Cows: Dumpster-sized lumps, pelt-covered, thick heads with gentle faces, legs tucked under their mass. Silent, still, clustered under an ancient sycamore whose craggy arms reached outward, embracing the lunky creatures in shade. The dirty white, the only one standing, frozen like a museum. The silky brown just outside the shade, her dirt-red fur catching yellow rays of sun. The baby brown, curled in a ball, resting against the hillside of her mother.
The dirty white bent her front legs, her body trembling and straining as she lowered her chest to the ground. She repeated this action with her hind legs and she too became a legless hulk. The brown in the sun chewed her cud, as did the black-and-white just ahead of her in the shade. There they lay, the nine of them, as if they had been dropped, giant and legless, from the sycamore. Content to just be, like a hill or a barn.
A farmer, one of the last in Ashland, with a yard full of hens and nine cows. He was old and lanky, tall with a gray beard and stiff knee. He had had friends here in the past: Morton, Tolliver, Buckley. Only vague images and thoughts now. He used to get calls from Tolliver after he moved away, but that stopped two years ago. Maybe four.
He didn't talk to people much anymore—now and then to that couple next door with the naked children and the guitar playing. They brought him flowers when his wife died, invited him to dinner where he politely ate a strange meatless stew. The husband sometimes asked him for tools, but he hadn't seen him for some time now. He used to chat with the tourists he rented rooms to for the festival. They were polite, refined, interested in him and the area, but he was always relieved to see them go, to turn off the show, to put on his patched jeans and smelly T-shirt and crack open a beer. He hadn't rented to them for months now, maybe a year.
Though he had never made an attempt to keep up with his old friends from town, though he never felt he'd had a particularly successful marriage or was especially close with his only child, a daughter who had moved to Los Angeles over 30 years ago, there were times, like on Saturday evening with the TV on or a Sunday walk through his town of strangers, when he missed the presence of family and friends. Some he hadn't seen in years or even decades, yet now felt the loss of them.
The loneliness twisted him at times, weakened him. Some days he forced himself to plow through it, but more often it leeched his energy and drive. At times he pretended it didn't exist, but it was always lurking He pictured ways of escaping it, with gas from the stove or a bullet from his old Winchester.
#
The cows had been taken that morning. The fellow with the long curly hair and freckles had given him the check two days before, but he hadn't deposited it yet. Wasn't so much—he practically gave them away. But they'd be on a good piece of land, better than his, more space at least. The fellow kept grinning and shaking his hand, this lightness in his eyes over nine old cows. He had to help the guys load them into the cattle carrier they had rented, saw they didn't know cows. They'd have spent the day there if the old man hadn't shoved a dripping hand of molasses toward the lead brown's nostrils and brought her into the trailer.
The patch of land under the sycamore was clear now. The hulks lying there for the past 50 years gone. He peeked out a few times and flinched when he saw the empty space. But then remembered and the remembrance caused a thorny feeling in his belly. He stepped out, walked to the sycamore, saw the flattened grass where the cows had been. Why had he let them go? he wondered. But then the worry drifted away, replaced by the desire to close things out in his life. Too much responsibility, those cows. He wanted his affairs cleaned up.
He shifted on the couch so the springs close to the surface didn't jab at his legs and buttocks . He took another sip of his half-full Schlitz and his eyes wandered back to the TV where some young cops were investigating a crime scene, but he had no clue what the show was about. He gazed out at the cowless fields again.
He heard a wailing. A common sound, the neighbor's kids, all the time hooting, hollering, and carrying on. The children lived almost like feral animals, playing in the dirt and weeds all day, even at night, half dressed, unkempt. It had gotten worse since the father left.
The wailing continued. Can't this lady care for her young ones? he thought. She's nice enough, but irresponsible. He knew the difficulty of having to fend for yourself at a young age. He had been one of seven kids. His mother had died the day after birthing the eighth, a stillborn. From then on, he and his younger siblings survived mostly on their own, his father and older brothers working long hours, six days a week. He left his warm beer and stepped out on his porch.
The neighbor boy was sprawled in the gravel beside a bike, moaning softly. The old man was irritated. How come this woman doesn't mind her children? He limped to the boy and stood over him. "You alright, boy?"
The child whimpered and looked at his injured leg. The old man saw the knee, skin scraped off and caked with gravel. The foot had a gash that trickled blood. "I'll get your mom."
"She's not home," said the boy.
