Morse Code in the Bush by Katrina Spillman

Mathilda sat down like a falling piano, her mother’s prized Louis XVI chair exhaling a thousand dust mites in protest.

“Come now, it can’t have been that bad.”

She sighed. “It was that bad. Worse maybe. For starters, the man whistles. All the time. Constantly.”

Her mother’s knitting needles clacked together in a series of taps so familiar they were soothing. Morse code for “Go on…”

“Where did you find him?”

Her mother shrugged one shoulder without missing a purl. “Maisie from church. He’s her nephew. She said he was into some kind of competitive sport.”

“Try hot dog eating.” Mathilda tucked her feet under her. Her middle toes had started to go numb whenever she got a chill. Just one more way she was getting older. One more obstacle to overcome if she wanted to marry a good man, God Willing, from outside of the village. Hi, I’m Mathilda. My mom is my best mate, and I have a weird and possibly alarming circulation issue developing. But don’t worry lads, it’s only the middle toe of each foot. Who even needs ‘em?

Her mother waited, two unconvinced amber eyes speculating from under unwieldy gray eyebrows that used to be copper. “So the man eats hot dogs.”

“Competitively. The man eats hot dogs competitively.”

Her mother made a soft sound in her throat. It was equal parts meh and bah.

“And what’s worse, he’s never even won first place. Closest he ever came was second. It’s his life’s dream to take the hot dog gold, ma. Is that what you’re longing for? A son-in-law who takes second place at a hot dog eatin’ contest?”

“Well, you’re no spring chicken.”

“I’m thirty-five.”

“Almost thirty-six.”

“And that’s when standards expire?”

Her mother grunted.

Mathilda breathed in to the count of four. Held it for four. Released all at once. “He took me to a graveyard after dinner,” Mathilda said, relishing the momentary shock that flashed across her mother’s face before she could restore the mask of disinterest she mastered when Mathilda was still young.

“Why’s that?” her mother couldn’t keep from asking.

“To meet his wife. His dead wife. So he could pray to see if she would approve of me.”

Finally, the knitting needles stalled. A perfect cast waiting. Each stitch held it’s breath. “Christ! What would he do a thing like that for?” Her mother shoved the half-scarf down into her lap. “I had a hope for this one. What a cad.”

“You’ll have to accept my fate as an old maid, I’m afraid.” Mathilda rose, crossed to her father’s old pipe box and pulled out his beloved mahogany pipe. She produced a pouch of tobacco, pressed in a thumbful of spicy nostalgia and struck a match.

“So you’re done hiding the smoking from me, I guess?” Her mother raised one brow.

“What’s the point, Ma? It’s just you and me and the bush. Besides, you said once a couple of women on the bush were better off without the follies of men. I think you might have been right.”

“I should never have told you that.” Her mother sighed, but the needles began to click again. Morse code for “I love you.”