begin to install the bathroom the couple wanted, composed ofthe old things they’d found in antique shops and specialty hardware stores: an enormous iron bathtub with silver clawed feet, a porcelain sink shaped like a tulip, and tiles for the floor that looked precisely like packed mud.
He could be laying those tiles now. He’d driven home after lunch, thinking he’d find Claire and Joshua there, thinking he’d spare Teresa the grief and go ahead and tell them the bad news, despite what he and Teresa had decided—to tell the kids together that evening after dinner—but when he’d arrived the house was empty and Joshua’s truck gone.
He stood and the dogs stood and they all went outside, where it had begun to snow. He turned his face up to the sky like a boy. All the times he’d gazed there, looking for things, finding things, knowing things and pointing them out to girls, or at other times to his father. The Milky Way and Pleiades, the Aurora Borealis and Orion. And all those times he’d felt he’d known the sky, yet now he felt that he knew nothing, or rather that he knew nothing except for what he felt, which was his body cold inside and out and the snowflakes tumbling softly onto his face. Wet fingerprints they were, no two the same, miracles that arrived and then melted.
It was too early to feed the horses, but he did it anyway. Then he fed the hens, huddled already into their beds of hay and shredded wool in the dark of the coop, their feathers brown against their beautiful bodies. He cooed to the first of them, cooed her name, though he could not be sure which name exactly was hers, never able to tell them apart. Teresa knew their names. She’d named them herself—Miss Pretty and Prudence Pinchpenny and Flowers McGillicutty and Mister Bojangles—though of course there was not a mister among them, her idea of a joke. He slid his hand under their rumps and found two warm eggs and put one in each pocket. He had to duck to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling of the coop. It was an A-frame hut that had once stood at the end of their long driveway so that Claire and Joshua had shelter while they waited for the school bus. Now that the kids had no use for it, he’d made it into a chicken coop—a thing that he did often and well, changing one thing to another, according to need. Changing station wagons into pickups, stumps into birdbaths, metal barrels into wood stoves.
He walked out the door of the coop, where the dogs waited for him. The snow, falling in earnest now, gathered on their shiny black backs and then wafted off when they moved. He trudged to the porch and lit thecigarette he hadn’t lit before, having carried it all this time pinched between his lips. He’d already prepared dinner and laid it all out in a baking pan and set it aside to go in the oven when it was time. He looked at his watch. It was three o’clock and moving toward dark already. His insides felt heavy, weighted with guilt about not being where he should be at this hour on a Friday afternoon. He closed his eyes and a list formed there of all the work he had to do. He and Teresa had agreed that despite everything they would continue to work. He would work. She would work.
“There’s nothing else we can do,” she’d said to him the night before as they lay together in bed, having gone there early, exhausted from their day in Duluth. She didn’t say it and neither did he, but they both knew why it was so very important that they had to work: money. She said, “We’ll work every minute of every day that we can.”
“Not you,” he said. “Me. Your job is to get better.”
She didn’t reply, but he could feel her mind ticking. On Monday she would start radiation treatments, but she could keep working. She’d been able to schedule her appointments late enough that she had time to work lunch and then drive the hour and a half to Duluth. Joshua would take her after school. He’d have to take a leave from his own
He could be laying those tiles now. He’d driven home after lunch, thinking he’d find Claire and Joshua there, thinking he’d spare Teresa the grief and go ahead and tell them the bad news, despite what he and Teresa had decided—to tell the kids together that evening after dinner—but when he’d arrived the house was empty and Joshua’s truck gone.
He stood and the dogs stood and they all went outside, where it had begun to snow. He turned his face up to the sky like a boy. All the times he’d gazed there, looking for things, finding things, knowing things and pointing them out to girls, or at other times to his father. The Milky Way and Pleiades, the Aurora Borealis and Orion. And all those times he’d felt he’d known the sky, yet now he felt that he knew nothing, or rather that he knew nothing except for what he felt, which was his body cold inside and out and the snowflakes tumbling softly onto his face. Wet fingerprints they were, no two the same, miracles that arrived and then melted.
It was too early to feed the horses, but he did it anyway. Then he fed the hens, huddled already into their beds of hay and shredded wool in the dark of the coop, their feathers brown against their beautiful bodies. He cooed to the first of them, cooed her name, though he could not be sure which name exactly was hers, never able to tell them apart. Teresa knew their names. She’d named them herself—Miss Pretty and Prudence Pinchpenny and Flowers McGillicutty and Mister Bojangles—though of course there was not a mister among them, her idea of a joke. He slid his hand under their rumps and found two warm eggs and put one in each pocket. He had to duck to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling of the coop. It was an A-frame hut that had once stood at the end of their long driveway so that Claire and Joshua had shelter while they waited for the school bus. Now that the kids had no use for it, he’d made it into a chicken coop—a thing that he did often and well, changing one thing to another, according to need. Changing station wagons into pickups, stumps into birdbaths, metal barrels into wood stoves.
He walked out the door of the coop, where the dogs waited for him. The snow, falling in earnest now, gathered on their shiny black backs and then wafted off when they moved. He trudged to the porch and lit thecigarette he hadn’t lit before, having carried it all this time pinched between his lips. He’d already prepared dinner and laid it all out in a baking pan and set it aside to go in the oven when it was time. He looked at his watch. It was three o’clock and moving toward dark already. His insides felt heavy, weighted with guilt about not being where he should be at this hour on a Friday afternoon. He closed his eyes and a list formed there of all the work he had to do. He and Teresa had agreed that despite everything they would continue to work. He would work. She would work.
“There’s nothing else we can do,” she’d said to him the night before as they lay together in bed, having gone there early, exhausted from their day in Duluth. She didn’t say it and neither did he, but they both knew why it was so very important that they had to work: money. She said, “We’ll work every minute of every day that we can.”
“Not you,” he said. “Me. Your job is to get better.”
She didn’t reply, but he could feel her mind ticking. On Monday she would start radiation treatments, but she could keep working. She’d been able to schedule her appointments late enough that she had time to work lunch and then drive the hour and a half to Duluth. Joshua would take her after school. He’d have to take a leave from his own
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