pocket and takes out more than the task warrants.
“It’s okay,” she says.
“What do you mean, it’s okay?” my dad asks. “Are you doing community service or are you making beer money?”
He hands her the money and she takes it.
“Thank you,” she says.
They look one another in the eye. I feel for him. He must miss having young company. He and Cully would snowboard together all the time. Cully had gotten him off his skis and onto a board years ago. Sometimes they’d take the shuttle and when they got off, walking with their boards tucked under their arms, beanies pulled down, from a distance, they’d look the same age. They’d look like friends. I wish I could see this again.
“Come back tomorrow,” my dad says. “Then I’ll really put you to work. Bring better gloves next time. Or hey, I have some for you.” He looks at me, excited.
“We have all this stuff if you want it,” my dad says. “Do you like rap? Or punk rock? New and old school. We’ve got tons of records, I mean CDs you can have. We’ve got gloves, hats—”
“They might be big—” I say, feeling a possessiveness.
“Books,” he says. “ You can have it all.” He says this last line like a salesperson, then bats his hand in front of his face, swatting away his own joke.
She looks at me and seems to register something in my expression though I’m trying my best to remain blank.
“I should go,” she says. She leans the shovel against the rail—a shoveler who borrowed our shovel. Our street is so quiet I feel as though we’re on a stage. A soft spray of snow is beginning to fall.
“Really,” my dad says, less enthused this time. “We really do have a lot of things you could use. You’re welcome to come in and take a look.”
I don’t object. Something about her reassures me, an intelligence and sensitivity. My first inclination was to say, “It’s mine,” followed by the desire to hide, to not let her see who we are, what’s happened to us. But my purpose is to clean out. So why not come in and shop his life? It would be nice to have her want something, to put his things to use. I imagine her with one of his books or one of his sweatshirts, something of his going on her adventures.
“You should,” I say. “Come in. We’re cleaning things out.” I don’t want to say the things belonged to my son who is dead, not yet. She’d feel like she was in a horror film. “My son has outgrown them,” I say instead, and exchange looks with my dad.
“I need to go,” she says.
“Snowboards, movies,” my dad says. He is let down. “So much. A ski pass. I bet you could sell it. I guess that would be illegal. Clothes, but they’re boys’ clothes. You don’t want boys’ clothes.”
“Dad,” I say. I touch his shoulder. “Next time.” We need to let her go now.
“Oh,” Kit says. She looks confused, alert. “I thought you were husband and wife.”
We both laugh and she looks at us, concerned. My dad revels in her mistake, but I watch her carefully. Something has shifted. She is not at all amused by the innocent mistake. I don’t know what I should say or that I need to say anything. I don’t think I’m capable of dealing with anyone more unusual than myself.
“Nope,” I say. “This is my dad.”
“Thank you, though,” he says. “You made my day.”
She looks like she has more to ask but is holding back.
“It was nice meeting you both,” she says, rushing now toward the steps. “Thank you for letting me . . . do this.”
“Thanks for your help,” I say. “Be careful.” I look at the top of the ice-covered stairs that they never got to. The ice has little dips in it like a golf ball.
“Your book,” my dad says. She turns and looks at the black book on the railing.
“It’s for you,” she says. “It’s a calendar.”
“Okay,” my dad says, and we watch her go. She walks fast as if we’ve said something that has offended her.
“That was different,” I say. “You
“It’s okay,” she says.
“What do you mean, it’s okay?” my dad asks. “Are you doing community service or are you making beer money?”
He hands her the money and she takes it.
“Thank you,” she says.
They look one another in the eye. I feel for him. He must miss having young company. He and Cully would snowboard together all the time. Cully had gotten him off his skis and onto a board years ago. Sometimes they’d take the shuttle and when they got off, walking with their boards tucked under their arms, beanies pulled down, from a distance, they’d look the same age. They’d look like friends. I wish I could see this again.
“Come back tomorrow,” my dad says. “Then I’ll really put you to work. Bring better gloves next time. Or hey, I have some for you.” He looks at me, excited.
“We have all this stuff if you want it,” my dad says. “Do you like rap? Or punk rock? New and old school. We’ve got tons of records, I mean CDs you can have. We’ve got gloves, hats—”
“They might be big—” I say, feeling a possessiveness.
“Books,” he says. “ You can have it all.” He says this last line like a salesperson, then bats his hand in front of his face, swatting away his own joke.
She looks at me and seems to register something in my expression though I’m trying my best to remain blank.
“I should go,” she says. She leans the shovel against the rail—a shoveler who borrowed our shovel. Our street is so quiet I feel as though we’re on a stage. A soft spray of snow is beginning to fall.
“Really,” my dad says, less enthused this time. “We really do have a lot of things you could use. You’re welcome to come in and take a look.”
I don’t object. Something about her reassures me, an intelligence and sensitivity. My first inclination was to say, “It’s mine,” followed by the desire to hide, to not let her see who we are, what’s happened to us. But my purpose is to clean out. So why not come in and shop his life? It would be nice to have her want something, to put his things to use. I imagine her with one of his books or one of his sweatshirts, something of his going on her adventures.
“You should,” I say. “Come in. We’re cleaning things out.” I don’t want to say the things belonged to my son who is dead, not yet. She’d feel like she was in a horror film. “My son has outgrown them,” I say instead, and exchange looks with my dad.
“I need to go,” she says.
“Snowboards, movies,” my dad says. He is let down. “So much. A ski pass. I bet you could sell it. I guess that would be illegal. Clothes, but they’re boys’ clothes. You don’t want boys’ clothes.”
“Dad,” I say. I touch his shoulder. “Next time.” We need to let her go now.
“Oh,” Kit says. She looks confused, alert. “I thought you were husband and wife.”
We both laugh and she looks at us, concerned. My dad revels in her mistake, but I watch her carefully. Something has shifted. She is not at all amused by the innocent mistake. I don’t know what I should say or that I need to say anything. I don’t think I’m capable of dealing with anyone more unusual than myself.
“Nope,” I say. “This is my dad.”
“Thank you, though,” he says. “You made my day.”
She looks like she has more to ask but is holding back.
“It was nice meeting you both,” she says, rushing now toward the steps. “Thank you for letting me . . . do this.”
“Thanks for your help,” I say. “Be careful.” I look at the top of the ice-covered stairs that they never got to. The ice has little dips in it like a golf ball.
“Your book,” my dad says. She turns and looks at the black book on the railing.
“It’s for you,” she says. “It’s a calendar.”
“Okay,” my dad says, and we watch her go. She walks fast as if we’ve said something that has offended her.
“That was different,” I say. “You
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