Page 56 of Upstate

I’m off work Monday how about I come over before the bookshop opens to help?

Wren would be dismayed by what I’m wearing, but grungy jeans and muck boots are the most appropriate attire for the morning’s project. When Sam steps out of his pickup, I see he’s of the same mind. His cargo pants and floppy hat and sunglasses are all familiar, but since he’s doing this as a personal favor on a holiday, he’s left the monogrammed shirt of the agricultural extension at home. Instead, he’s got on a faded tee emblazoned with the Starfleet Command logo of the United Federation of Planets.

“Nice shirt,” I say.

“It seemed fitting,” Sam says with a shrug. “I’m glad you’ve decided to let the sheep live long and prosper, Audrey.”

I had my doubts, but I keep that to myself. I don’t share how becoming a shepherdess has brought me closer to David’s parents, either. “Like you said, they’re not much trouble.”

“I was thinking we could load the fencing into my truck, then ride out there together?”

“Sounds good.”

I get a look at Sam’s chin before he puts on a mask. The bloody gash has healed into a shiny pink stripe that creates the illusion of a cleft. Instead of marring his good looks, the imperfection adds character to the architectural planes of his face.

“Thanks for helping me out today.”

“No problem.” Sam drives slowly across the lawn, his truck’s tires barely bending the blades of green grass. The extended cab of his pickup is crammed with boots and tools and camping equipment and changes of clothes, but with each item carefully organized, there’s no sense of clutter or chaos.

“I had my neighbor run over the pasture with a brush hog yesterday,” I say. Joe wanted to flatten the whole field, but I insisted he spare a swath of flowers for the bees. Sam follows the rutted path left by Joe’s tractor past the pond to where mown stalks of goldenrod and phlox lazily blanket an acre of ground.

“The sheep are gonna love it out here, Audrey.”

“I hope so.”

The fencing itself is pretty straightforward, with a solar charger for the battery that sends low-voltage current through a mesh of wires so thin and flexible they come rolled around the fence stakes. It’s awkward to set up, though, and I’m grateful for Sam’s pair of experienced hands. Together, we unroll the fencing around the pasture, hammering in stakes every eight feet or so.

To pass the time while we work, I say, “I’ve been wondering where you live, exactly. Seems like you’re always on the road.”

“The territory I cover for the ag extension includes five counties, so I do spend a lot of time in my truck.” Sam’s expression becomes pensive, pained, even, as he unrolls more fencing. “I used to have a log cabin on twelve acres near Saranac Lake. The house was small and dark, but we chose it for the barn.”

I hold a stake for him to hammer into the ground. “‘We’?”

The hammer hangs idle from Sam’s hand as his jaunty optimism falls away like a dropped mask. “I bought it with my ex, Claire. We met at a poetry reading at this little arts center in town. I’d been a park ranger for about a year then. She was in Saranac Lake for the summer with a theater troupe. Anyway, Claire had this vision of staying upstate and starting her own performance space. I just wanted her to stay. I’m not sure she would have, for me, but she loved that barn. It was in great shape, with gorgeous timbers and plenty of space for a stage. Claire said she could see it all in her mind’s eye. I wanted her to realize her dreams, you know? She had some family money and I had my salary, so we took the leap together.”

“Kind of like how I bought this place,” I say. “The leap, I mean.”

“I guess.” Sam stares across the pasture as if seeing into the past. “That first winter was all about making the cabin livable, but come spring, Claire was totally focused on transforming the barn. I helped out as much as I could, but park rangers work pretty long shifts in the summer. I was in the field for three weeks straight when those two murderers escaped from Dannemora. Claire was so scared, she invited an old friend from Connecticut to come stay with her. Turns out, they were more than just friends. By the time one of the escapees was killed and the other captured, Claire had cheated on me.”

“That’s shitty.”

Sam’s casual shrug belies the pain in his eyes. “Life, right? I was hurt, she was sorry, we made up. We managed to pretend everything was fine for another year while she got her theater troupe off the ground, but our relationship didn’t survive a third winter cooped up in that cabin. The whole thing was really her dream, not mine, so I was the one who packed up and moved into town. When she decided to transfer the deed to a nonprofit she’d formed, I signed where she told me to. By then, though, it was like the whole Adirondack Park was a vast reminder of my failure. Taking this job with the ag extension was a demotion, pay-and-prestige-wise, but I needed a change.”

“I know what you mean.” Now would be a good time to tell Sam about David and Covid and fleeing Manhattan, but just the thought of it constricts my throat. I cough and let the moment pass.

“Anyway, you didn’t ask for my whole sad story, did you, Audrey? All you wanted to know was where I live. Well, I mostly camp outside in the summer, but there is a motel in Ticonderoga I check into every week or so. My parents act like it’s a joke when they call me a vagrant, but they’re not kidding.” Sam starts hammering a stake into the ground. “My sister works for a biotech firm in Dallas and my brother’s in graduate school for economics in London. Compared to them, I’m pretty much the family fuckup.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I say. “What do they do, your parents?”

“My dad’s a history professor at U Albany, and my mom teaches in the French department. They’re both big on achievement, obviously, but it was my bà who really pushed us to be successful.”

“Your bah?”

“Oh, sorry. ‘Bà’ is Vietnamese for ‘grandma.’ She moved in with us after my grandfather died and took care of us when my mom went back to work. I’m the oldest, but I don’t measure up to my siblings, professionally. I wish they were closer, to take the focus off me, you know? My parents are great, don’t get me wrong, but making them happy can feel like an impossible task.” Sam hammers in the final stake, leaving the last section of fence open. “How about we go get those sheep?”

We drive back to the barn, hitch up the trailer, and load the sheep. All three lambs (the second pregnant ewe gave birth to twins soon after the first) are bonded well and big enough to accompany their mothers to pasture. Not wanting to breed more animals, though, I’ve decided to leave the ram behind, much to his consternation.

“Managing his reproduction is a good idea,” Sam says, starting the engine. “The ram won’t like being alone, though. You might consider getting goats.”