DEATH OF A MAYFLY - Chapter 12
I watched Tom trace little circles in the gravel underneath the swings, vaguely detailing his life on the other side of the world. I sat at the farthest point from him, still lit by the glow of the streetlight, but found myself leaning in as he shared quiet reflections a handful at a time. He’d worked on his father’s farm all his life; his mother died when he was just a kid. I shared, too, though keeping things at arm’s length, not knowing if I trusted him enough to be honest just yet. I said my husband worked at the depot and that we lived out on the prairie above the river valley, past the tracks. No kids. Tom loved science and wanted to go to university to study chemistry, but his dad couldn’t afford to lose the help and so he stayed. I noticed the tip of his left pinky finger was missing.
“Oh, that.” He wiggled it back and forth. “My friends and I were messing around with a cow doughnut and I got one stuck. I thought Dad would be mad at me for skipping chores so I didn’t say anything until it was too late.”
“A ‘cow doughnut’?”
“Yeah,” he chuckled. “They’re those little green rubber bands farmers use to castrate cows. We used to chew them like gum.”
“Gross.” I dug my toes into the rocks. “So how old are you really?”
“I’m an old man. Turned 36 on my last birthday.”
“Do you have a family?”
“No - no, never had the time. Dad needed me and eventually it just felt too late for all that. After he passed I kept the house and cows, and I still have all of his books of course, but that’s about it.” He smiled but his eyes were sad. “I don’t mind the quiet; you get used to it after a while. Okay, your turn again.”
“Shoot.”
“If you grew up here with your family, went to church, married, have a nice house,” he paused, “why jump off the bridge?” There it was. “Happy people don’t just jump off bridges in the middle of the night.”
“Thirty-six isn’t that old.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
Annoying.
“No, they don’t.” He’d started to make me feel almost comfortable, but his prying reminded me where I was, scooting back to the edge of the light. I really didn’t want to talk about it. “I should probably get home, the sun will be up soon.”
He lay back in the gravel, stretching his arms and legs. “No, it won’t.” All around us mayflies gathered along the railings, fluttering up and down in the one light at the corner of the playground.
“So you really think this is a dream?” I brushed a fly off my knee.
“I know it is. So can you please answer my question?”
I’d probably never see him again. Even if everything he said was true, he lived on the other side of the world. The safest place a man could possibly be.
“Fine. My life is kind of...complicated.”
“Complicated,” he repeated, something he seemed to do when listening.
I don’t know why, but something loosened inside me, the decades-long rubber band around my gut that had held me back from ever allowing anyone else in. Why should I trust this man or even talk to him? At best he was a transient, a vagrant who had no memory of how he got here. I was alone with him in the dark with no witnesses, tempted to trust him completely that I was only dreaming. And if he was like all the rest this would be so easy for him.
But the mirror...
And for the next hour he got a very detailed version of why I had stepped out onto the railing in the pouring rain. I talked about Otis, how much he hated me, about losing the baby, and how dark my life had been ever since. I couldn’t fix anything and it was too late to run away and start over. And even if I wanted to, I didn’t know how to leave. And if I did, he’d always find me. I told him about the nightmares, that I couldn’t sleep knowing she was still up there, that there were times I was sure I was losing my mind. And then I just stopped.
“Oh God, I’m sorry. That was way more than you needed to know.” I couldn’t read his face, frozen and sort of bored-looking over the top of his knees. He twitched.
“Sorry? Sorry about what? Which part?” Now incredulous. “That’s a helluva lot; I’d probably end up on a bridge, too.”
“I know, but I don’t really know you.”
“Hey now, I’ve known you for exactly”—he looked at his watch—”two hours and twelve minutes. We’re old friends now. You know my whole pathetic life story—lonely, vivid recurring dreams—and now I know yours.” He stood up and grabbed my elbow. “Come on, I think we need to go have some fun.” And in that split second I trusted him completely, this farmer named Tom, 36 years old and living alone somewhere on the other side of the world. But was I in his dream, or was he in mine? Maybe I’d created him all on my own, a summing up of a lifetime of thoughts and memories mixed together for one night of fun and conversation. Real or not, I liked him, a lot in fact. He was easy to talk to, and for once I didn’t feel ashamed. And I always felt ashamed.
