Free Fever by Sharon Butala

all but slavered at the sight of the teenage girls, their books in their arms, passing by from the nearby high school. He waved his still muscular arms, his small, deep blue eyes gleaming darkly.
    “Forty years,” he whispered, leaning close to me so that I couldn’t look away. “Forty years section hand. Work! I tell you we work.” He held out his thick, gnarled hands as evidence. He made a fist, he bent his arm at the elbow and touched his bicep, looking meaningfully at me. He was about to go on, but someone knocked on the door. We had been so intent on each other that neither of us had noticed anyone passing the window. He rose hastily, his chair rocking noisily from his hand thrusting against its back as he stood, and opened the door.
    A small, grey-bearded, slightly stooped old man peered up at Nick. He was dressed in a creased black suit that appeared to be made of a heavyweight cotton. The jacket had no collar and his plaid shirt was buttoned up tight against his wrinkled throat. He wore heavy black boots and a black hat too, and he was grinning, exposing a row of strong-looking, yellow teeth.
    “So, Benjamin!” Nick boomed. “I not see you for long time! You sick?” I’m sure they heard him at the post office, two streets over.
    “Want to buy chickens? I got good chickens,” the old man said. Without waiting for Nick’s answer, he turned to go back to the big van I could see idling at the curb, in front of my car. “I show you,” he called over his shoulder.
    “Make damn sure they got both leg!” Nick bellowed. I couldn’t tell if he was teasing or not. “I don’t want no more busted chicken!” The old man hurried down the narrow sidewalk, flapping one hand behind him as if to say, don’t be silly. Nick stood in the open door, his body blocking out all but a halo of light above his shoulders and around his head. The old man passed the window again. When he stopped, I could hear him panting.
    When their transaction was finished, I watched Benjamin go back down the sidewalk and climb awkwardly into the van. As soon as he had shut the door it pulled away.
    “Damn Hutterites,” Nick muttered, but without rancour. He took the two dripping, plastic-wrapped chickens into his bedroom, and I could hear the opening and closing of a fridge door. He had closed off all the rooms except the kitchen and the adjoining room which appeared to be his bedroom. He came back into the kitchen wiping his hands on his pants.
    “What’s the matter with them?” I asked. He shrugged.
    “Always selling,” he said vaguely. “You want to buy my house?” My heart gave a leap against my ribs and sweat broke out on the back of my neck. I took a drink to cover my nervousness.
    “I’d like to talk to you about it,” I said, setting down my glass.
    “Have more,” he roared, and filled my glass again. His mood changed abruptly and he sighed heavily, the lines around his mouth turning down. “I want to die in Old Country,” he said. “Have brothers, sisters there. I go home.” He looked sadly at the wall behind me where a small window between the cupboards gave a cramped view of the hills on the western edge of town. “I die with my people.”
    I doubted his honesty, he doubted mine, but we managed to strike a deal in a fairly short time. I knew I was being reckless, but I didn’t care. I was desperate to have the house, to live in it, as if some hidden part of myself that my conscious self didn’t have access to, had taken over my will.
    I declined his offer to stay the night with him, I had no idea where he thought I might sleep, and went to the hotel. The next day I drove him to the neighbouring larger town where there was a lawyer, we drew up the papers, I wrote a cheque, and the house was mine.
    Nick asked for a month to sell his furniture, which I had said I didn’t want, and to make his arrangements. I hoped privately that a month would be enough time. I didn’t like his size with its hint of brutality,