her boys had begun to keep a fire in the old woodstove on the porch. From her rocking chair she could reach both the pile of old clapboards and the top of the stove, so she did not have to get up to keep the fire fed.Malcolm had the dead turkey in his arms. When he had pulled it by its feet from the top of the woodpile and brought it down, its wings had given a flap and he had thought it would take life and flight again, but of course it would not.
“Boys,” Mrs. Randolph had called quietly, and that was all. They came out and they knew just what was to be done. When he was shown and it was his turn with the feathers Malcolm took Mrs. Randolph’s seat. It was warm and safe and each time he pulled a feather that pink skin gave a little tug and then bounced back down.
“If you ain’t going to eat it,” Mrs. Randolph had said, “I’m guessing there’s a woman with a baby and another on the way wouldn’t mind a gift from you.”
So that is what Malcolm had done. His family would eat beef that his father had bought last spring from the Phillipses’ farm. Otto thought that family to be good, hard workers, so he had bought the meat despite the fact that he considered himself a modern man who ought to buy meat at the store. The Wickholms would eat beef on Thanksgiving, and June would have a turkey.
And the gun would go in the lake. Malcolm had decided that as he sat there on that porch and looked down toward the cold water. The lake would be frozen soon. He would go out tomorrow.
June said she would cook the turkey early because it gave her an excuse to turn the oven on and heat the place up. If she had seen Malcolm go out in his canoe she would have said that he had better not go in this weather. Malcolm paddled out to the center of the open water. In the distance Kettleborough sat small as a village for gnomes. He laid his paddle on the floor of the canoeand took up the gun. He held it high above his head and counted to ten. With the wind he could scarcely hold his arms steady. When he released the gun, it fell more slowly than he would have thought possible. In the water it spun downward, and he watched it go. When it was out of sight he took up his paddle and though the lake was rough he did not have fear, for somewhere deep within Malcolm knew he would never die in this big lake.
Sophie left the window open and ran to the telephone to call Otto at work.
“Our Malcolm has left us,” she said when he answered. Her voice was quiet but firm, with a pronounced shake to it. She had to grip one hand on the banister to keep from tipping over. “It’s our fault,” she said bravely.
Otto did not speak, but she could hear his slow, steady breath on the other end of the line.
“Ours,” she said again. She didn’t care if Mrs. Randolph heard. “The baby,” she said. “You and I,” she said. She would have gone on, but Otto cut her off.
“One more word,” he said slowly, “and I will put down this telephone and not ever speak to you again.”
Sophie opened her mouth but no sound emerged. She dropped the phone, let it hang there by its cord, and stood alone in the bright living room. After a few breaths she crossed the room, found her purse, and ran out the door.
Mrs. Randolph had heard Sophie calling for her son, and now she could see that Malcolm was at the bottom of the hill, headed homeward, a baby in his arms. So we’ve finally come to this, she thought. She looked toward the Wickholm house just in timeto see Sophie run out the door, slip on the ice, and fall to the ground.
“He’s here,” Mrs. Randolph hollered as she rushed the short distance from her own porch to Sophie’s house. “Malcolm. He’s coming up the hill.”
The contents of Sophie’s purse had spilled in her fall. A small can of aerosol hair spray and a fold of powder. There, three pictures of her illegitimate grandbaby. Her wallet, a tin, a letter addressed to Jennifer in Oregon. When Mrs. Randolph arrived at Sophie’s side,
“Boys,” Mrs. Randolph had called quietly, and that was all. They came out and they knew just what was to be done. When he was shown and it was his turn with the feathers Malcolm took Mrs. Randolph’s seat. It was warm and safe and each time he pulled a feather that pink skin gave a little tug and then bounced back down.
“If you ain’t going to eat it,” Mrs. Randolph had said, “I’m guessing there’s a woman with a baby and another on the way wouldn’t mind a gift from you.”
So that is what Malcolm had done. His family would eat beef that his father had bought last spring from the Phillipses’ farm. Otto thought that family to be good, hard workers, so he had bought the meat despite the fact that he considered himself a modern man who ought to buy meat at the store. The Wickholms would eat beef on Thanksgiving, and June would have a turkey.
And the gun would go in the lake. Malcolm had decided that as he sat there on that porch and looked down toward the cold water. The lake would be frozen soon. He would go out tomorrow.
June said she would cook the turkey early because it gave her an excuse to turn the oven on and heat the place up. If she had seen Malcolm go out in his canoe she would have said that he had better not go in this weather. Malcolm paddled out to the center of the open water. In the distance Kettleborough sat small as a village for gnomes. He laid his paddle on the floor of the canoeand took up the gun. He held it high above his head and counted to ten. With the wind he could scarcely hold his arms steady. When he released the gun, it fell more slowly than he would have thought possible. In the water it spun downward, and he watched it go. When it was out of sight he took up his paddle and though the lake was rough he did not have fear, for somewhere deep within Malcolm knew he would never die in this big lake.
Sophie left the window open and ran to the telephone to call Otto at work.
“Our Malcolm has left us,” she said when he answered. Her voice was quiet but firm, with a pronounced shake to it. She had to grip one hand on the banister to keep from tipping over. “It’s our fault,” she said bravely.
Otto did not speak, but she could hear his slow, steady breath on the other end of the line.
“Ours,” she said again. She didn’t care if Mrs. Randolph heard. “The baby,” she said. “You and I,” she said. She would have gone on, but Otto cut her off.
“One more word,” he said slowly, “and I will put down this telephone and not ever speak to you again.”
Sophie opened her mouth but no sound emerged. She dropped the phone, let it hang there by its cord, and stood alone in the bright living room. After a few breaths she crossed the room, found her purse, and ran out the door.
Mrs. Randolph had heard Sophie calling for her son, and now she could see that Malcolm was at the bottom of the hill, headed homeward, a baby in his arms. So we’ve finally come to this, she thought. She looked toward the Wickholm house just in timeto see Sophie run out the door, slip on the ice, and fall to the ground.
“He’s here,” Mrs. Randolph hollered as she rushed the short distance from her own porch to Sophie’s house. “Malcolm. He’s coming up the hill.”
The contents of Sophie’s purse had spilled in her fall. A small can of aerosol hair spray and a fold of powder. There, three pictures of her illegitimate grandbaby. Her wallet, a tin, a letter addressed to Jennifer in Oregon. When Mrs. Randolph arrived at Sophie’s side,
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