shade for miles.
His pale figure fits there, Lizzie thinks. Summer too brown and blooming for his sallow skin. Too healthy. She wonders how often he saw the sun in there. Wonders now, left unguarded, how quickly his skin might burn.
Lizzie finishes hanging the last bits of the wash. Joanne’s socks – one pair pink, one blue, one green. A skirt of Katie’s. Brown. Her own floral nightshift. Two towels. Both white. She dumps the clothespins back into the now empty laundry basket, bends and lifts it to rest on her hip, momentarily letting her eyes slip from Jasper’s frame. Spray from wet sheets blows against her skin. Evaporates.
His eyes never leave Joanne. Not even as Lizzie comes to stand beside him, though she is sure he heard her approach, is sure he feels her standing there. The closeness of their bodies intensifies the sticky cling of morning heat. But his head does not turn. He does not
acknowledge she exists. At length, as though to no one, he murmurs, ‘I can’t remember the last time I heard a child laughing.’
Joanne’s chasing the chickens now. Jumping over them. Teasing them with bits of feed. Laughing. ‘She reminds me of you,’ he says. Voice soft, but not a whisper. Not quite.
Lizzie follows his gaze. Makes no reply. Watches her daughter. Sees herself. Sees bits of Bobby that she both cherishes and shies away from. Looks back to Jasper’s stern profile. Says nothing.
‘It ain’t just her looks neither.’ Eyes still on the girl. ‘You had that same spark in you.’
A deep breath to steady. ‘I reckon that was a long time ago.’
He looks at her then, his movement drawing her face to his. Eye to eye. Close enough for their breath to touch. Warm, sticky, stale. Dark eyes drilling into her. Searching. A rawness in them that alarms, makes her want to back away. But she doesn’t. She hadn’t realized how very close she stood to him. When he speaks again, his voice sounds husky, as if it has become part of the deeper shade in which they stand.
‘Has it really been so long?’ Husky, husky, shadowed voice.
His gaze contradicts the softness of his tone, his eyes like two spotlights forced and focused upon her. Relentless in their drilling. Their searching. She turns away. Has to. Shifts the basket from her hip to hold it long and low before her stomach. Presses it against her just to feel the reassurance of the pressure. Even the
shade feels too hot. No breeze so close to the house. ‘A lot’s changed, Jasper.’
He laughs then. A soft, rumbling chuckle. Her brother’s laugh. The one that she remembers. The one that maybe means he’s really home. ‘You’re telling me?’ That softening twinkle in his eyes.
She smiles then. Just a little. Can’t help it. A sad smile, playing with the corners of her mouth, teasing them up. An unfamiliar feeling of late. But it doesn’t stick. She answers, ‘Am I really so changed?’
The laughter drains from his face, leaving it sallower, tenser than before. He looks at her. The same unflinching gaze. The pause between them grows, suspended, uncomfortable. A breath too long held. He looks down. Away across the lawn. Out over the prairie. Beyond. ‘Sometimes,’ he says, ‘I think maybe I’m dreamin’. I think I’m gonna wake up ’n’ find things ain’t so changed. Then I realize I’m awake. And it’s like I’ve always been awake, and truth is, now I forget how good it used to feel to dream.’
Lizzie makes no reply.
A cloud nearly covers the sun, but fails, beams of light and heat burning right through it. A crow lands on the porch railing with its harsh cackle.
One of the hens pecks Joanne’s ankle, and she hollers. Pain and laughter mixed together. Lizzie pulls her eyes away from Jasper. Regrets having come to stand beside him. Buries that regret.
No time for such luxuries.
‘Joanne!’ she snaps. ‘You stop messin’ now ’n’ hurry up ’n’ get ’em chickens fed, you hear?’ She does not look at her brother again. Turns
His pale figure fits there, Lizzie thinks. Summer too brown and blooming for his sallow skin. Too healthy. She wonders how often he saw the sun in there. Wonders now, left unguarded, how quickly his skin might burn.
Lizzie finishes hanging the last bits of the wash. Joanne’s socks – one pair pink, one blue, one green. A skirt of Katie’s. Brown. Her own floral nightshift. Two towels. Both white. She dumps the clothespins back into the now empty laundry basket, bends and lifts it to rest on her hip, momentarily letting her eyes slip from Jasper’s frame. Spray from wet sheets blows against her skin. Evaporates.
His eyes never leave Joanne. Not even as Lizzie comes to stand beside him, though she is sure he heard her approach, is sure he feels her standing there. The closeness of their bodies intensifies the sticky cling of morning heat. But his head does not turn. He does not
acknowledge she exists. At length, as though to no one, he murmurs, ‘I can’t remember the last time I heard a child laughing.’
Joanne’s chasing the chickens now. Jumping over them. Teasing them with bits of feed. Laughing. ‘She reminds me of you,’ he says. Voice soft, but not a whisper. Not quite.
Lizzie follows his gaze. Makes no reply. Watches her daughter. Sees herself. Sees bits of Bobby that she both cherishes and shies away from. Looks back to Jasper’s stern profile. Says nothing.
‘It ain’t just her looks neither.’ Eyes still on the girl. ‘You had that same spark in you.’
A deep breath to steady. ‘I reckon that was a long time ago.’
He looks at her then, his movement drawing her face to his. Eye to eye. Close enough for their breath to touch. Warm, sticky, stale. Dark eyes drilling into her. Searching. A rawness in them that alarms, makes her want to back away. But she doesn’t. She hadn’t realized how very close she stood to him. When he speaks again, his voice sounds husky, as if it has become part of the deeper shade in which they stand.
‘Has it really been so long?’ Husky, husky, shadowed voice.
His gaze contradicts the softness of his tone, his eyes like two spotlights forced and focused upon her. Relentless in their drilling. Their searching. She turns away. Has to. Shifts the basket from her hip to hold it long and low before her stomach. Presses it against her just to feel the reassurance of the pressure. Even the
shade feels too hot. No breeze so close to the house. ‘A lot’s changed, Jasper.’
He laughs then. A soft, rumbling chuckle. Her brother’s laugh. The one that she remembers. The one that maybe means he’s really home. ‘You’re telling me?’ That softening twinkle in his eyes.
She smiles then. Just a little. Can’t help it. A sad smile, playing with the corners of her mouth, teasing them up. An unfamiliar feeling of late. But it doesn’t stick. She answers, ‘Am I really so changed?’
The laughter drains from his face, leaving it sallower, tenser than before. He looks at her. The same unflinching gaze. The pause between them grows, suspended, uncomfortable. A breath too long held. He looks down. Away across the lawn. Out over the prairie. Beyond. ‘Sometimes,’ he says, ‘I think maybe I’m dreamin’. I think I’m gonna wake up ’n’ find things ain’t so changed. Then I realize I’m awake. And it’s like I’ve always been awake, and truth is, now I forget how good it used to feel to dream.’
Lizzie makes no reply.
A cloud nearly covers the sun, but fails, beams of light and heat burning right through it. A crow lands on the porch railing with its harsh cackle.
One of the hens pecks Joanne’s ankle, and she hollers. Pain and laughter mixed together. Lizzie pulls her eyes away from Jasper. Regrets having come to stand beside him. Buries that regret.
No time for such luxuries.
‘Joanne!’ she snaps. ‘You stop messin’ now ’n’ hurry up ’n’ get ’em chickens fed, you hear?’ She does not look at her brother again. Turns
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