father and new brothers and sisters?”
“Most likely.”
“It doesn’t seem right,” I say.
“What doesn’t seem right?”
“Us not knowing where she is.”
“That’s the way it has to be, Nicky.” He opens his door, signaling the end of the conversation.
“Dad?” I ask.
“What?”
“Why can’t we have her? We could go get her and have her with us.”
The idea is both appalling and sublime. In my twelve-year-old mind, I have conceived the notion of supplanting one baby with another. As soon as I say the words and catch a glimpse of my father’s face, I see what I’ve done. But as a twelve-year-old will do, I become defensive. “Why not?” I ask with the petulant tone of the aggrieved and misunderstood, a tone I will shortly learn to master. “Didn’t it make you feel like maybe Clara had come back to us? That maybe we’re supposed to have her?”
My father steps out of the truck. He takes a long breath. “No, Nicky, it did not,” he says. “Clara was Clara, and this baby is someone else. She is not ours to have.” He looks over at the barn and then back at me. “Help me get these groceries in the house before the ice cream melts.”
“Dad, it’s
twenty
out,” I say. “The ice cream isn’t going anywhere.”
But I am saying this to my father’s back. He has shut the door and taken a bag of groceries from the back of the truck. I watch him walk toward the house, grief a hard nut inside his chest.
T hat night the snow freezes again, and a ferocious wind blows. I wake to the sound of limbs snapping under the weight of the ice. The cracks resound like gunshots—some muffled, some as sharp as fireworks. The noise rouses me from my bed at daybreak, and I wait at my bedroom window for the light to come up. The woods beyond the cleared lot is littered with broken trees, their branches bent to the ground, as though a hurricane had come and gone.
I hear my father on the stairs. I put on my bathrobe and slippers and find him in the kitchen standing beside the Mr. Coffee, waiting for the machine to fill the pot. He’s leaning against the sink in his stocking feet, his arms crossed against yet another flannel shirt. His jeans are the same ones he’s been wearing for a week, and I note that his beard can no longer be called stubble.
“Dad,” I say, “maybe you should shave.”
“I’m thinking of growing a beard.” He rubs his chin.
“Maybe you should shave.”
A trickle of coffee emerges from the coffeemaker.
“Trees keep you up?” he asks.
“They woke me up.”
“Lot of clearing in the spring.” He bends slightly to look out the window. “I’m worried about the roof with all this heavy snow and ice. The pitch is too shallow in the front. I should have done the roof in the fall. I hate roofing.”
“Why?”
“I get vertigo.”
“What’s vertigo?” I ask.
“Fear of heights. I get dizzy.”
This is a fact I haven’t known about my father. I wonder what else I don’t know. He pours himself a cup of coffee. I open the fridge and take out the milk.
“I should get up there and shovel,” he says.
“I’ll help you,” I say with enthusiasm. The idea of being able to climb onto the roof and survey our little kingdom is an exciting one.
“I hate roofing,” he says, “but on the other hand, I don’t relish the idea of a crew hanging out here for the duration of the job.”
This goes without saying.
“Another week,” he says, “and then you’re out for Christmas vacation.”
At Christmas, my grandmother will come, as she always does, and cook for us and put up stockings and “make a good Christmas,” as she likes to say. My father will go through the motions, but I like the cookies and the cloved oranges and the sight of presents scattered around a tree.
“You’d better get dressed,” he says, “or you’ll miss the bus.”
“You think we should check first? That maybe it’s another snow day?”
“I think you should get dressed,” he
“Most likely.”
“It doesn’t seem right,” I say.
“What doesn’t seem right?”
“Us not knowing where she is.”
“That’s the way it has to be, Nicky.” He opens his door, signaling the end of the conversation.
“Dad?” I ask.
“What?”
“Why can’t we have her? We could go get her and have her with us.”
The idea is both appalling and sublime. In my twelve-year-old mind, I have conceived the notion of supplanting one baby with another. As soon as I say the words and catch a glimpse of my father’s face, I see what I’ve done. But as a twelve-year-old will do, I become defensive. “Why not?” I ask with the petulant tone of the aggrieved and misunderstood, a tone I will shortly learn to master. “Didn’t it make you feel like maybe Clara had come back to us? That maybe we’re supposed to have her?”
My father steps out of the truck. He takes a long breath. “No, Nicky, it did not,” he says. “Clara was Clara, and this baby is someone else. She is not ours to have.” He looks over at the barn and then back at me. “Help me get these groceries in the house before the ice cream melts.”
“Dad, it’s
twenty
out,” I say. “The ice cream isn’t going anywhere.”
But I am saying this to my father’s back. He has shut the door and taken a bag of groceries from the back of the truck. I watch him walk toward the house, grief a hard nut inside his chest.
T hat night the snow freezes again, and a ferocious wind blows. I wake to the sound of limbs snapping under the weight of the ice. The cracks resound like gunshots—some muffled, some as sharp as fireworks. The noise rouses me from my bed at daybreak, and I wait at my bedroom window for the light to come up. The woods beyond the cleared lot is littered with broken trees, their branches bent to the ground, as though a hurricane had come and gone.
I hear my father on the stairs. I put on my bathrobe and slippers and find him in the kitchen standing beside the Mr. Coffee, waiting for the machine to fill the pot. He’s leaning against the sink in his stocking feet, his arms crossed against yet another flannel shirt. His jeans are the same ones he’s been wearing for a week, and I note that his beard can no longer be called stubble.
“Dad,” I say, “maybe you should shave.”
“I’m thinking of growing a beard.” He rubs his chin.
“Maybe you should shave.”
A trickle of coffee emerges from the coffeemaker.
“Trees keep you up?” he asks.
“They woke me up.”
“Lot of clearing in the spring.” He bends slightly to look out the window. “I’m worried about the roof with all this heavy snow and ice. The pitch is too shallow in the front. I should have done the roof in the fall. I hate roofing.”
“Why?”
“I get vertigo.”
“What’s vertigo?” I ask.
“Fear of heights. I get dizzy.”
This is a fact I haven’t known about my father. I wonder what else I don’t know. He pours himself a cup of coffee. I open the fridge and take out the milk.
“I should get up there and shovel,” he says.
“I’ll help you,” I say with enthusiasm. The idea of being able to climb onto the roof and survey our little kingdom is an exciting one.
“I hate roofing,” he says, “but on the other hand, I don’t relish the idea of a crew hanging out here for the duration of the job.”
This goes without saying.
“Another week,” he says, “and then you’re out for Christmas vacation.”
At Christmas, my grandmother will come, as she always does, and cook for us and put up stockings and “make a good Christmas,” as she likes to say. My father will go through the motions, but I like the cookies and the cloved oranges and the sight of presents scattered around a tree.
“You’d better get dressed,” he says, “or you’ll miss the bus.”
“You think we should check first? That maybe it’s another snow day?”
“I think you should get dressed,” he
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