Loneliness could do strange things to a person. In this hollow, the silence was interrupted only by birdsong and the bold creek that ran behind my house. I never dreamed I'd be a widow at fifty-two; if anything, I thought Henry would outlive me. Until the day the heart attack took him, he had the strength of an ox.

My late husband had come from a well-to-do family, but he made sure we always lived within our means. I used to resent his frugality, but I was now grateful for it. I didn't have to worry about money, didn't have to ask my grown son for help. He was building his own life, with a new family, in a city several hours from these mountains.

Time became a punishment, each hour a sliver of solitude that stacked up to weeks and months. Neighbors' visits grew more infrequent. Sunday mornings at church provided little solace, so I eventually stopped going. I might have been angry at God.

I knew I needed a companion, and if God had seen fit to take my husband, I supposed I'd have to play the role of creator myself.

As summer days shortened and a cool breeze hinted at fall, I found myself in the woods beyond my backyard. In jeans and one of Henry's old flannel shirts, I scoured the forest floor for fallen branches. Unlike my father, I'd never been good with my hands. Daddy could carve the finest furniture; he was a true woodworking artist. Though he hadn't put much effort into teaching me the skill, I watched him plenty. 

Now, I dragged tree limbs from their resting places. I lined them up in the too-tall grass, then selected the best candidates. Those I hauled onto my covered back porch. My muscles ached in protest. Still, I didn't rest.

From early morning till near dark, I set about my task. White oak was the most plentiful wood, and it proved to be forgiving of my mistakes. With a set of Henry's tools, I sawed and carved. My husband would have been apoplectic to see what I was doing with his good knives.

By the time October arrived, I had succeeded in carving arms, legs, and a torso. In the process, I'd sliced my palm and a thumb, the cuts deep enough to scar. I'd mutilated several pieces of wood and had to start over before I was satisfied. My spilled blood left a stain in the oak's heartwood, but the blemish seemed fitting somehow.

The head was most challenging, especially the face. I wanted to weep in frustration, yet I kept at it, the knife trembling in my weary hand. Finally, the wood bore a man's features. With painstaking detail, I chiseled out a brow, a clumsy nose, and a gash of a mouth. Sweat dampened my cheeks as I strove to make the lips more lifelike.

Shivering in the fall dusk, I studied my creation. The porch collected shadows as night approached, and darkness softened my companion's expression. Narrowing my eyes, I tilted my head and smiled. I could almost hear my daddy say, "You've done a fine job, Cora."

I carried my new friend into the house, piece by piece. I decided I would set him up in my son's old room. Visitors were rare these days, but I didn't want someone stopping by unexpectedly and getting a look at what I'd made.

I worked into the early morning hours, using wood glue and wire to attach the limbs and head to the torso. My project now looked like something out of Frankenstein's laboratory, but I could remedy that by dressing up the figure in Henry's clothes. I decided on a large sweater my husband had never cared for. Bib overalls were roomy enough for the knobby oak legs. 

I completed the outfit with an old fedora that had belonged to my father. Again, I regarded my work. A giggle escaped me. "Don't you look a sight," I told the figure.

But my smile quickly faded. If anyone had seen me at that moment, they would have believed I'd gone mad. Maybe I was mad. All this work now struck me as pointless. Pathetic, even.

Sick with shame, I hurried to the bedroom doorway and shut off the light. Tomorrow, I'd take the thing apart, undo all my effort. I'd throw it back into the woods where it belonged.

Yet in the forgiving light of a new day, I found I couldn't do it. Instead, I sat in a rocking chair in the corner and talked to my companion, whom I decided to name Edgar. I spent an hour in that room, confessing all my grief and anger at being left alone. I said horrible things about God and even my own son. I admitted how angry I was that my child hadn't visited in months.

Edgar's expression was mild, maybe even a little pensive. Somehow, I'd managed to give him some character. And it did help to talk, even if I was talking only to myself.

Finally, I rose from the chair, feeling a strange emptiness in my chest. Sorrow had an unbearable weight, and I was relieved to be momentarily free from it.

I said goodbye to Edgar and went about doing my chores. Even though no one was here to see, I kept a spotless house. When evening fell, I made a hearty stew for dinner. With a rekindled appetite, I ate as though I were famished.

Following a long, hot bath, I helped myself to some cherry brandy. Since I rarely drank, I was soon tipsy. Tipsy enough to make my way to where Edgar waited in the back bedroom. 

I didn't bother to turn on the light. Edgar's still figure loomed before me, and I grinned like a silly schoolgirl. Moonlight provided enough illumination for me to approach him without hindrance. I caught the scent of freshly cut oak. I swore I could smell Henry's aftershave lingering on that sweater.

Before I could stop myself, I leaned close and pressed my lips to Edgar's. Had I at some point anticipated I'd do such a thing? Maybe, for I'd sanded that wood smooth. No splinters greeted me now.

I knew it was my own heated flesh that transferred warmth to Edgar's mouth. Still, the kiss was pleasant in a way I hadn't expected. To my embarrassment, I felt the heat from my face travel all the way down between my thighs. God help me, I really was lonely!

