“It’s really comin’ down out there, time to time,” Tom says. He takes his last gulp of coffee — unsweetened, black Carrabassett Backdraft blend. “Ready for more coffee?”
Martha stares past him out the front window, fascinated by the power of the rain. “I worry ’bout the ditch fillin’.”
Seven years ago the ditch had filled, she thinks, flooding the dooryard, leeching a couple inches of water into the stone-walled, dirt-floor basement. Nothing, really, but she worried, because she knew the next time the ditch filled would be trouble. She knew it!
“Well, now, Martha, it’s hard to say.” Tom walks into the kitchen of their small, two-story New Englander. “I remember last year it got purt’ near the top, but the ditch held.” He cleans the filter, puts it back, and adds three scoops of the Carrabassett. “Purt’ near, it was, but I don’t reckon this slapdash rainstorm’ll put it over.” He runs water into the kettle, puts it on the stove, and turns on the burner, counting how many clicks it takes to light: one, two, three, four, five. Five’s too many, he thinks.
Martha sits in silence, still staring, sure that this time her husband was wrong. This time the rain would fill the ditch, and she needed to prepare for it.