The old man peered down at him, the problem of the hurt boy taking on more weight now. I'm not responsible for this child, he thought, starting to twist himself up in barbed wire and resentment, thinking to walk away and leave the child there. The boy had pale skin and long lank hair that hung in his eyes. He was biting into his lower lip, fighting the pain. The old man reached a big leathery hand to the boy and pulled him to his feet. He clung to the old man's fingers as they walked to the steps of the boy's house.
"Where's your mom?"
"Work," he said through gritted teeth.
The man grunted. They stood, the boy grimacing, the man squinting toward the road, hoping for the mom to show. "Guess we better clean that up. Come on."
He took the boy into the house. Colorful tapestries lined several walls, faded Oriental rugs covered the floors. He took the boy to the bathroom, eased off his sandal and washed his bloody foot in the tub. "Next time you should wear shoes."
The boy looked at him with curious eyes, dust on his brow and long blond-white hair. "I did," he said, pointing to his flimsy rubber flip-flops, now on the bathroom floor.
"No, shoes like these," said the old man, pointing to his hiking sneakers. "Don't you have some tennis shoes to play in?"
The boy shook his head.
There were no bandages in the medicine cabinet, just cough syrup, a box of tampons, and a few jars of herbs. The old man told the boy to wait and went back to his place. He found a mildewed box of Band-Aids in his medicine cabinet and brought them back to the boy. After bandaging the boy's foot, the old man tried to get him to wash his knee with a wash cloth, but he screamed and squirmed away. "All right, all right," said the old man. That dirt's not going to hurt him anyway, he thought. Leave it be.
He bandaged the boy's knee as best he could and left him in front of the TV. He picked up the bike, looped the chain back on, and left it on the porch next to some empty rabbit cages.
When he got home, he thought to tell someone about the neglected boy riding with no shoes that he had helped, but couldn't think of anyone to speak to. His friends up the road that he used to talk with had been gone for years. He thought to call his daughter, but realized she probably wouldn't listen. She'd tell him he shouldn't have helped the boy for fear of being sued or some such nonsense. He sat, words and images from the TV flowing into the back of his mind, took a swallow of warm beer.
The next day the mother and the boy and the wee girl came with a handful of wildflowers and a hand-drawn card with pictures of animals and backward letters. The mother was grateful and thanked the man over and over again, standing in the doorway, clasping one of his big hands in hers. The old man, his belly tense, nose crinkled, looked down at his feet and said he had hardly done a thing and they were making too big a fuss. He eased his hand out of hers and mumbled goodbye as he shut the door.
When they were gone, he dug up one of June's old vases from the closet and set the flowers and card on the TV.
Ashland: Wheat-colored hills and snow-crowned mountains in the distance. Houses, unkempt and colorful: Tibetan flags, Buddha statues, Zen gardens, piles of bicycles, kayaks, and furniture splayed out on porches. Wildflowers, tall and weedy, in glorious clumps: yellow bell, lupine, chicory.
Clusters of boys on road bikes coming from the hills; pony-tailed men driving Priuses and old diesel Mercedes; free-spirited skateboarders; hippies, tanned and smiling, in loose hemp clothing; elderly tourists, wearing L.L.Bean and Lands' End, on their way to the Shakespeare Festival; groups of young, dreadlocked white men, tattooed and musty, with cardboard signs begging for money.
The old man rarely left the house. He used to go to the farmers' market twice a week to sell milk and eggs, but that ended once he sold the cows. He used to have friends he would run into in town or visit at their homes, but there was no one left to see. His acquaintances had drifted away once the mills began closing, and even more so after his wife died. Some days he forced himself out. He made himself take a bath and run a comb through his hair. Then he would make his way to town.
On the walk that morning, he stopped in front of Tolliver's old house, a brown bungalow on a half-acre or so. He thought about times when he and June had sat on that porch with Tolliver and Val, sipping beers and enjoying the hot summer nights. He had an urge to knock on the door and ask the owners if they knew where Tolliver was now, but was discouraged by the two large mutts sleeping on the porch and a front yard filled with dry dog shit.
In town, thinking of the boy with the cut foot, no shoes, and no minding, he walked into the sporting goods store. All the sneakers looked a bit obscene to him, strange orange and green and black patterns, shiny and space-like. He settled on a pair that looked to be about the right size, white with black stripes, the only ones that looked like shoes to him. As the clerk was ringing up the shoes, the old man told him to throw in a pack of boys' tube socks.
