so close she can see the individual whiskers, which are brown and red and blonde, and the skin underneath.
Â
He begins by telling her about his childhood in Wisconsin, and about his grandparentsâ farm. He spent school holidays and weekends there, working with his grandfather in the shop or wandering the orchards and outbuildings with headphones and a book, sitting on lopsided degenerate farm equipment or under the trees. After his grandmother died, the remains of the orchard were left to the birds. Bushels of unpicked fruit withered through
the fall and winter. Layers of apple rot, overcome by moss, made the ground pillowy.
His last summer at the farm was a compromise: his parents, college professors, wanted him to go to straight to college after high school, but Spoke hesitatedâhe had never enjoyed school, though he performed well, and he didnât know what he would study. They let him take a year to make up his mind.
He was supposed to help his grandfather keep up the farm, fix things around the house, drive him to the store and church. But his grandfather died that fall. One morning, he wasnât up before Spoke, who found his grandfather in bed and couldnât wake him. Heâd had a stroke in the night.
Spoke thought it was a sign, his grandfather dying. He decided to live on the farm and nurse the orchard back to health, tend to the place. He imagined marrying and starting a family there, becoming an iteration of his grandfather, but with
more kids. Lots of fat happy kids, chasing chickens through the orchard.
Isabel lifts an eyebrow.
I was an only child, he explains with a sheepish shrug. No playmates.
Isabelâs eyes drift around the room as he continues, but she listens to every detail, trying to picture the farm and his grandparents, and a young Spoke, wanting to be grow apples and have babies.
He tells her about his grandfather, silent and stoic in a typically midwestern way, but gentle, and devoted to his wife. He remembers sitting at the kitchen table, eating a big slice of cake, his grandmother singing âO Day of Rest and Gladnessâ as she washed dishes. His grandfather came in for lunch, wrapped his arms around her waist, and kissed her, once, right behind the ear.
Isabel looks to Spoke and sees that heâs blushing. He glances back at her nervously. Itâs such an
intimate detail; she knows he has never told anyone. She canât help but imagine him kissing her in the same place.
There was something secret between them, he tells her. Something that connected the two of them in a way no one else could ever understand.
His grandmother died when he was twelve.
He remembers waking one morning in his dadâs childhood bedroomâmonths after his grandmotherâs funeralâthe house was silent, cold. He pulled on an overcoat and boots and wandered out into the yard. It was springâthe final thaw over, everything muddy and green and steaming in the morning sun. When he got to his grandfatherâs shop he stopped. He could see his grandpa through a crack in the door, sitting on his work stool, crying, quaking. He had never seen him cryânot in all the weeks that had passed, not even at the funeral. There was a box of letters open on the workbench.
He assumed they were from his grandmother, from during the war, before they were married.
He snuck back to the house and just stood in the kitchen, staring at the sink. Everything was different with her gone. It wasnât even like half of his grandparents was gone, it was like his grandmother took part of him with her. Spoke didnât know what to do. There wasnât a pot of coffee onâshe always made it, even though she didnât drink itâso Spoke pulled the big can down from the cupboard and made a pot in the percolator. He didnât know how, so he filled the basket with groundsâit came out thick and muddy. But when his grandfather finally came in from the shop he poured a
Â
He begins by telling her about his childhood in Wisconsin, and about his grandparentsâ farm. He spent school holidays and weekends there, working with his grandfather in the shop or wandering the orchards and outbuildings with headphones and a book, sitting on lopsided degenerate farm equipment or under the trees. After his grandmother died, the remains of the orchard were left to the birds. Bushels of unpicked fruit withered through
the fall and winter. Layers of apple rot, overcome by moss, made the ground pillowy.
His last summer at the farm was a compromise: his parents, college professors, wanted him to go to straight to college after high school, but Spoke hesitatedâhe had never enjoyed school, though he performed well, and he didnât know what he would study. They let him take a year to make up his mind.
He was supposed to help his grandfather keep up the farm, fix things around the house, drive him to the store and church. But his grandfather died that fall. One morning, he wasnât up before Spoke, who found his grandfather in bed and couldnât wake him. Heâd had a stroke in the night.
Spoke thought it was a sign, his grandfather dying. He decided to live on the farm and nurse the orchard back to health, tend to the place. He imagined marrying and starting a family there, becoming an iteration of his grandfather, but with
more kids. Lots of fat happy kids, chasing chickens through the orchard.
Isabel lifts an eyebrow.
I was an only child, he explains with a sheepish shrug. No playmates.
Isabelâs eyes drift around the room as he continues, but she listens to every detail, trying to picture the farm and his grandparents, and a young Spoke, wanting to be grow apples and have babies.
He tells her about his grandfather, silent and stoic in a typically midwestern way, but gentle, and devoted to his wife. He remembers sitting at the kitchen table, eating a big slice of cake, his grandmother singing âO Day of Rest and Gladnessâ as she washed dishes. His grandfather came in for lunch, wrapped his arms around her waist, and kissed her, once, right behind the ear.
Isabel looks to Spoke and sees that heâs blushing. He glances back at her nervously. Itâs such an
intimate detail; she knows he has never told anyone. She canât help but imagine him kissing her in the same place.
There was something secret between them, he tells her. Something that connected the two of them in a way no one else could ever understand.
His grandmother died when he was twelve.
He remembers waking one morning in his dadâs childhood bedroomâmonths after his grandmotherâs funeralâthe house was silent, cold. He pulled on an overcoat and boots and wandered out into the yard. It was springâthe final thaw over, everything muddy and green and steaming in the morning sun. When he got to his grandfatherâs shop he stopped. He could see his grandpa through a crack in the door, sitting on his work stool, crying, quaking. He had never seen him cryânot in all the weeks that had passed, not even at the funeral. There was a box of letters open on the workbench.
He assumed they were from his grandmother, from during the war, before they were married.
He snuck back to the house and just stood in the kitchen, staring at the sink. Everything was different with her gone. It wasnât even like half of his grandparents was gone, it was like his grandmother took part of him with her. Spoke didnât know what to do. There wasnât a pot of coffee onâshe always made it, even though she didnât drink itâso Spoke pulled the big can down from the cupboard and made a pot in the percolator. He didnât know how, so he filled the basket with groundsâit came out thick and muddy. But when his grandfather finally came in from the shop he poured a
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