"Good night, Edgar," I whispered against his lips. 

In my own bedroom, I stripped out of my clothes and didn't bother with a gown. I took my gray hair from its braid. Completely naked, I climbed beneath the covers and let the brandy carry me into a sound sleep.

When I again woke, the darkness surrounding me was palpable. The moon must have set behind the mountains. Yet I was instantly aware of another presence in the room. Pressing a hand to my forehead, I struggled to sit up.

"Henry?" My voice was plaintive.

I jumped at the feel of a hand on my arm. Rather than bolt from the bed, I froze. The familiar odor of oak wood filled my nostrils, but the skin touching mine was distinctly human.

My visitor didn't speak a word. I felt the mattress sink beneath his weight. All at once, I began to tremble. I was guided downward, back onto the bed. Though my body remained rigid with fear, I didn't struggle.

Somehow, I found my voice again. "Edgar?"

In response, he planted a kiss on my forehead, and on each cheek. His mouth dipped to claim mine, and my eyes grew wide when his tongue slipped between my lips. 

I realized I had a choice: I could admit I'd truly gone insane, or pretend this was all some kind of dream. A vivid hallucination, perhaps. A tormented mind was capable of great deception.

By slipping my arms around the figure nestling against me, I chose the latter option. Madness was a far more terrifying possibility than a fantasy.

And what was the harm in it? To imagine that Edgar had morphed into a flesh-and-blood lover.

Despite my shock, my body responded to his attention. His fingers (fingers I hadn't given him, for I hadn't felt skilled enough for such fine detail) teased my nipples, and he took each peak in his mouth. He lingered over my breasts the way Henry did when we were first married. A moan escaped my throat. Already, I could feel I was wet with arousal.

Beneath my palms, I felt Edgar's hot skin, then silky strands of his hair as he inched lower. His tongue was warm and wet as it tasted my inner thigh. I spread myself wider, my breaths coming fast. 

He devoured me with an enthusiasm Henry had never shown. I cried out as he licked and suckled, his mouth working in a manner I'd only dreamed about. In the process of creating this man, had I instilled my deepest longings within him?

With a gentle finger, he entered me. He was careful, so careful, his skin free of the calluses that marred my husband's hands. I bucked my hips like a harlot, eager for more.

Edgar settled upon me, and I gasped to feel a man's hardness pressing between my legs. I certainly hadn't given him that fine detail, either!

Unable to resist, I reached to guide him inside. He was fully erect, thick in a way I'd never before experienced.

Inch by inch, he gave me his entire length. I marveled at my ability to take it. 

"Yes," I sighed, pulling Edgar closer. As he began to move, I wove my fingers through his hair. A smile danced upon my lips, and in the darkness, I managed to match his rhythm. My body took on the grace of a young woman.

Edgar was quiet, but I made enough noise for the both of us. What was the sense in subduing myself during a fantasy? My moans were full-throated. In my passion, I raked my nails along Edgar's skin.

Seconds before I came, he brought his lips to my ear and whispered, "Cora..."

The orgasm surged through my frame like a comet streaking hot, then shiveringly cold. At the peak, as I quaked in Edgar's embrace, I felt him stiffen. Of course, I knew what that meant. 

And I knew the sensation of a man's seed spurting deep inside me. I welcomed it with another fierce cry.

Afterward, I continued holding him. I feared loosening my grip even a little. Though sleep tugged at my mind, I was reluctant to surrender.

I woke far later than usual. Sunlight flooded my room, and I was alone in the bed, the sheets rumpled as if I'd tossed and turned for hours.

Sitting up, I threw back the covers and searched for evidence that my fantasy was real. I saw no stain on the bottom sheet, yet I couldn't deny the tenderness between my legs. Had I masturbated before drifting off last night?

Disappointment settled in my belly, thickening into despair. The fact that I'd imagined it all made my cheeks flush with new shame. For the sake of my sanity, I would need to disassemble Edgar and return him to the woods in pieces.

The thought of doing so sent a sharp pang of grief through me. I fought back tears while pulling on some clothes. I should spend more time in town, I told myself. Start attending church again. Perhaps I could suggest a visit to my son's house.

I was still planning how I'd fill up my endless days as I strode down the hall. When I reached the living room, I stopped short. My breath snagged in my throat like it was clawing its way out of my lungs.

In the corner, close to the window, stood Edgar. Morning light fell upon his face, highlighting both the skill and many flaws in my work. The fedora was slightly lopsided on his head.

I felt he was regarding me, his lips offering that faint smile I'd tried so hard to capture. Folding my arms over my chest, I gave him a shy smile in return.

"Alright then," I said. "No more hiding you in the back room."

I took a tentative step forward, and then another. Once I stood before my companion, I stroked his smooth cheek. I couldn't help but grin while straightening his hat.

"I have made something fine," I whispered. "Something beautiful."

Edgar's lips were warm when I kissed him.