This place is still raw, the channel between my thigh and pussy. Pink, moist, and rickracked by the hairs of a ghost rope. When I touch the tender strip, the skin stings. The pain calls up a vision of a woman spinning naked on a long cord, her legs spread in a ballerina's arc, fingers grasping the highest knots. I can't reconcile that vision with what I've learned about Mary June. I don't imagine her as a suicidal woman, but a sexual one, with a fascination for the promises of rope.

A fascination like mine.

I went to Mary June's house to work through a dry spell in my Master's thesis. I told myself that I needed silence and distance, but what I really wanted was for time to stop. Two years of graduate school had taught me that I knew almost nothing about my thesis topic, the coiled intertwinings of rural American family life. Most of the roots in my own past had been torn, either by spite or circumstance. When I thought about the frayed strings that bound me to other people, I wondered where I had found the nerve to write about strangers' bonds.

I chose a town within driving distance of the university, a town known for its orchards of crooked apple trees. The house sat uneasily at the outskirts of the little community, leaning on its foundations as if it expected to be forced into flight. A long, scrabbly field separated the house and barn from the main road.

As I drove down the rutted path, I could see my landlady standing in the open doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. That stern silhouette sent a current of guilt rushing through me. It was a guilt I couldn't identify, hot and absurd, almost like a backwash of someone else's shame. She frowned at my tank top and shorts as I hauled in the books that would keep me company that summer.