his truck.“I picked up a bucket of KFC in Kamloops.” When Hannah didn’t respond he called, “Where you going?”
She kept her back to him. “To see a man about a fish.”
He glanced at Gina’s house, where he saw a figure watching them from the kitchen window. Gina, undoubtedly, though Grant’s truck was also in the driveway. Jesse raised a hand, but the figure moved away from the window.
Abby whined and Jesse shifted the cooler as he turned to confront his past, this farm that had been his home, not just in his childhood but also throughout his married life. Along with the cattle, the past summer’s plague of grasshoppers had eaten the pastures down to a brown ragged matt. Then the insects had turned to the orchard that surrounded the house, eating the leaves from the apple trees. Small, scarred apples dangled from the bare branches.
The willow by the kitchen door had grown. He had planted the tree the week Hannah was born, assuming that he and Elaine would raise their daughter together here on this farm, his inheritance. Planting that willow had been foolish, he thought now. The roots of the tree had pushed under the house, cracking the foundation on that side. They had likely crept into the septic field as well, fingering their way into the pipes.
The house was as Jesse had left it, the work on the exterior still undone. A stack of cedar siding sat on the front deck; tarpaper flapped by the back door that led into the kitchen. He’d gotten that far putting up the new siding before Elaine got sick; it was a job he could have finished in a weekend if he’d put his mind to it.
The kitchen door was red, and in need of paint, as it had been when Jesse was a child. His father had always referred to this red door as the servants’ entrance, the one he used himself. Stew had told him that his ancestor, Eugene Robertson, the first homesteader in the valley, had indulged his Shuswap wife by allowing her family to enter through this door to visit her in the kitchen. Eugene would not permit them to enter through the front door, nor would he let his wife entertain her kin in the small room that served as a parlour, though she had sat there with Eugene in the evenings. Together, at night, Eugene and his Shuswap wife read the Bible by lamplight, both for her spiritual illumination and so she could practise her reading. Eugene had attempted to exorcise what he viewed as her pagan beliefs from the house so they would not infect the children he had hoped they would have together.
Jesse turned the knob of this ancient door with its peeling red paint but then hesitated before stepping across the worn wood of the threshold. The dark kitchen cupboards and the stove were the same ones he’d known in his teens and young adulthood. But so much else had changed. His wife had been dead eight years, yet he felt the same anxiety and guilt he’d experienced the last night he had come home smelling of another woman, that sweet girl from the reserve who wasn’t yet out of her teens, the new receptionist at the mill where he worked, a girl who hid behind giggles as a child might hide behind bubbles she dispensed from a wand. Her name once again escaped him. It was something young, green.
Fern
. The girl had had a scar on her shoulder, made by human teeth, he’d discovered that evening. Fern had been bitten by awhite man, she told him, when he’d touched the pale crescent. A
white
man, she had said with emphasis, perhaps acknowledging that Jesse had been accepted at least somewhat by his Shuswap co-workers at the mill. That’s all she had said after he’d moved Brandon’s backpack to the front seat and folded down the back of the minivan to accommodate their lovemaking. He had tried to please her, in his way—it had been important to him to please her. He’d circled her small breasts, hid his fingers in the cleavage between her legs until her unresponsiveness told him that she was deriving no pleasure from it, and then he took
She kept her back to him. “To see a man about a fish.”
He glanced at Gina’s house, where he saw a figure watching them from the kitchen window. Gina, undoubtedly, though Grant’s truck was also in the driveway. Jesse raised a hand, but the figure moved away from the window.
Abby whined and Jesse shifted the cooler as he turned to confront his past, this farm that had been his home, not just in his childhood but also throughout his married life. Along with the cattle, the past summer’s plague of grasshoppers had eaten the pastures down to a brown ragged matt. Then the insects had turned to the orchard that surrounded the house, eating the leaves from the apple trees. Small, scarred apples dangled from the bare branches.
The willow by the kitchen door had grown. He had planted the tree the week Hannah was born, assuming that he and Elaine would raise their daughter together here on this farm, his inheritance. Planting that willow had been foolish, he thought now. The roots of the tree had pushed under the house, cracking the foundation on that side. They had likely crept into the septic field as well, fingering their way into the pipes.
The house was as Jesse had left it, the work on the exterior still undone. A stack of cedar siding sat on the front deck; tarpaper flapped by the back door that led into the kitchen. He’d gotten that far putting up the new siding before Elaine got sick; it was a job he could have finished in a weekend if he’d put his mind to it.
The kitchen door was red, and in need of paint, as it had been when Jesse was a child. His father had always referred to this red door as the servants’ entrance, the one he used himself. Stew had told him that his ancestor, Eugene Robertson, the first homesteader in the valley, had indulged his Shuswap wife by allowing her family to enter through this door to visit her in the kitchen. Eugene would not permit them to enter through the front door, nor would he let his wife entertain her kin in the small room that served as a parlour, though she had sat there with Eugene in the evenings. Together, at night, Eugene and his Shuswap wife read the Bible by lamplight, both for her spiritual illumination and so she could practise her reading. Eugene had attempted to exorcise what he viewed as her pagan beliefs from the house so they would not infect the children he had hoped they would have together.
Jesse turned the knob of this ancient door with its peeling red paint but then hesitated before stepping across the worn wood of the threshold. The dark kitchen cupboards and the stove were the same ones he’d known in his teens and young adulthood. But so much else had changed. His wife had been dead eight years, yet he felt the same anxiety and guilt he’d experienced the last night he had come home smelling of another woman, that sweet girl from the reserve who wasn’t yet out of her teens, the new receptionist at the mill where he worked, a girl who hid behind giggles as a child might hide behind bubbles she dispensed from a wand. Her name once again escaped him. It was something young, green.
Fern
. The girl had had a scar on her shoulder, made by human teeth, he’d discovered that evening. Fern had been bitten by awhite man, she told him, when he’d touched the pale crescent. A
white
man, she had said with emphasis, perhaps acknowledging that Jesse had been accepted at least somewhat by his Shuswap co-workers at the mill. That’s all she had said after he’d moved Brandon’s backpack to the front seat and folded down the back of the minivan to accommodate their lovemaking. He had tried to please her, in his way—it had been important to him to please her. He’d circled her small breasts, hid his fingers in the cleavage between her legs until her unresponsiveness told him that she was deriving no pleasure from it, and then he took
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