| Small and perfect, Eve entered the world. She was born in a shack in Northern Ontario, to a mother who wailed alone in pain and fear. The child�s first night was spent sleeping in the top drawer of a dresser, for lack of a proper cradle. The cries of mother and child (of shame, of want) disturbed the thin quiet of the dark. Thus passed their first, and last, hours together. Naked within a tiny pink blanket, the newborn was taken by its trembling mother into the countryside, and left on the doorstep of a large farmhouse. It was the orchard, the tended gardens, the pens of chickens, sheep and goats, and the high stone walls with the singular open gate that convinced the young mother to leave her there. The lambs were bleating that morning. The orchard�s many fruit-bearing trees waved in the gentle breeze, hidden birds twittered in their depths. Large black crows pecked at the fallen ripe apples. She abandoned the small baby girl, whimpering, with the note ~ It is not good that she should be alone ~. Eve grew up on the farm, knowing only a little truth about her birth and her mother. Abandoned, she thought with disdain. A bastard. Unwanted. She carried those names with her; they were the stains on her jacket, the holes in her socks, the bruises on her kneecap. William, the owner of the farm, raised Eve from the moment she was found. Although he lived alone, the friendship of the animals kept them both company. By day, he prepared and delivered the child�s lessons. He illuminated the outside world for her, describing and naming unseen concepts and beings - her only teacher, her only guide. He busied himself writing novels throughout the night while chain smoking and drinking glasses of gin. Over dinners, he related his stories to Eve, asked her opinion. She laughed at his bizarre character names. �You need to create distinct names. Ones with personality,� he explained. �You�re Eve because you arrived on the eve of a new era in my life. You marked my change from a grouchy recluse to...� �...to a grouchy recluse with a child,� she continued. A cat nudged her ankle, demanding a fresh bowl of milk. In the corner, a garter snake writhed in a shoe box. An ant ran, a crumb in its mouth, across the red checkered tablecloth. �That�s what my editors love, though. Distinctive names,� William said, and fingered his cigarette. �They don�t want any more Joes, or Annes, or Tommys. They want Bellas, Chases and Lavonnes.� He drew in the smoke, released it and watched it rise to the ceiling. �And Eves?� she asked, eating a candied fig, smothered in honey. �And Eves,� he replied, smiling. On her tenth birthday, Eve received a letter. It was placed in the farm�s mailbox, without a postage stamp. It had no name on it, but featured a crude drawing of a birthday cake. She knew immediately who it was from, and she feared the envelope�s contents. The woman who only existed in those ten written words, the woman without a face and without a name had reappeared after years of silence. Alone in her bedroom, Eve opened the envelope. It was empty. For the first week after receiving her birthday note, Eve waited by the front window, straining to see if any cars stopped on the lonely road in front of their house. It was difficult for her to seem so anxious, staring out at the world like that, since William knew nothing about the birthday note. He was oblivious, lost in his world of names. �Is there something interesting out there?� William asked, and sat beside her. �No,� she replied quickly, and half-turned from the window to face him. She smelled the rank stench of alcohol on his breath � the first drink of the day was in his hand, almost finished. His novel must not be going well, she thought. It was only three o�clock. �I was waiting to see if that big crop duster was going to come by again today to spray Gowan�s soybeans.� William smiled and downed the rest of his drink. �Alright, cupcake.� She hated when he called her those kinds of names � Cupcake, Sweetie, Pumpkin. It was further proof of his slow, drunken decline. Eve could say unequivocally that William loved her as a father loves a daughter, but he was never the gushy kind of man. She was �Eve� to him, simple �Eve,� with no other nicknames unless he was drunk. She loved him too, but he was not always the epitome of a responsible adult. When he hit an episode of writer�s block, he drank throughout the day, forgot her lessons and left her to find solace in the outdoors. But when he was on a roll, the sentences and paragraphs flying like magical sparks from his fingertips, he was delightful and made her chocolate cakes garnished with plump cherries. William sauntered away, and she heard him splash more alcohol into his glass. The door to his study eased shut, and Eve turned to face the gate. The flag on the mailbox was up. She received several messages over the next few weeks. They were always short, never signed, and hand-delivered. Before and after the notes were little ~ signs, doodles really. But to Eve, they resembled the snakes that she tracked and caught in the springtime when they shed their skins on the rocks. Despite these The notes always came when she wasn�t expecting them. She would be chasing wild rabbits, under trees and red-budded bushes, or observing toads when she would notice the red flag up on the mailbox. With the cream envelope in hand, she hid in her room or under an apple tree to read its secretive contents. ~ I�m near ~. ~ You are ever-present in my heart ~. ~ Keep smiling, it is not yet autumn ~. After a month of notes, Eve received a different kind of letter, as if written by a stranger. It was still in the nameless woman�s handwriting � her little i�s were all dotted, the tails of her ts were all curled, the ~s were all perfectly formed. Instead of it being a vague message of inspiration and hope, it read, ~ I want to meet you ~. |
| Eve |