When he returned he found the boy behind his house, shoeless, his bandages filthy, throwing rocks in the pond, which was now more of a mud puddle. The old man limped to him and the boy smiled. He handed him the shoebox and the bag of socks. "Next time you ride, wear these."
A few minutes later, in his kitchen, heating up a can of ravioli, he heard the rattle of a bike outside. He stepped to the window and pulled the curtain to the side. The boy rode around in big circles on the field of dead grass in front of his family's house. He looked at the boy's feet, but couldn't see if he had shoes on. He squinted when the boy's arc took him closer, but all was a blur as he zipped by.
He put on his hat and stepped out and walked to the boy's yard. The boy rode up to him, and they watched each other in silence, the white-hot sun breathing down on them. The old man glanced at the shoes on the boy's feet. "How do they fit?"
"Good."
Something had grabbed his attention and he looked down at the shoes again. The laces dangled below the pedals. "Why, you've got to tie those."
The boy looked down at the laces but said nothing.
"Those'll get caught in the gears, and you'll fly right over the handlebars."
The boy looked at the old man and shrugged.
"Why don't you tie them?" said the man.
"I can't."
He studied the child, unsure of his meaning. "Why not?"
"Don't know how."
The old man furrowed his brow. He'd never heard of a boy this age not tying his own shoes. Then he sighed. "All right." He started edging his way down to a knee, and for a moment it looked as if he'd lose his balance till he got a hand on the ground to steady himself. He pulled a lace on his own shoe to untie it. With the laces loose now, he made a loop with his shaky left hand, then another with the right, which was quicker and smoother. The boy leaned forward over his handlebars, watching closely. The old man tied the loops in a clumsy knot creating a bow. "Give it a try."
The boy laid the bike down and sat in the dead grass. He wrestled with his laces till he got them both looped, but when he attempted to knot the two, it all turned to spaghetti. He looked to the old man. "All right, come over here." The boy stepped to the old man who had lowered himself to his seat. He reached out to the boy's closer foot and looped each lace with his big fingers. "See, loop, loop, then tie the loops in a knot." The old man looked up at the boy, the sun glaring in his eyes. "Got it?"
The boy nodded. The old man pulled the string, releasing the bow. "Go ahead now." The boy sat on the ground in front of the old man, focused all his attention on the laces, and started the loops.
Sitting in the dead grass and dust, the boy got both shoes tied.
"Now you're ready to ride," said the man. The boy smirked, walked to the bike, and hauled it up. He climbed on and began making bold circles in the field.
The old man got to his feet and stood, watching. When the boy passed him, he'd sit up a bit and once he yelled, "They fit gooder now."
The man nodded, a smile edging into his eyes.
He trudged back to his house and up the stairs. "Bye," called the boy from his bike. The old man lifted a hand.
That night the old man heard a knock on the door. He set his can of Schlitz on the side table and pushed himself out of the chair. "Coming." Probably someone who wants my damn money, he thought.
He pulled the squeaky door open and there stood the boy's mother, wearing a long dress and a generous smile. She hugged him. "Thank you for being so sweet to Matthew," she said, holding the old man in her arms. He stiffened, mumbled it was nothing. The softness of her body reminded him of June, how she would wrap her arms around his neck, lean into him and lay her cheek on his shoulder, and that hug would pull some of the poison out of the day. He felt a tightness in his chest, a warmth and sadness. He cleared his throat several times and edged away from her. "Well, again, I just want you to know how much it means to me, you helping Matthew and all. He's crazy about you."
"Is that right?"
She nodded, smiling up at him.
The old man grunted. "Haven't seen your husband lately."
He thought he saw a flash of darkness in her face, but then it was gone. "He's been away."
"Oh. Be back soon?"
She smiled, her teeth clenched. "I don't know. To be honest, I'm not sure. It's complicated."
"Not trying to pry."
"Please, pry. It's no secret. It's . . . " She laughed. She looked at the man, standing uncomfortably, his eyes sad. "Can I sit?"
"Of course," he said, stepping to the wooden bench and sweeping some grit off with his hand. She sat and he pulled an old cane chair from the corner of the porch and sat too.
"That's why Matthew's been home alone," she said. Again, darkness in the eyes, but a big smile when they looked as if they'd turn black. "Ellie, she stays with my friends while I work, but Matthew's just too much of a handful for them."
