His Nickname was Fencepost

His nickname was Fencepost. Standing as he was, gazing across the field of flowering wheat towards the setting sun, the neighbors could be understandably forgiven. There he stood on the back porch until the final edge of the sun dipped below the horizon. Even then, he waited. The neighbors could not agree what for. Only with the coming of stars, he retired inside, oblivious to the inquisitive looks. 

His parents were at a loss. The teachers no better. He would simply stand there, watching the other children play. Sometimes in class, it was like talking to a brick wall. Or watching paint dry. Or talking to a tree. Or chatting with a statue. Or a dialog with a shadow. The teachers could never quite agree exactly what trying to talk to him was like, but they all agreed on his nickname.

Something about the way he stood. The set of his back. Placement of his hands. Even his short and ruffled brown hair. His slow-moving eyebrows, seeming hesitant to move from their constant vigil above his steady gaze. The doctor had simply shrugged apologetically to the parents. Said that maybe he would grow out of it. The parents were dubious. And yet, people could not help but talk with him. Or more accurately, to him. He rarely spoke back. Rarely even looked in the speaker’s direction. This did not ingratiate him with his fellow students; that was, until one placid afternoon. School was languid with almost-summer energy and her friends had given her a dare. Kiss his cheek, her friends had said. But first you have to talk with him for five whole minutes. Long experience had taught her that they would be counting.

Up to him she walked. He did not turn his head as she stood next to him. She could not help but look the same direction as him, to try and see what he was looking at. All she saw was the distant trees still in the relaxed air. She opened her mouth to speak. Did it twice more. Hearing her friends laugh in the background, her cheeks flushed. Finally words came and suddenly they would not stop flowing. She asked questions, but he took them as rhetorical, as they were. While he watched the still trees, she talked of her life at home. A drunk mother and absent father deployed overseas. How she missed him. How at night she would sneak out to watch the moon and stars on their journey across the sky. How it was better than listening to her brother argue with their mother. How she would wonder if her dad was also looking up at the same stars. How she would return in the small hours of the night, clothes damp with dew, shivering.

He spoke, cutting her off midstream. "Why don't you bring a blanket?"

Taken aback she blinked in surprise, swallowed the rest of her sentence, and looked over at him sharply. He had turned his face, if not his body, towards her. Even slightly raised an eyebrow in question. She looked into his eyes, and only then realized the striking blue-gray storm clouds that looked back. He did not look away as she tried to form a response, her thoughts interrupted by more giggles in the background. Her cheeks flushed anew, but she leaned forward and quickly pecked his left cheek. Before she turned, the only reaction she saw was a startled blink, but if the distant trees had eyes they would have seen a slow smile spread across his face for a time. 

Watching the sunset as he always did, for the first time he did not see the sun.

###

The next day her friends wanted her to kiss him on the lips, and she refused. She used some words she had overheard her mother and brother use, drawing the ire of the teachers who separated them. They looked at her with sympathy, however, giving each other knowing looks in silence. They gently asked her if there was anyone else she could hang out with instead, and her eyes wandered over to him. At least he did not say mean things. Or really, talk.

The next afternoon, Friday before the weekend, she mustered the courage and stood next to him. This day the leaves were lively with the wind and together they watched for a time in silence. She asked him why he did not talk much, and he simply shrugged. A slow movement of his shoulders up and down. Together they watched the trees some more, until inevitably, like the branches bend to the wind, her words began to flow.

How last night was uncharacteristically quiet without mom in the house. That she brought a blanket and stayed out longer because of it. How mom was not there when she returned. Making breakfast with her brother, he had not seen her either. How she was not sure her brother was telling the truth.

She talked about the test on Monday, her weekend plans to get out of the house and hike, and her worries about her missing mom. How she missed her dad. She talked until the school bell sounded.

On Monday, he found himself not watching the trees but instead looking for her. She was not around on Tuesday or Wednesday, either. On Thursday when he asked the teachers what happened to her, they were almost too stunned to respond, but explained best they could. They told him she had a family emergency and went to stay with her grandparents, one town over. So close to the summer, all agreed it made more sense this way.

He accepted their words in silence and went back to watching the trees. Inside though, he wondered about her mom. If her dad would come home. He found himself wondering if her grandparents had a blanket she could sneak outside with her. The trees had no answer for him.

###

It was the day before the start of senior year and his parents were worried. Despite their prodding, he had not said a word about college or even a job he wanted. In hushed tones in the bedroom, they would talk about nighttime security guards. Janitors. Toll booth attendance. The people who keep lookout for fires on distant mountaintops. They were not sure if that was even a job anymore, but agreed it seemed to suit him best. Something he could do that involved watching stuff and not talking. It seemed to be what he was best at, after all. Watching the sunset and the leaves in the wind, they still held the ghost of her image looking back. The next morning, while it was not far, he surprised both his parents by being up early. When over breakfast he asked if he could walk to school, they scratched their heads, glanced at each other, and agreed. They watched puzzled as he walked out the door. He had never asked to walk before.

He walked much like he stood. Upright, with hands moving to definitive locations feet sure to avoid the seams in the sidewalk. He had timed it well and was one house away when she opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. His steps slowed as someone called from inside, causing her to turn with one hand still on the door. He had never seen her dad, but judging by the crew cut and strong build, her father gave her a hug and said a few short words, before she turned, smiling, and walked down to the sidewalk. 

From that day on he walked to school. A month into this new habit, his mother followed at a discrete distance and at once understood. Later than night, recounting to her husband, they both agreed.

And one evening when she came to join his sunset vigil on the back porch, they simply nodded in greeting. Two weeks had passed since that first night. When both parents had thought about it, they agreed; despite her incessant talking, they had not yet heard a response from their son.

###

Christmas had come and gone with improved grades, and they were only mildly surprised when during a dinner he professed the desire to attend the state school. They had heard from the other parents that she was planning on attending. They were glad because it was local enough to visit weekends, but distant enough for him to live his own life. 

Summer came and sunset watching turned into evening walks through the wheat fields. Long after dark, they would return home with dirt on their boots and smiles on their faces.

It was almost too much for him to let go of her hand, and for her to let go of his.