arranged precisely for Kahn’s use, but still things are hard.
(Through conversation between the woman and her lover we understand that Kahn has lost the use of his legs in a work-related accident that occurred shortly after the completion of this wooden kingdom, and that may, in fact, have been self-inflicted, committed on purpose.)
He still struggles. Scrapes his arms. Scraps whatever project he is working on. But he does not quit. Starts another project. Something is emerging. Some ill-defined wooden object.
Concurrently with Kahn’s new wave of inspiration, the weather changes. Snow pours down in clusters. Wind wakes the surrounding trees, tears them from the ground. The earth is unsettled. The woman becomes ill. She develops a fever, probably from all that time spent in unseasonably skimpy outfits. Her lover tends to her, but he too appears to be dying. He too has lost weight. They no longer fuck. They fill the kettle, sip from small cups of tea, lie distant on separate sides of the bed.
As the storm rages on, Kahn becomes further incensed into action. He closes in on completion, staying up past dawn, sanding, shaping, extracting finger splinters. Eventually his project is complete. A wooden flower, four feet high. In full blossom. Wood petals thin as paper. Detailed down to the tiniest bits of sawdust pollen. The film ends as it began. The woman enters the workshop. Her body is blue. She stares at Kahn.
At the exact moment the lights went up I received another text from Kahn: “Do you see?”
twenty-six
The Status Quo:
• So my father never built me a tree house. Big fucking deal.
twenty-seven
Fall came. Landscapers walked the streets, Hispanic mostly: Dominican, Ecuadorian. They drove paint-flecked pickups. Summer I’d see one napping in back, but once it got cold they took breaks on the tailgate, drinking coffee, smoking cigs, laughing laughter that didn’t feel universal, but specific to a softer language, free of sharp consonants that leave the tongue curled awkwardly, unprepared to emit low sounds from the gut instead of the throat.
Noises would start early, seven or eight a.m. If the guys lived in Quinosset, they lived in the lettered streets, but they probably didn’t live here. Probably woke at sunrise, kissed their sleeping children, piled five into the cab of the truck, headed down Route 9 from Roxbury or Dorchester.
Meanwhile, the women I imagined to be the wives, sisters, cousins of these men poured out of a baby-blue van, unloading yellow buckets, mops, vacuums. They had their own rhythms: sneakers squeaky against soapy floors, Dirt Devils sucking dust from ignored crevices, silverware herded, clinking like cowbells. Giving our house one final going-over before Kahn replaced us. Mom wanted the house to shine, even though it was only Kahn who was moving in. Moverswere coming at two. I hadn’t finished packing. Still at my computer checking Facebook to see if Jennifer Estes had written me back. She hadn’t.
Two minds when it came to packing. First: get rid of everything; let the trash collectors haul it. Could “turn over a new leaf,” as Benjy had said the previous fall, out in the backyard. I was smoking a cigarette, watching him rake leaves because the landscapers didn’t come to our house anymore; since Dad had left, they only went to the neighbors. Benjy raked like he lived, like a bird eats, little by little, looking anxiously over his shoulder. Thought it was a cheap metaphor, telling me to turn over a new leaf while he was raking leaves. “Did you just come up with that?” I said, flicking my cigarette, half-aiming toward one of the leaf piles, half-fantasizing it would catch hold, burn the house down.
Couldn’t burn anything. The house was sturdy, carved in my mind: life I’d lived so far, personal eternity, until death or dementia takes hold, but even then, trapped in my bones, reborn into the earth, the grass, what the hell am I talking about? A pile of old Rolling
(Through conversation between the woman and her lover we understand that Kahn has lost the use of his legs in a work-related accident that occurred shortly after the completion of this wooden kingdom, and that may, in fact, have been self-inflicted, committed on purpose.)
He still struggles. Scrapes his arms. Scraps whatever project he is working on. But he does not quit. Starts another project. Something is emerging. Some ill-defined wooden object.
Concurrently with Kahn’s new wave of inspiration, the weather changes. Snow pours down in clusters. Wind wakes the surrounding trees, tears them from the ground. The earth is unsettled. The woman becomes ill. She develops a fever, probably from all that time spent in unseasonably skimpy outfits. Her lover tends to her, but he too appears to be dying. He too has lost weight. They no longer fuck. They fill the kettle, sip from small cups of tea, lie distant on separate sides of the bed.
As the storm rages on, Kahn becomes further incensed into action. He closes in on completion, staying up past dawn, sanding, shaping, extracting finger splinters. Eventually his project is complete. A wooden flower, four feet high. In full blossom. Wood petals thin as paper. Detailed down to the tiniest bits of sawdust pollen. The film ends as it began. The woman enters the workshop. Her body is blue. She stares at Kahn.
At the exact moment the lights went up I received another text from Kahn: “Do you see?”
twenty-six
The Status Quo:
• So my father never built me a tree house. Big fucking deal.
twenty-seven
Fall came. Landscapers walked the streets, Hispanic mostly: Dominican, Ecuadorian. They drove paint-flecked pickups. Summer I’d see one napping in back, but once it got cold they took breaks on the tailgate, drinking coffee, smoking cigs, laughing laughter that didn’t feel universal, but specific to a softer language, free of sharp consonants that leave the tongue curled awkwardly, unprepared to emit low sounds from the gut instead of the throat.
Noises would start early, seven or eight a.m. If the guys lived in Quinosset, they lived in the lettered streets, but they probably didn’t live here. Probably woke at sunrise, kissed their sleeping children, piled five into the cab of the truck, headed down Route 9 from Roxbury or Dorchester.
Meanwhile, the women I imagined to be the wives, sisters, cousins of these men poured out of a baby-blue van, unloading yellow buckets, mops, vacuums. They had their own rhythms: sneakers squeaky against soapy floors, Dirt Devils sucking dust from ignored crevices, silverware herded, clinking like cowbells. Giving our house one final going-over before Kahn replaced us. Mom wanted the house to shine, even though it was only Kahn who was moving in. Moverswere coming at two. I hadn’t finished packing. Still at my computer checking Facebook to see if Jennifer Estes had written me back. She hadn’t.
Two minds when it came to packing. First: get rid of everything; let the trash collectors haul it. Could “turn over a new leaf,” as Benjy had said the previous fall, out in the backyard. I was smoking a cigarette, watching him rake leaves because the landscapers didn’t come to our house anymore; since Dad had left, they only went to the neighbors. Benjy raked like he lived, like a bird eats, little by little, looking anxiously over his shoulder. Thought it was a cheap metaphor, telling me to turn over a new leaf while he was raking leaves. “Did you just come up with that?” I said, flicking my cigarette, half-aiming toward one of the leaf piles, half-fantasizing it would catch hold, burn the house down.
Couldn’t burn anything. The house was sturdy, carved in my mind: life I’d lived so far, personal eternity, until death or dementia takes hold, but even then, trapped in my bones, reborn into the earth, the grass, what the hell am I talking about? A pile of old Rolling
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