He could see her everywhere, in damn near every room he went. Of Maydeen, he could barely find any hint at all. It was the strangest thing. His ex-wife’s clothes were all over the house, but when he looked at them, he saw Elsie. Elsie was in the goats that came up to the porch for milking and in the warbling crow of that cussed the rooster out back. She was in the wax-dipped rolls of cheese hanging from the rafters in the cellar, along with the dozen or so pint jars of honey and about four shelves stacked with a variety of canned vegetables. He went outside and found the remains of a summer garden, bedded down under a mound of mulch, manure and leaves for the winter. All of that had to be Elsie. As far as he knew, Maydeen had never gardened a day in her life. She’d never canned either. She’d barely cooked. Speaking of cooking, what was that smell wafting out from the kitchen? Elsie must be making dinner. It smelled heavenly. His feet began to move him back through the house, following the smell although he knew this certainly had to be yet another of Elsie’s war-shots.