The old man chuckled, thinking of the boy hurling rocks, climbing to the tops of trees and jumping out of them.
"But he can take care of himself, and there's only a few more weeks till school starts."
"Sure."
"But it's comforting for me, knowing you're here."
The old man felt funny, annoyed that this family was depending on him, angry at the husband. Yet he felt a lightness too. They sat in silence. The old man cleared his throat. "Well, you tell the boy he can come here anytime. Just knock on the door like you did."
Her smile reminded him of June.
The next morning the old man lay awake in his clumpy bedding. He used to hustle out of bed at daybreak, his joints energized, hungry for work, his mind planning his day, June putting on coffee while he got dressed. But he had gotten in the habit of staying in bed till late in the morning, his mind blank, his body gumptionless, just lying, morbid and stone-like. He had slept poorly last night, excited about the mom and the boy, but also irritated.
He heard a soft knock. He put a robe on over his pajamas and opened the door. The boy stood there. "Hey, Matthew." The boy said nothing, just looked down at his feet. The old man started to regret his discussion with the boy's mother, but wasn't going to leave the kid standing there. "Okay. You can come in."
Matthew walked inside and began to roam around the house, stopping to tinker with a crescent wrench on a shelf, then wandering to the kitchen and picking up a jar of coins. "I'm going to make some breakfast. You want some?" said the man.
"Okay."
"Go around back to that chicken shed and go inside. In the nests are some eggs. You go get a few and bring them to me."
Matthew's eyes opened wide, and he ran out of the house. The old man put some butter in a pan on his stove, turned on the gas, and lit it. He took some bread out of the fridge and was going to put it in the toaster, but saw it was moldy, so he threw it out.
Matthew came back with a light-brown egg in each hand and gave them to the old man. "Good. Now go get a few more." Matthew went tearing out again.
On his return he ran up the front stairs and through the door, one of the eggs slipping out of his hand, flying through the air, and crashing to the floor. The old man sighed, thinking to himself this woman has a lot of nerve dumping her kid on me
Matthew stood frozen, his hand over his mouth, his face turning red.
The old man looked at Matthew's round, shocked face, the egg splattered all over his living room, one slimy yellow splotch all the way to the kitchen. He started to chuckle, a house full of God damn egg because the boy's so excited. And the shocked looked on the boy's face got him laughing some more. And Matthew began giggling too. And they stood there, just laughing.
The dirty white bent her front legs, her body trembling and straining as she lowered her chest to the ground. She repeated this action with her hind legs and she too became a legless hulk. The brown in the sun chewed her cud, as did the black-and-white just ahead of her in the shade. There they lay, the nine of them, as if they had been dropped, giant and legless, from the sycamore. Content to just be, like a hill or a barn.
A farmer, one of the last in Ashland, with a yard full of hens and nine cows. He was old and lanky, tall with a gray beard and stiff knee. He had had friends here in the past: Morton, Tolliver, Buckley. Only vague images and thoughts now. He used to get calls from Tolliver after he moved away, but that stopped two years ago. Maybe four.
He didn't talk to people much anymore—now and then to that couple next door with the naked children and the guitar playing. They brought him flowers when his wife died, invited him to dinner where he politely ate a strange meatless stew. The husband sometimes asked him for tools, but he hadn't seen him for some time now. He used to chat with the tourists he rented rooms to for the festival. They were polite, refined, interested in him and the area, but he was always relieved to see them go, to turn off the show, to put on his patched jeans and smelly T-shirt and crack open a beer. He hadn't rented to them for months now, maybe a year.
Though he had never made an attempt to keep up with his old friends from town, though he never felt he'd had a particularly successful marriage or was especially close with his only child, a daughter who had moved to Los Angeles over 30 years ago, there were times, like on Saturday evening with the TV on or a Sunday walk through his town of strangers, when he missed the presence of family and friends. Some he hadn't seen in years or even decades, yet now felt the loss of them.
The loneliness twisted him at times, weakened him. Some days he forced himself to plow through it, but more often it leeched his energy and drive. At times he pretended it didn't exist, but it was always lurking He pictured ways of escaping it, with gas from the stove or a bullet from his old Winchester.
