Shelter in Place by Alexander Maksik Page A

dressed as if she were on her way to some chic gallery opening.
    All of us in front of the tree, Claire giving my father a blue silk tie he’d never wear, my mother a kit of makeup she’d never use.
    One night before she went back to New York, she took me to dinner at a nice restaurant downtown where some older guy she knew worked as a waiter.
    I’m sure my mother saw Claire as mannered and ridiculous, but she seemed so elegant and sophisticated to me. The way she flirted with her friend, and so effortlessly ordered us wine.
    â€œHold the glass by its stem, Joey,” she said.
    I tried to make fun of her. There had been a time when I could have quickly embarrassed and provoked my sister. But now I was powerless.
    She smiled at me with the tolerance some adults have for the innocent.
    She wanted to know what I would do, not after high school, but after college, with my life.
    Of course, I had no idea and told her so.
    â€œYou’ll get out of here, though, right? You won’t hang around and become a carpenter.”
    â€œI guess,” I said.
    I was sixteen. What did I care? But she was adamant about me leaving.
    â€œListen,” she said. “Don’t get stuck, Joe. There’s so much better.”
    I tried to make fun of her again. I said, “A few months in New York, and suddenly you hate your home.”
    But she didn’t laugh. “I don’t hate it. But also, it’s not all of a sudden. Anyway, there’s more out there to have, that’s all. Remember that. You can go anywhere you want.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “But I like it here.”
    She smiled at me. “Well, you are the baby.”
    â€œFuck off. What do you want to do? What great thing do you want to do?”
    â€œI don’t know yet,” she said, “but it won’t be here. I won’t end up a fucking nurse.”
    We’d taken my mom’s Volvo to dinner and when we pulled up to the house, Claire didn’t get out of the car. She turned off the engine and the lights, rolled down her window and lit a cigarette.
    â€œSo, now you smoke?”
    â€œYou want one?” She held out her pack of Camels.
    I shook my head.
    â€œGood boy, Joey.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek.
    I turned away from her even though it made me so happy when she did that. We looked at the house and through the window we could see my parents standing in the kitchen, clearing the table.

24.
    O ut toward the eastern edge of the clearing, a small stand of cottonwoods has appeared. Or I’ve just now noticed it. The trees obscure my view and their fluff blows all over the house. It gets stuck in the screens, between the deck planks. I went out there with a bow saw and cut them to the ground and then went below it and took them out at the roots. It felt good to do it. To be working all day in the sun. Cutting those trees away. Keeping things in order.
    But then as I was coming back home I found a wide patch of Scotch Broom, one of those invasive species we’re supposed to kill on sight. Despite its cute little flowers, it’s an aggressive little fucker and swallows everything in its path. I hear it can kill horses, too. Tess rolled her eyes when we found the flyer in our mailbox. I admit, it was a little hysterical. All those exclamation points, language as if the weed were Satan himself. Beware the curse of Scotch Broom scourge!!!!!
    But I keep an eye out all the same. This is farm country and people don’t fuck around with these things.
    I took the machete from the garage and just before sunset, I hacked those invaders to death.

25.
    T hey sent my mother down to White Pine, one hundred and fifty some-odd miles southwest of Seattle. September seventeenth she traveled. She accepted all of it without contest. Despite my father’s best efforts, she insisted on a public defender, who took a plea bargain.
    Twenty-five years to life.
    â€œI did what I did,” she told