Just North of Nowhere by Lawrence Santoro

toes as he waded. The water was not cold, having worked a slow river-mile from town through the sun in the flats.
    “Hey,” he called to the place. Day was darker across the water in the shade of the bluff; it was cooler in the breath of the deep forest. “Hey,” he called again.
    His voice came back from the trees in a dozen busted pieces. Big wings went flapping in the woods.
    “I don't know what you think, there, but you know I ain't letting you keep that bike,” he said. “I fixed a car for it!” he added in case anything was keeping score.
    A sharp quack of guitar and accordion came from the house. Far away in the forest, something called out.
    The path to the porch was dry and sandy. A few smooth pebbles pressed into the sandy ground when Bunch put feet to them. Felt good under bare feet.
    From its side of the river there was nothing strange about the place. Closer he got, the more like an old shack it looked, the sweeter got the radio music. Music from his radio. Warm air came off the place. Even the high sun seemed cool, the world chilly, compared to the warmth coming from the place. The light from inside got red and flickery like a good fire. No, fewer and fewer funny things there were about the place, closer he got.
    Through the almost open door Bunch caught a glint of bright metal.
    “Cripes,” he said aloud. “I am getting old and odd...”
    Around the sides of the place the thicket of tall autumn flowers breathed such a sweetness: a little like good sweat and a little like...well, he didn't want to say what! An easy wind – one he didn't feel – made the flower heads bob: orange and russet nods, green hands waving. And they were! They were kind of lovely with their own nice smell and pretty petaled faces, green welcome waves.
    Maybe, he thought, maybe he'd take some down there to Crista- what’s her name? He'd get his bike in a minute—and sure, there it was, inside, across that red, red porch and through the little open door—inside that sweet old warm house was his bike. He'd walk in and get her, nothing strange this pretty early autumn morning, and on his way back, he’d pluck a few bright flowers for the lady. And now, now he was looking close, damn, the place was showing a lot more solid than from across the creek, that other side. It did. It looked like it could be made up pretty good.
    He squinted with thinking as he figured. This might be a good place to settle, grow some things out back. Clear the stumps – work he always liked – put in some corn, tomatoes. Some spuds. Other things. And that music! That music sounded like a good day's work in the sun, sweat rolling off him, a good smoky fire in the cool of night, after, all the good things promised by the job, waiting at the cool end of day. And good food, strange food that ate good! He could carry a lot of beauty on that pretty bike, his bike, carry fall flowers on his bike, his music streaming around him all the way down Slaughterhouse to Cristobel's stoop. Her name: Cristobel Chiaravino.
    Before he knew what, Bunch was on the porch. The house wood was warm and giving under his feet. His feet, clean, now, and the skin soft from his walk across the warm cool water of Papoose creek and the cleansing pebbles of the path. The wood – the wood of the porch, the walls, the place – was from another place; not Bluffton-milled. Nope. Whiter, this stuff was, where it was white, and redder, more fragrant, where it was red.
    The door widened. “Come on in, why don’t you?” it damn near said. Across the room, there, his bike shivered, its chain rattled, tires squeaked against the floor. Happy to see him, Bunch figured. The radio purred and its music danced the air between them.
    Damn if it wasn't all so pretty. The world was filled with pretty, the air with sound, smell, and the flash of the thin wings of dragonflies and damsels. Bunch barely walked. The room rippled him forward. A fire crackled in the hearth. He reached to touch the bike