#
The cows had been taken that morning. The fellow with the long curly hair and freckles had given him the check two days before, but he hadn't deposited it yet. Wasn't so much—he practically gave them away. But they'd be on a good piece of land, better than his, more space at least. The fellow kept grinning and shaking his hand, this lightness in his eyes over nine old cows. He had to help the guys load them into the cattle carrier they had rented, saw they didn't know cows. They'd have spent the day there if the old man hadn't shoved a dripping hand of molasses toward the lead brown's nostrils and brought her into the trailer.
The patch of land under the sycamore was clear now. The hulks lying there for the past 50 years gone. He peeked out a few times and flinched when he saw the empty space. But then remembered and the remembrance caused a thorny feeling in his belly. He stepped out, walked to the sycamore, saw the flattened grass where the cows had been. Why had he let them go? he wondered. But then the worry drifted away, replaced by the desire to close things out in his life. Too much responsibility, those cows. He wanted his affairs cleaned up.
He shifted on the couch so the springs close to the surface didn't jab at his legs and buttocks . He took another sip of his half-full Schlitz and his eyes wandered back to the TV where some young cops were investigating a crime scene, but he had no clue what the show was about. He gazed out at the cowless fields again.
He heard a wailing. A common sound, the neighbor's kids, all the time hooting, hollering, and carrying on. The children lived almost like feral animals, playing in the dirt and weeds all day, even at night, half dressed, unkempt. It had gotten worse since the father left.
The wailing continued. Can't this lady care for her young ones? he thought. She's nice enough, but irresponsible. He knew the difficulty of having to fend for yourself at a young age. He had been one of seven kids. His mother had died the day after birthing the eighth, a stillborn. From then on, he and his younger siblings survived mostly on their own, his father and older brothers working long hours, six days a week. He left his warm beer and stepped out on his porch.
The neighbor boy was sprawled in the gravel beside a bike, moaning softly. The old man was irritated. How come this woman doesn't mind her children? He limped to the boy and stood over him. "You alright, boy?"
The child whimpered and looked at his injured leg. The old man saw the knee, skin scraped off and caked with gravel. The foot had a gash that trickled blood. "I'll get your mom."
"She's not home," said the boy.
The old man peered down at him, the problem of the hurt boy taking on more weight now. I'm not responsible for this child, he thought, starting to twist himself up in barbed wire and resentment, thinking to walk away and leave the child there. The boy had pale skin and long lank hair that hung in his eyes. He was biting into his lower lip, fighting the pain. The old man reached a big leathery hand to the boy and pulled him to his feet. He clung to the old man's fingers as they walked to the steps of the boy's house.
"Where's your mom?"
"Work," he said through gritted teeth.
The man grunted. They stood, the boy grimacing, the man squinting toward the road, hoping for the mom to show. "Guess we better clean that up. Come on."
He took the boy into the house. Colorful tapestries lined several walls, faded Oriental rugs covered the floors. He took the boy to the bathroom, eased off his sandal and washed his bloody foot in the tub. "Next time you should wear shoes."
The boy looked at him with curious eyes, dust on his brow and long blond-white hair. "I did," he said, pointing to his flimsy rubber flip-flops, now on the bathroom floor.
"No, shoes like these," said the old man, pointing to his hiking sneakers. "Don't you have some tennis shoes to play in?"
The boy shook his head.
There were no bandages in the medicine cabinet, just cough syrup, a box of tampons, and a few jars of herbs. The old man told the boy to wait and went back to his place. He found a mildewed box of Band-Aids in his medicine cabinet and brought them back to the boy. After bandaging the boy's foot, the old man tried to get him to wash his knee with a wash cloth, but he screamed and squirmed away. "All right, all right," said the old man. That dirt's not going to hurt him anyway, he thought. Leave it be.
He bandaged the boy's knee as best he could and left him in front of the TV. He picked up the bike, looped the chain back on, and left it on the porch next to some empty rabbit cages.
When he got home, he thought to tell someone about the neglected boy riding with no shoes that he had helped, but couldn't think of anyone to speak to. His friends up the road that he used to talk with had been gone for years. He thought to call his daughter, but realized she probably wouldn't listen. She'd tell him he shouldn't have helped the boy for fear of being sued or some such nonsense. He sat, words and images from the TV flowing into the back of his mind, took a swallow of warm beer.
The next day the mother and the boy and the wee girl came with a handful of wildflowers and a hand-drawn card with pictures of animals and backward letters. The mother was grateful and thanked the man over and over again, standing in the doorway, clasping one of his big hands in hers. The old man, his belly tense, nose crinkled, looked down at his feet and said he had hardly done a thing and they were making too big a fuss. He eased his hand out of hers and mumbled goodbye as he shut the door.
