Lions by Bonnie Nadzam Page A

greens in the sink, it was 7 PM and silver white moths were on the wing. If the downstairs lights were on at this hour, something was wrong.
    Gordon dropped Leigh off first, at her house a couple hundred feet away, then circled back around, parked the truck, and went through the kitchen into the house where he found his father on the floor breathing heavily, his bare feet on top of two end pillows. His brow was furrowed. Georgianna was in her flowered nightgown on her knees beside him, her long gray hair all around her. She looked up at Gordon, her eyes streaming tears. John shifted his glance to his son. Gordon squatted beside his parents, his heart beating fast and high in his chest. Tree shadows cast by the waning moon spread black veins across the faded wallpaper roses.

There were six rules in John Walker’s shop that comprised not a checklist, but a cycling number of items to be continually considered: be safe; be clean; plan ahead; check your power and connections; take care of yourself; and do the job right.
    It was the first of these Gordon thought of as he drove from the clinic in Burnsville back into Lions to get a change of clothes for his mother, who’d gone in the ambulance in her nightgown while Gordon followed in the truck. The morning was the first promise of what would be a record-breaking hot summer, and under normal circumstances his father would have already been in the shop at this hour, black coffee made, in heavy work pants and a wool shirt. God, the hot days Gordon had spent as a boy in the shop dressed in boots, pants, and wool. The pitiful looks he’d cast at his father.
    You can’t wear cotton and weld, you can’t wear polyester and weld, his father would say as Gordon flushed red and the sweat broke out in beads, a slick sheen on his upper lip and at his temples, under his arms. Set down your torch and get yourself another glass of water.
    In the house Gordon gathered things for his mother: a dress, a light sweater, sandals, her toothbrush, and set them in the passenger seat of the truck. He went into the shop through the side door. No radio. No coffee. All the walls and pegboards painted white for visibility and safety were washed a pale gas blue by the early morning light. The metal of the wheels, wire brushes, cabinets, sockets, ratchets, and clamps gleamed from their ordered places. The cans of Derustit, ChemClean, and Bradford No.1 were all lined up with paint cans in the green metal corrosives cabinet. First-aid kit. Fire extinguishers, one in each corner. The old binoculars. The green and silver Stanley Thermos.
    â€œPeople’s lives depend upon a good weld,” his father had said, and put a heavy plate of ten practice beads before him. This was some years ago. Outside it was high summer. Eighty miles down the highway every kid he knew was out in it. He watched carefully as his father drew his finger over the top of each bead, naming its flaws. “Porous,” his father said, and took Gordon’s finger and ran it over the top of the weld. “Incomplete fusion.”
    â€œPassed it too quickly,” Gordon said.
    â€œCould be.”
    â€œOr the current was too low.”
    â€œExactly right.”
    â€œBut these look perfect.” Gordon ran his finger over the next two.
    â€œThose are the worst,” his father said. “Because you can hardly see anything’s wrong. It’s cracked. Lengthwise.”
    â€œAnd this one at the toe.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œThis one has slag in it,” Gordon said. “And here—you can tell they weren’t pushing it fast enough. Look at that long motion they must have been making. An inch even. Look how wide the bead is.”
    â€œAnd this one?”
    Gordon studied at it, and glanced up at his father. “Cracked?”
    â€œYou’re guessing. Don’t guess.”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œYou’re not operating from a belief system, Gordon,” he