“Where to first?” He gave a little skip, pulling me along like a child. “In dreams you can do whatever you want.” I’d never done whatever I wanted.
“Hmm. So breaking and entering doesn’t count, stealing food doesn’t count...”
“Nope and nope. Can’t get in trouble if it’s not real.”
We spent the next inexplicable amount of time sneaking in unlocked doors, stealing chocolate from the patisserie, and running around the old fort dressed in buffalo robes and poke bonnets. The river had begun to recede, but the sun never did rise, and we never got tired. Tom found two bikes leaning against the old keelboat at the center of town, and we pedaled down Main Street and around the football field, parking in front of the museum.s
“This is one of my favorite places,” he whispered, leaning his bike up against a post. “We have to be quiet, but I want to show you something.” He pushed his way through a gap in the chain-link fence, holding it open for me. “Come on.”
We ran through the old homestead village behind the museum, lined with combines, tuggers, and gas equipment, going in and out of the shops and houses, the Post Office, the dentist, and hiding out in the big red caboose. Inside looked like a little motel room with bunks and shelves, a spigot on the wall for water, and a small booth with table and chairs. We sat down on the torn leather benches and Tom pulled a pack of playing cards from his back pocket.
“That’s handy. Do you always keep those back there?”
“Yep, I do,” he said, shuffling the cards expertly back and forth. Otis had ruined cards for me long ago.
“So what do you play, Blackjack or something?” He kept shuffling.
“Oh no, I’m not much of a gambler, never had the funds. Dad taught me a few different games. You know Slapjack?” I shook my head. “It’s easy. We each get half the deck, but don’t look at your cards.” He dealt 26 cards face-down in front of me on the table. “On your turn flip the top card onto the discard pile. If it’s an ace then I have four chances to beat it with a face card. If it’s a king, three chances, queen two, and jack one. But”—he held up a finger—”your last card is always a jack. And if your card matches mine either one of us can slap the pile and get the whole thing. The person who ends up with all 52 wins.” It sounded simple enough. But an hour later neither of us had won, stealing each other’s cards, slapping as hard as we could, wincing and rubbing, laughing, going back and forth, grabbing the pile, losing the pile, taunting, laughing some more. I don’t remember if we ever finished, but I do know my sides hurt, a lot.
“You know,” Tom said after a while, “I’m starting to get kind of hungry. You hungry?”
“Yeah.” I’d only just noticed the gnawing in my stomach. Our clothes were dry now and we ditched the white jackets behind a bunk.
“Where should we go? Any place you’ve been dying to try?” He pedaled his bike out into the middle of the street, going round and round under the light. I thought about it—we never went out to eat, or at least I didn’t. Otis sometimes went into town for a cup of coffee with the guys from the Garage, but less and less these days. I’d gotten used to eating alone while he slept, and we never had enough cash for a nice dinner in town. But if nothing counted tonight I knew exactly where to go.
“Follow me.” I sped past him down the street, and we biked through the park and past the bridge, and all the way down to the other end of town by the one blinking stoplight. In front of us stood the ancient and aristocratic Grand Union Hotel. I’d never so much as stepped inside the front door, but always imagined what it must be like to stay in such a beautiful place. I thought of the guests upstairs in fancy staterooms, sleeping in silk pajamas with empty bottles of wine next to their beds.
Tom flexed his bushy eyebrows, impressed. “Well, okay. Good choice.”
I pushed open the heavy door. Inside an elegantly-carved front desk stood just off to the right with a spinning postcard rack on the glass countertop, and an old clock behind it on the wall. Straight ahead the walnut staircase, ornately carpeted in red and gold, led the way to the stately upstairs suites.
“Shall we?” He lifted an elbow.
“But of course,” I played along, and lord and lady made their way to the dining room, flipping on the lights behind the bar as the great crystal chandeliers blinked to life. Tom disappeared into the kitchen and came out carrying a folded white linen tablecloth, two napkins, and two sets of freshly-polished silverware.
“Well, Madame,” he said in his most important voice, “what would you like to eat this evening?”
“Jeez, I don’t know,” I said, breaking character. “Do they have a menu or something?”
