now?”
“He’s sitting across the dinning room here at the lodge.”
“You’re out to lunch? You went fishing?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“I’ve made a list,” she continued, the tone of her voice suddenly businesslike, “trips to the doctor’s office for fertility-or pregnancy-related visits: fifty-two. Number of prescriptions filled for fertility-or pregnancy-related drugs: no fewer than thirty. Number of injections: roughly two hundred. Cumulative full days missed at work: fifteen. Number of times you’ve had to jack off over some dirty magazine in the doctor’s office: eight. Number of miscarriages: three.Number of ectopic pregnancies: one. Number of dead fetusus: five.” She paused. “Number of hours spent in paralysis, bawling my pathetic eyes out: a million. Do you get the idea, Noah? I need you to come home. If it doesn’t work this time, I can’t go through it again. This is it.”
Noah looked at his father. He squeezed his eyes shut and pictured the old man laboring up the hill from the lake.
“Are you listening to me, Noah? I have a scar on my arm from where they’ve drawn blood the last three years. I have permanent bruises on my thighs from the injections.”
“My father is dying. He lives alone in the woods. He has to drive eight miles just to use the nearest pay phone.”
“He’s dying?”
“That’s what he says.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“He won’t go to the doctor.”
“But he can go fishing?”
“I know. I said it’s hard to explain.”
“Would leaving for one day matter?” she persisted, though clearly she was less emphatic.
The truth was, he did think one day was going to matter. He thought an hour mattered now. But he didn’t say anything.
“Then I’ll come there,” she said after a moment.
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll get a flight on Friday. I’m in meetings the rest of today. I have to go.”
“You’re coming here?”
“On Friday.”
“It’s not an easy place to find,” he said.
“I’ll MapQuest it.” And before he could protest she hung up.
He stood there in stark amazement, the idea of her coming to Misquah sinking in slowly. This sort of impulsiveness was not one of her character traits—though conviction of this magnitude was—and he realized again how single-minded she had become. He tried to imagine her sitting in his father’s cabin but could not see it.
Before he went back to the table, he called his sister. When she did not answer, he hung up, realizing any news of his being at their father’s house would alarm Solveig.
A S THEY MADE the slow drive back to the house Olaf looked at Noah and said, “You always did wear it around on your sleeve.”
Noah had been studying the roadside. “What’s that?”
“Whatever’s troubling you.”
Noah turned to his father. “I hope you don’t mind more company.”
“What do you mean?”
“Natalie’s coming.”
“She is?”
Noah turned his attention back to the woods. “It’s hard to explain. It’s ridiculous, really. And embarrassing.”
“Out with it already.”
“Well, she’s ovulating.”
“Ovulating?”
“Like now’s the time she could get pregnant.”
Olaf slowed the truck, pulled over, and stopped. “She’s coming here to get pregnant.” A smile spread across his slack mouth. “You’re a lucky man.”
“We’ve been trying for years.”
“That’s one of the best parts of marriage,” Olaf said, persisting with his sailor’s wit.
Noah thought to turn the conversation but realized his father was trying to make things easier for him. It was a gesture of simple kindness. Now a smile spread across Noah’s face. “I guess you’re right about that.”
THREE
The blunt head of the splitting maul, stuck in the oak stump, looked like clay. Noah had his hand on the smooth ash handle. “I’m falling behind,” Olaf said, sweeping the back of his hand lazily toward a pile of sawn oak.
“How much more do you need?” Noah
“He’s sitting across the dinning room here at the lodge.”
“You’re out to lunch? You went fishing?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“I’ve made a list,” she continued, the tone of her voice suddenly businesslike, “trips to the doctor’s office for fertility-or pregnancy-related visits: fifty-two. Number of prescriptions filled for fertility-or pregnancy-related drugs: no fewer than thirty. Number of injections: roughly two hundred. Cumulative full days missed at work: fifteen. Number of times you’ve had to jack off over some dirty magazine in the doctor’s office: eight. Number of miscarriages: three.Number of ectopic pregnancies: one. Number of dead fetusus: five.” She paused. “Number of hours spent in paralysis, bawling my pathetic eyes out: a million. Do you get the idea, Noah? I need you to come home. If it doesn’t work this time, I can’t go through it again. This is it.”
Noah looked at his father. He squeezed his eyes shut and pictured the old man laboring up the hill from the lake.
“Are you listening to me, Noah? I have a scar on my arm from where they’ve drawn blood the last three years. I have permanent bruises on my thighs from the injections.”
“My father is dying. He lives alone in the woods. He has to drive eight miles just to use the nearest pay phone.”
“He’s dying?”
“That’s what he says.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“He won’t go to the doctor.”
“But he can go fishing?”
“I know. I said it’s hard to explain.”
“Would leaving for one day matter?” she persisted, though clearly she was less emphatic.
The truth was, he did think one day was going to matter. He thought an hour mattered now. But he didn’t say anything.
“Then I’ll come there,” she said after a moment.
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll get a flight on Friday. I’m in meetings the rest of today. I have to go.”
“You’re coming here?”
“On Friday.”
“It’s not an easy place to find,” he said.
“I’ll MapQuest it.” And before he could protest she hung up.
He stood there in stark amazement, the idea of her coming to Misquah sinking in slowly. This sort of impulsiveness was not one of her character traits—though conviction of this magnitude was—and he realized again how single-minded she had become. He tried to imagine her sitting in his father’s cabin but could not see it.
Before he went back to the table, he called his sister. When she did not answer, he hung up, realizing any news of his being at their father’s house would alarm Solveig.
A S THEY MADE the slow drive back to the house Olaf looked at Noah and said, “You always did wear it around on your sleeve.”
Noah had been studying the roadside. “What’s that?”
“Whatever’s troubling you.”
Noah turned to his father. “I hope you don’t mind more company.”
“What do you mean?”
“Natalie’s coming.”
“She is?”
Noah turned his attention back to the woods. “It’s hard to explain. It’s ridiculous, really. And embarrassing.”
“Out with it already.”
“Well, she’s ovulating.”
“Ovulating?”
“Like now’s the time she could get pregnant.”
Olaf slowed the truck, pulled over, and stopped. “She’s coming here to get pregnant.” A smile spread across his slack mouth. “You’re a lucky man.”
“We’ve been trying for years.”
“That’s one of the best parts of marriage,” Olaf said, persisting with his sailor’s wit.
Noah thought to turn the conversation but realized his father was trying to make things easier for him. It was a gesture of simple kindness. Now a smile spread across Noah’s face. “I guess you’re right about that.”
THREE
The blunt head of the splitting maul, stuck in the oak stump, looked like clay. Noah had his hand on the smooth ash handle. “I’m falling behind,” Olaf said, sweeping the back of his hand lazily toward a pile of sawn oak.
“How much more do you need?” Noah
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