Bevington Martensdale

The dark blue 1989 Ford pick-up was heading home. Almost like an old western movie, Bevington thought. Just me and Old Paint, riding off into the sunset, going home.
Home, now there's a word Bev had always shunned. Home meant farming, basketball, not fitting in, and mom. Well, it's been decided. It's me, I am the one to go home and take care of the farm, to support mom to do whatever has to be done. Okay, so I had been contemplating coming home anyway. Home was beginning to mean other things too; how about consistency? What about boring? Safety? Expectations? Oh man would would mom want now? A girly-girl? A giggler, a flirt? Ahhhggg! Why did I agree to do this?
The first drop of rain splattered the windshield, hard. It startled Bev out of her reverie. "Well, Paint, at least you'll have somewhere to run when we get to the farm." The old, black lab raised his head and panted a smile.
I hope the Hendersons have the corn in Things will be different with me in charge. For the first time in five years, our crops will be harvested first.
"Paint, what did the weatherman say?" Bev asked as she turned the dial to the old familiar farm channel she had heard blaring out each morning at five a.m., which was dad's way of saying 'Rise and Shine!' Can this be the same guy I've heard all my life? He must be 100 years old? Beans are down? Down? Did the Hendersons contract them or did they sell them directly out of the field? Are we paying any storage?
"...rain is forcasted for the area through the end of the week." "It looks like a we harvest this year." I hope the corn is in! Why didn't I leave a week earlier? What was holding me? My job? My life? I can't believe how easy it is to fall back into the farm mentality. Okay, Bev, you promised yourself you'd not give up some of the things that were part of your life in L.A. You could go to the city to see some plays, the local University had visiting operas and symphony companies. But you'll do all these things alone, you won't want to go, but you will. The fear of being alone was why you left and it's also why you're coming back.
"Rest stop ahead, ya wanna run baby, ya need to relieve yourself, huh?" Paint jumped from the floor to the pick-up's seat and looked expectantly out the windsheild at the sound of Bev's most talking-to-a-baby voice.
Bev slowed the truck to the posted 25 miles per hour. She wondered how in the heck you could from 65 miles per hour to 25 miles per hour in the short distance between the interstate and the off-ramp without slamming on your brakes and risking a neck injury.
Wow! This is a crowded stop. Well, it's probably the intermittent rain. Nothing makes you as tired as the hypnotic slap, slap of the windshield wipers. "Come on baby, the rain's let up - let's go for a walk, ya wanna, huh?" Paint threw himself out of the driver's side door as soon as Bev's booted feet had touched the damp pavement.
"Wait, you big 'ol baby, I gotta put the leash on!" Paint stood patiently while Bev snapped the red canvas strap to Paint's collar. Poor baby, he's so used to this chain. I can't wait to get him to the far where he'll have the whole yard to run in. Where he won't have to be so quiet, where he can be a dog, be himself, follow his natural instincts. Oh man, I'm starting to sound just like Mom. "It's unfair to keep a dog in the city." "That dog is too well-behaved, it isn't natural!" Well, I've heard her say the same about the grandkids. How can my brothers and sisters stand it? Mom's criticism would account for my coming home to take care of the farm rather than any one of them, who live closer.
Bev smiled to herself. Mom's criticism, my lack of a marriage, my lack of responsibilities. Hey, what about my intelligence? My ability to farm? Who helped Dad, always? Who wanted to farm? Who planted corn instead of attending her senior prom? Who walked beans and detasseled corn every summer of her teen life so that she could buy calves to raise? Calves the good old system wouldn't let her show at 4-H competitions because only boys could show livestock. They wanted her to enter a sewing or cooking project first, then they might let her show calves. Well, she'd beaten them, she had Bill show them for her.
Bev clapped her hands and Paint came around the picnic table and jumped on Bev's knees. "Hey you 'ol pig-baby, yer wet, aren't ya?" "Don't jump on me!" "Did you do yer business?" "Are you ready to hit the road, head home, huh?"
The next fifty miles sped by. The rain started up again, this time in earnest. The drops were big and round and they sounded cold when they hit the windshield. The wipers were on low and they made Bev irritated with their inability to keep the glass clear. But putting the on high caused them to make a screech that made her teeth ache.
Bev turned the heat up a little and dialed the knob to 'mix'. Paint snuggled down on the floor directly next to the heater vent, made a big doggy-sigh and went contentedly to sleep. The radio was tuned to a classical station that didn't too much static interference. Bev would definitely miss the L.A. orchestra season. The windshield wipers could finally be put on low and left there, and Bev could see just fine. Their hypnotic slap, slap, the faint symphonic music, and the heat made conditions just right for Bev to finally put her mind to the real reason she was going home.