“Oh, right.” He disappeared again and came back with two menus.
“Oh my God, the prices,” I grimaced, scanning the pretentiously simple list of entrees.
“Dreaming,” he reminded me.
“Right. Well, then I guess I’ll have the ribeye and a house salad.”
He twisted the wax ends of a mustache that wasn’t there. “A very good choice. Well, medium, or rare?”
“Rare, please.”
“And will you be having a glass of wine with your dinner?”
“Wine?” I’d never had wine before. “Yeah, I’ll have some wine.”
“Red or white?”
“You decide.” He slapped the menus closed and tucked them under one arm.
“Now the fun part. Come with me,” and he held out the hand with its missing finger and I followed him back to the kitchen. “I want to show you something; you’re never going to believe this.” He reached back and pulled a domed silver platter off one of the high oak shelves. “I know how dreams normally work,” he said, “you just sort of get what you get and it doesn’t always make a lot of sense. Not this one.” He held the tray out in front of me. “One rare ribeye, side salad, and a glass of red.” He lifted the lid an inch and hot steam billowed out from underneath. I inhaled the delicious meaty smell of a perfectly grilled steak.
“That’s impossible.” He lifted the lid all the way and there was my dinner, wine and all.
“Bon appetite.”
Whatever this was, dream or hallucination, it was quickly turning into a very good day. I sat down and unfolded my napkin, and he set the food in front of me, then scurried back to the kitchen, returning with a heaping dish of pork ribs, corn bread, and a mound of coleslaw. He leaned over the steaming plate, breathing it in, then tucked the napkin into his collar and dug in like a caveman.
“Shi-it, I haven’t eaten like this since I don’t know when.” He grabbed two ribs, sucking each bone completely bare, the barbecue sauce dripping down his chin.
“Well, let’s hope the queen doesn’t show up,” I snorted. But he was right, neither of us had ever eaten such good food. And it tasted even better not having to worry about manners or etiquette. Meat juice ran down our fingers and faces, and he spilled cornbread crumbs all over the tablecloth and onto the floor. I tried to use my napkin, but it was so small and prissy that I quickly switched to the back of my sleeve. I took a big gulp of wine, squinting until it settled in my gut, then taking another. It tasted sweet and tart at the same time and hurt my throat, but also made my insides warm and relaxed the muscles between my shoulders.
“First time, huh?” He looked knowingly over a half-eaten rib. “Man, what kind of life have you lived that you’ve never had wine?”
“Not great.” I leaned back in the chair, stretching sideways to make more room.
“No kidding. I probably had my first beer before I cut teeth.”
We launched back into stories of our childhood, places and times, people we met along the way, and the influences that stuck with us, for better or for worse. And the food never shrank or disappeared. Like a new-world plate of loaves and fishes, we ate and ate, never full, never hungry, one more thing that had no limit.
Every so often I thought about time, if we’d lost track of it after all, or if he was right that it meant nothing, wherever we were. I didn’t care either way, in no hurry to get back to real life, if ever. I never wanted to wake up. But still I was curious; new at this game.
“How does this go exactly?”
He swallowed a big bite of cornbread. “What do you mean?”
“Do we get to keep doing this forever, like time just stops?”
He wiped his mouth and scooted back from the table. “Not exactly. At some point we’ll go back to our lives, and that may be it.” That sad smile from the park. “It’s been a good day, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah - yeah, it has.” I could hardly remember how it had all started; it seemed like such a long time ago. Had I really jumped in the river, tried to kill myself? I didn’t feel depressed at all now; in fact, I felt great.
“You want to get going?”
I didn’t.
“Okay.” On to the next adventure for as long as we had left.
We biked back toward the park, taking the long way along the river trail this time, circling back behind the pool and out toward the railroad tracks. We stopped to dip our toes in the water along the levee and Tom showed me a little more of his magic, pulling big brown crawdads easily out of the river two at a time. Every so often he glanced up at the lights, watching the mayflies twist around in the orange haze. He was looking for something.
