrapped in a white ribbon lay in front a picture of a woman and Chet. The woman was stunning. The professor stared at the woman. The vibrant eyes, large smile, and graceful flowing hair with silver strands made her irresistible. In the picture they were holding the silver knife and cutting their twenty-fifth anniversary cake. The picture had a thin layer of dust also.

Chet entered the room with his head down. He picked up the picture, cradled it in his hand and wiped the dust from Claire’s image with the sleeve of his shirt. He stood idle and tranquil.

“What did I tell you-that’s some smile-right?”

The professor said, “Yes it is indeed an exquisite smile.”

“I’m sorry professor, you must think I’m crazy,” Chet said, “but she’s been dead for six months. Sometimes it gets like this – you just get so used to her being around. I don’t feel crazy – just lonely.”

The buffet clock loudly ticked away the seconds, but it did not drown the quiet whimper of a broken lonely man.

“Of all the poetry I have come to memorize and instruct – the very moment for which such lines were written, none come to mind and nothing seems more appropriate then, I’m so very sorry Mr. Winters. You must miss her terribly,” the professor said.

Chet cleared his throat. “Can you do me a favor.

“Sure.”

“Claire’s grave is a mile from here. I want to be with her right now. Can you drive me to it for just a minute and then maybe you can give me a hand getting my tractor out.”

“Let’s go, I’ll take you there.”

At the graveyard the professor leaned against the front of his truck and Chet stood next to Claire’s gravestone. His right hand stroked the top of the stone. There was a nip in the westerly breeze, but the stone was warm.

“Claire,” Chet said, “You ought to see that sunset. It ain’t the Pacific, but the Pacific ain’t Ohio either.”

Chet walked back to the truck and said, “Thanks professor. Can you take me home now. Let’s forget that tractor.”

“Sure and how ’bout if I read some of Claire’s poetry to you,” the professor said.

“She wrote one called ‘Sunset.’ I think I would like you to read that one.”