1934, Little Hill, Oklahoma
Night. It always happened at night. He sat on the recliner upstairs, always leaving the window open, waiting for a noise, any noise, to pierce the silence. The front yard was vacant, or at least what little he could see of it. The night was nearly pitch black, the stars blanketed by a thick cluster of clouds. He waited anxiously, his glasses pushed up on his nose. He wore a red, fully unbuttoned shirt with a tank top underneath, paired with blue jeans, worn out with patches of dirt remaining on his knees.
In the first couple hours he waited, no particular noises had erupted from the field like he expected. The air remained still, the night remained dead. In the moment, it had seemed like the calmest night he had in the whole week. But his eyes never left the window. There was only so much longer he could wait; so much longer he could stay still, anticipating any movement he’d see outside. He struggled to stay awake, yet ironically, the nights before, he struggled to go to sleep. He leaned against the window, service gun in hand. He opened his eyes as wide as possible, keeping himself close to the lantern he placed on the window sill. For a brief moment, he set down his gun, lit a cigarette, then stuffed the pack back into his pocket. As he stood up, the floorboards creaked below him.
It’ll be any damn moment now. Just a few minutes longer…
After a small break, he closed the window and picked up the lantern. He made his way outside the room, stepping into the narrow hallway. He went down the stairs and into the living room. The couch was pushed to the side of the wall, next to a boarded window. The walls were covered with thin strips of wood with long lines of nails pointing out. Sheets of chicken wire leaned against the wall, next to the door to the outside. He unlocked the door and stepped outside. The calm was getting to him. Never before in the years that he lived in Oklahoma had it ever been this quiet. It had been relatively sound, of course, but the absence of noise entirely bothered him. Crickets would chirp, coyotes would howl…but now no signs of life appeared present. The land was dead. He hated it. He sat down on the porch steps, desperate to hear life again…
He looked back at the door. He noticed a letter that laid in front of it; He must’ve ignored it.
He glanced at the postal stamp. It was from Jefferson City, Missouri.
Mary…
He picked up the letter, but didn’t open it yet. He felt hesitant. But his curiosity got the better of him, and he opened the letter.
Franky,
I hope this letter finds you well. It’s been some time since we last saw each other, and, well…I do miss you, despite our argument a few weeks before. I’ve stayed in Missouri for a while, too long, really. The city is too loud to think clearly. I suppose that’s why everyone seems so shrewd. But it makes me long to go back to Oklahoma, where we could tend to our land, watch the stars…Oh my! It’s most irritating you can’t see the stars at night, so please…let me come back. Ease yourself from these suspicions you have, speculations of some local myth…I just want back at our home. I know you care about my safety, but I care for yours as well. I can’t write much more. I’m rather busy here.
Yours,
Mary
4/7/34