We pedaled slowly up the hill and I could see the depot in the distance, but it looked different. As we got a little closer I realized it didn’t look so old and decrepit, but had a fresh coat of paint and new windows. Someone had left a light on over the lunch counter. We parked our bikes against the cantilever and stepped out onto the tracks. I wondered if there were trains in this world, listening for the whistle, but heard only the crickets and the soft shuffles of a few fallen mayflies in the dirt.
“Want to go climb up and see Shep?” He looked like a kid standing there in the moonlight, wild hair and bare feet. Shep, a sheepherding dog and beloved local legend, was killed crossing the tracks long before I was born. His grave overlooked the railroad high atop a hill, always keeping watch for the trains.
“Sure,” I said, stepping carefully over the second set of tracks. It was a dream, but I still thought about the rattlesnakes that I knew coiled up between the ties at night to stay warm. Tom walked across the third set of tracks and then something happened.
He completely disappeared.
“Tom!” I yelled. “Tom, where are you? Where’d you go?” No one answered. I ran across the tracks where I’d seen him go and then everything disappeared. Complete darkness. I frantically waved my arms out in front of me trying to reach for something to tell me where I’d gone. Then he grabbed me, pulling me back, and I could see again.
“What is it?” he said, still holding my elbow, eyes wide.
“You disappeared. Where’d you go? Everything disappeared.”
“I was right here, Fe; you were behind me. I turned around and you were yelling, but I was right in front of you.” He didn’t let go of me. “And then you just froze, like a seizure or something. You didn’t blink or anything.”
“No, I didn’t. I was screaming your name.”
Tom looked up at the lights again.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
“It’s nothing. Let me try something.” He dropped my arm. “Don’t freak out, I just want to see if this works.” He turned to face me and took a big step backward over the third set of tracks. Tom disappeared again.
“You’re gone!” I yelled. And then suddenly there he was.
“Huh, that’s weird,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Okay, now you try.” I stepped across the tracks and everything turned black. But this time something pushed against me, forcing me back. I felt his hand on my arm again. “What happened?”
“Everything just goes black and it feels like something is pushing on me.” He looked down the tracks and then back up the hill.
“And you can’t see anything at all, can’t move?” I shook my head. “Weird,” he said again.
“What about you?”
“Nothing. I just stepped over and then stepped back.” Again he looked far down the tracks and toward the bluffs. I reached out my hand and stretched it across the railroad tracks, watching the tips of my fingers stiffen awkwardly one at a time, then my whole hand, and then my wrist. I pulled it back.
“Shit. That’s different.” He wrinkled his nose. “I guess this is as far as you’re allowed to go.”
Figures. Stuck even in my dreams.
Tom looked up at the light again and his face fell. “The mayflies are dying.” Sure enough, thousands of the little white flies wriggled around our toes, falling in heaps along the tracks and in trembling piles against the walls of the depot.
“This is my favorite part.” I reached up, catching them in my hands. “It’s the snow, Tom. It happens every year.”
“Yeah, I know.” He watched them fall. “We need to go.”
“What? Why?” But he didn’t answer, pulling me across the tracks toward the depot and back to our bikes. We coasted silently down the hill, zigzagging through side streets as little clouds of mayflies sifted around under our tires, still alive and flopping around on the pavement. I followed Tom, hoping he had something else for us to do, but he pulled up to the pickup, still parked in front of the drugstore.
“What are we doing?” A knot formed around the digesting steak. He couldn’t leave. I didn’t understand why, but he absolutely could not leave me. “I’m not ready to go.”
“I’m sorry, Fe. It’s always like this.” He brushed my cheek, no smile now, just sadness. I wondered how a farmer could have such soft hands. “You go have a good life. Take care of yourself and stop trying to make everyone else happy. Promise me.” His voice sounded urgent.
“Tom.”
“Promise,” he said again, but I didn’t have time to answer. He looked down at the ground and shut his eyes. “Dammit.” And then Tom disappeared.
Copyright© 2025 Eleanor Leonard All Rights Reserved
Ellie is an author, editor, and owner of Red Pencil Transcripts, and works with filmmakers, podcasts, and journalists all over the world. She lives with her family just outside of New York City.
Awesome book Ellie! Loved this Chapter, can’t wait to read the rest.
I do feel tricked. As I usually read nonfiction. But here I am every Sunday enjoying the next chapter.