When they were gone, he dug up one of June's old vases from the closet and set the flowers and card on the TV.
Ashland: Wheat-colored hills and snow-crowned mountains in the distance. Houses, unkempt and colorful: Tibetan flags, Buddha statues, Zen gardens, piles of bicycles, kayaks, and furniture splayed out on porches. Wildflowers, tall and weedy, in glorious clumps: yellow bell, lupine, chicory.
Clusters of boys on road bikes coming from the hills; pony-tailed men driving Priuses and old diesel Mercedes; free-spirited skateboarders; hippies, tanned and smiling, in loose hemp clothing; elderly tourists, wearing L.L.Bean and Lands' End, on their way to the Shakespeare Festival; groups of young, dreadlocked white men, tattooed and musty, with cardboard signs begging for money.
The old man rarely left the house. He used to go to the farmers' market twice a week to sell milk and eggs, but that ended once he sold the cows. He used to have friends he would run into in town or visit at their homes, but there was no one left to see. His acquaintances had drifted away once the mills began closing, and even more so after his wife died. Some days he forced himself out. He made himself take a bath and run a comb through his hair. Then he would make his way to town.
On the walk that morning, he stopped in front of Tolliver's old house, a brown bungalow on a half-acre or so. He thought about times when he and June had sat on that porch with Tolliver and Val, sipping beers and enjoying the hot summer nights. He had an urge to knock on the door and ask the owners if they knew where Tolliver was now, but was discouraged by the two large mutts sleeping on the porch and a front yard filled with dry dog shit.
In town, thinking of the boy with the cut foot, no shoes, and no minding, he walked into the sporting goods store. All the sneakers looked a bit obscene to him, strange orange and green and black patterns, shiny and space-like. He settled on a pair that looked to be about the right size, white with black stripes, the only ones that looked like shoes to him. As the clerk was ringing up the shoes, the old man told him to throw in a pack of boys' tube socks.
When he returned he found the boy behind his house, shoeless, his bandages filthy, throwing rocks in the pond, which was now more of a mud puddle. The old man limped to him and the boy smiled. He handed him the shoebox and the bag of socks. "Next time you ride, wear these."
A few minutes later, in his kitchen, heating up a can of ravioli, he heard the rattle of a bike outside. He stepped to the window and pulled the curtain to the side. The boy rode around in big circles on the field of dead grass in front of his family's house. He looked at the boy's feet, but couldn't see if he had shoes on. He squinted when the boy's arc took him closer, but all was a blur as he zipped by.
He put on his hat and stepped out and walked to the boy's yard. The boy rode up to him, and they watched each other in silence, the white-hot sun breathing down on them. The old man glanced at the shoes on the boy's feet. "How do they fit?"
"Good."
Something had grabbed his attention and he looked down at the shoes again. The laces dangled below the pedals. "Why, you've got to tie those."
The boy looked down at the laces but said nothing.
"Those'll get caught in the gears, and you'll fly right over the handlebars."
The boy looked at the old man and shrugged.
"Why don't you tie them?" said the man.
"I can't."
He studied the child, unsure of his meaning. "Why not?"
"Don't know how."
The old man furrowed his brow. He'd never heard of a boy this age not tying his own shoes. Then he sighed. "All right." He started edging his way down to a knee, and for a moment it looked as if he'd lose his balance till he got a hand on the ground to steady himself. He pulled a lace on his own shoe to untie it. With the laces loose now, he made a loop with his shaky left hand, then another with the right, which was quicker and smoother. The boy leaned forward over his handlebars, watching closely. The old man tied the loops in a clumsy knot creating a bow. "Give it a try."
The boy laid the bike down and sat in the dead grass. He wrestled with his laces till he got them both looped, but when he attempted to knot the two, it all turned to spaghetti. He looked to the old man. "All right, come over here." The boy stepped to the old man who had lowered himself to his seat. He reached out to the boy's closer foot and looped each lace with his big fingers. "See, loop, loop, then tie the loops in a knot." The old man looked up at the boy, the sun glaring in his eyes. "Got it?"
The boy nodded. The old man pulled the string, releasing the bow. "Go ahead now." The boy sat on the ground in front of the old man, focused all his attention on the laces, and started the loops.
