Eve of St. John

For Mom, who loves this picture: Eve of St. John, by Peter Hurd. Partly inspired by the poem "Eve of St. John," by Sir Walter Scott. A young girl witnesses her mother's mysterious interlude from a vanishing visitor (Originally written 2013)

Every year on the day before the summer solstice, Mama is always a bundle of nerves. In our county, everyone is preparing for the festivities for the Feast Day of St. John. Even if you don't go to Mass, you still go to town to celebrate. At least Daddy and I do. Daddy's ancestors come from Spain where they celebrate with bonfires and fireworks. Most of the ranchers here are of Spanish decent too.

But something always comes over Mama, like she's going to have a panic attack or something. She hails from New Orleans where they claim that St. John's Eve is a witch's sabbath when they practice voodoo and she will have none of it. She bakes pies and makes me a flower wreath for my hair to celebrate. But she will neither go to Mass nor to the celebration.

Mama would seem flustered for days beforehand and never seemed to be able to focus. Last year, she burned the pies, and I don't think she heard me when I told her three times that my dress had a huge hole in it. Since she didn't mend it for me in time, I only had a plain t-shirt and jeans to wear. I was so angry that she hadn't fixed my dress that I told them I wasn't going and I ran out past our ranch sign and kept on running. I knew Daddy would be worried, but I hid in the brush on the hillside till he left for the festival.

I planned to sleep under the stars that night and make them worry about me, just to spite them. I'd even brought a candle and matches and thought of having my own bonfire. But at twilight, the hair on my arms began to rise and I felt a peculiar sense of foreboding. Looking down toward our ranch, I saw a figure on horseback galloping to our house. Everyone was in town celebrating the Feast Day, so who was this lone rider? Had Mama summoned someone to come look for me? I was afraid I was going to be in trouble and figured it would be best if I turned myself in. So, with my candle leading the way in the dusk, I warily made my way through the brush and across our pasture.

But as I approached the house, I grew more and more fearful, like some supernatural quality emanated from inside. I dismissed the feeling, thinking my Mama's superstitious nature was getting the better of me on St. John's Eve. But the horse, tethered at a post outside, whinnied and stamped its hooves restlessly. Swirls of smokey air rose from the dusty ground, giving it the appearance of a ghostly steed. I didn't recognize the horse and wondered who the visitor was. But before I could gather the courage to enter, I heard heavy footfalls near the door and ran around the side of the house so they wouldn't catch me when the door opened and out stepped the lone cowboy, followed by Mama. The man seemed to emit the same sort of smokey haze like the steam that rose from everything on a cold crisp morning as the sun hit the dew. But it was a warm night, and the man was dusty and well-worn, like he'd traveled a long way to get there. His hat was tipped down low over his brow and I couldn't make out his facial features, except for the typical scruffy hair so common of a drifter. Mama's eyes were red like she had been crying, and she pleaded for this stranger to stay. In a gravelly voice, I heard the man wish her goodnight, and he would come again on the next Eve of St. John. He gently took her hand in his dirty gloved palm and kissed it. She winced but didn't pull away. The cowboy took a step back, whispered goodbye, and quickly mounted his horse. In an instant, he was off riding into the sunset like they do in the movies, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. But then, suddenly, the dust cloud ended and the rider vanished before he'd even reached the gate of the ranch. When the dust settled, it was as if he'd never been there. Not even a hoof print was visible in the dirt by our porch. Mama sank to her knees and cried. I never learned who the man was. But the next day, Mama had her hand wrapped in linen. When Daddy asked about it, she unraveled the bandage and showed him a burn on her hand and said she'd been careless with the pies. "It almost looks like those pies left a lipstick mark," he said, and she smiled a secret smile. Then I noticed another mark, faded and almost imperceptible. But I distinctly recognized the scar in the form of a kiss on her forehead, hidden under her bangs, as she wiped the sweat from her brow. Then I began to notice them elsewhere from time to time. There was one on the underside of her forearm. And another on her neck just below her left ear. And finally, I saw what looked like the imprint of the palm of a hand on the small of her back one day when her shirt rode up as she bent over to pull a pie out of the oven. The marks were faded, but the scars were definitely there. And I wondered if the phantom who'd laid the sizzling kiss on the back of her hand had also left his mark in other places. This year, on the Eve of St. John, when Mama was in a tizzy again, I offered to stay home with her, but she insisted I go with Daddy. I told them I was too old for the festival, but they said that was nonsense. I could think of no valid reason to be excused from the annual celebration. But the next morning, I saw that Mama's lips were raw and swollen, and she said she'd taken a bite of pie before it had cooled. Now I know why Mama's St. John's contribution is always "Cowboy Pie."