Sitting in the dead grass and dust, the boy got both shoes tied.
"Now you're ready to ride," said the man. The boy smirked, walked to the bike, and hauled it up. He climbed on and began making bold circles in the field.
The old man got to his feet and stood, watching. When the boy passed him, he'd sit up a bit and once he yelled, "They fit gooder now."
The man nodded, a smile edging into his eyes.
He trudged back to his house and up the stairs. "Bye," called the boy from his bike. The old man lifted a hand.
That night the old man heard a knock on the door. He set his can of Schlitz on the side table and pushed himself out of the chair. "Coming." Probably someone who wants my damn money, he thought.
He pulled the squeaky door open and there stood the boy's mother, wearing a long dress and a generous smile. She hugged him. "Thank you for being so sweet to Matthew," she said, holding the old man in her arms. He stiffened, mumbled it was nothing. The softness of her body reminded him of June, how she would wrap her arms around his neck, lean into him and lay her cheek on his shoulder, and that hug would pull some of the poison out of the day. He felt a tightness in his chest, a warmth and sadness. He cleared his throat several times and edged away from her. "Well, again, I just want you to know how much it means to me, you helping Matthew and all. He's crazy about you."
"Is that right?"
She nodded, smiling up at him.
The old man grunted. "Haven't seen your husband lately."
He thought he saw a flash of darkness in her face, but then it was gone. "He's been away."
"Oh. Be back soon?"
She smiled, her teeth clenched. "I don't know. To be honest, I'm not sure. It's complicated."
"Not trying to pry."
"Please, pry. It's no secret. It's . . . " She laughed. She looked at the man, standing uncomfortably, his eyes sad. "Can I sit?"
"Of course," he said, stepping to the wooden bench and sweeping some grit off with his hand. She sat and he pulled an old cane chair from the corner of the porch and sat too.
"That's why Matthew's been home alone," she said. Again, darkness in the eyes, but a big smile when they looked as if they'd turn black. "Ellie, she stays with my friends while I work, but Matthew's just too much of a handful for them."
The old man chuckled, thinking of the boy hurling rocks, climbing to the tops of trees and jumping out of them.
"But he can take care of himself, and there's only a few more weeks till school starts."
"Sure."
"But it's comforting for me, knowing you're here."
The old man felt funny, annoyed that this family was depending on him, angry at the husband. Yet he felt a lightness too. They sat in silence. The old man cleared his throat. "Well, you tell the boy he can come here anytime. Just knock on the door like you did."
Her smile reminded him of June.
The next morning the old man lay awake in his clumpy bedding. He used to hustle out of bed at daybreak, his joints energized, hungry for work, his mind planning his day, June putting on coffee while he got dressed. But he had gotten in the habit of staying in bed till late in the morning, his mind blank, his body gumptionless, just lying, morbid and stone-like. He had slept poorly last night, excited about the mom and the boy, but also irritated.
He heard a soft knock. He put a robe on over his pajamas and opened the door. The boy stood there. "Hey, Matthew." The boy said nothing, just looked down at his feet. The old man started to regret his discussion with the boy's mother, but wasn't going to leave the kid standing there. "Okay. You can come in."
Matthew walked inside and began to roam around the house, stopping to tinker with a crescent wrench on a shelf, then wandering to the kitchen and picking up a jar of coins. "I'm going to make some breakfast. You want some?" said the man.
"Okay."
"Go around back to that chicken shed and go inside. In the nests are some eggs. You go get a few and bring them to me."
Matthew's eyes opened wide, and he ran out of the house. The old man put some butter in a pan on his stove, turned on the gas, and lit it. He took some bread out of the fridge and was going to put it in the toaster, but saw it was moldy, so he threw it out.
Matthew came back with a light-brown egg in each hand and gave them to the old man. "Good. Now go get a few more." Matthew went tearing out again.
On his return he ran up the front stairs and through the door, one of the eggs slipping out of his hand, flying through the air, and crashing to the floor. The old man sighed, thinking to himself this woman has a lot of nerve dumping her kid on me
Matthew stood frozen, his hand over his mouth, his face turning red.
The old man looked at Matthew's round, shocked face, the egg splattered all over his living room, one slimy yellow splotch all the way to the kitchen. He started to chuckle, a house full of God damn egg because the boy's so excited. And the shocked looked on the boy's face got him laughing some more. And Matthew began giggling too. And they stood there, just laughing.
