when you know something’s missing in your life but you don’t know what it is.
No Horses said that?
She did.
Hmm.
Is she okay, May?
I think so—she was here the other night with Daniel and she seemed fine.
She seemed troubled to me.
Did you tell Billy?
I haven’t seen him all afternoon. He was going to make tapes for Daniel and then walk with the doctor. Figured I’d catch him here.
Now he is late, Cedar. Can you peek out and find him? This bread will be ready in a minute and then we will have salmon with salmonberries, and you, my dear, will eat with us.
I’m so honored. Have you ever invited me to dinner before?
Hmm: forty years times a hundred dinners a year adds up to, let’s see, four thousand invitations. Or maybe eight thousand. And not one declined.
I never said no? Ever?
To my dinner?
He grins.
I’m off, he says.
And you may do the dishes tonight.
May I do the dishes, May?
You may.
Back in a minute.
Thank you. I’m sure he’s coming up the hill but still.
Don’t eat all the bread! he says his voice grinning and fading and she grins too but in the bottom of her belly she thinks of Billy.
33.
Moses, having paused in a hemlock to reconnoiter, commences to worry about Daniel and after a minute he jumps into the air and floats away black against the blackening night. Floats through a blizzard of gnats and snaps right and left to catch one as swifts and swallows do. Floats over spruce and cedar, the school, the church, the grocery. Ponders Daniel’s usual routes through town. Floats over the old hotel. Hotel reminds him of the old nun. Her laugh like the peal of a bell. When she gave him a bath in the sink. Water everywhere. Shaking with laughter. My belly hurts from laughing so hard, Moses. My empty belly. The fruit of thy womb. Sometimes I wonder, Moses. My salty sea. A boat of a boy a gull of a girl. The way she dried him tenderly in a towel and oiled his feathers with olive oil. I will anoint you as your namesake was anointed, Moses. The way she lit four white candles in the corners of the tub when she bathed. The four holy directions, Moses. Her breasts never sucked by man nor babe rising out of the soapy water like islands. My spirit ponders, Moses. The way she cut her own hair. The way he held the mirror for her while she cut her hair. The way she twirled a lock of her hair with her right hand while she wrote letters and cards with her left. The way she sang exuberantly in the tub. My voice rises to God and He will hear me, Moses. Her grave calm patience with her students. The way she said why, I was hoping it was you! whenever she opened her door for anyone at all. The worn tiny tattered creased photograph of her father she wore around her neck. I will meditate with my heart, Moses. The way she watched any and all storms as delighted and terrified as a child. The clouds poured out water and His arrows flashed here and there, Moses. The worn wooden prayer beads under her pillow. My voice rises to Him, Moses. The way she knocked on doors with both hands and wore only red hats and gave away books after she read them and wept at her desk sometimes for no reason he could see. Surely in vain I have kept my heart pure, Moses, and washed my hands in innocence. The way she counted carefully between thunderbolts so as to gauge their whereabouts. There is thunder in His whirlwind and the deeps also tremble, Moses. The way she finished each walk along the ocean by staring out to sea. Our paths are in His mighty waters, Moses, and so are holy and hidden.
34.
On the boat Declan unwraps sandwiches for himself and Grace and they eat silently. The grocer puts a handful of walnuts in his pocket for his little son who likes to crack them although he won’t eat them. Moses in flight snaps at a mosquito to see what it feels like to be a swift eating such swift little meats. The priest sips red wine and opens his mail. Owen is chopping carrots and potatoes and onions. The man who has beaten his son
No Horses said that?
She did.
Hmm.
Is she okay, May?
I think so—she was here the other night with Daniel and she seemed fine.
She seemed troubled to me.
Did you tell Billy?
I haven’t seen him all afternoon. He was going to make tapes for Daniel and then walk with the doctor. Figured I’d catch him here.
Now he is late, Cedar. Can you peek out and find him? This bread will be ready in a minute and then we will have salmon with salmonberries, and you, my dear, will eat with us.
I’m so honored. Have you ever invited me to dinner before?
Hmm: forty years times a hundred dinners a year adds up to, let’s see, four thousand invitations. Or maybe eight thousand. And not one declined.
I never said no? Ever?
To my dinner?
He grins.
I’m off, he says.
And you may do the dishes tonight.
May I do the dishes, May?
You may.
Back in a minute.
Thank you. I’m sure he’s coming up the hill but still.
Don’t eat all the bread! he says his voice grinning and fading and she grins too but in the bottom of her belly she thinks of Billy.
33.
Moses, having paused in a hemlock to reconnoiter, commences to worry about Daniel and after a minute he jumps into the air and floats away black against the blackening night. Floats through a blizzard of gnats and snaps right and left to catch one as swifts and swallows do. Floats over spruce and cedar, the school, the church, the grocery. Ponders Daniel’s usual routes through town. Floats over the old hotel. Hotel reminds him of the old nun. Her laugh like the peal of a bell. When she gave him a bath in the sink. Water everywhere. Shaking with laughter. My belly hurts from laughing so hard, Moses. My empty belly. The fruit of thy womb. Sometimes I wonder, Moses. My salty sea. A boat of a boy a gull of a girl. The way she dried him tenderly in a towel and oiled his feathers with olive oil. I will anoint you as your namesake was anointed, Moses. The way she lit four white candles in the corners of the tub when she bathed. The four holy directions, Moses. Her breasts never sucked by man nor babe rising out of the soapy water like islands. My spirit ponders, Moses. The way she cut her own hair. The way he held the mirror for her while she cut her hair. The way she twirled a lock of her hair with her right hand while she wrote letters and cards with her left. The way she sang exuberantly in the tub. My voice rises to God and He will hear me, Moses. Her grave calm patience with her students. The way she said why, I was hoping it was you! whenever she opened her door for anyone at all. The worn tiny tattered creased photograph of her father she wore around her neck. I will meditate with my heart, Moses. The way she watched any and all storms as delighted and terrified as a child. The clouds poured out water and His arrows flashed here and there, Moses. The worn wooden prayer beads under her pillow. My voice rises to Him, Moses. The way she knocked on doors with both hands and wore only red hats and gave away books after she read them and wept at her desk sometimes for no reason he could see. Surely in vain I have kept my heart pure, Moses, and washed my hands in innocence. The way she counted carefully between thunderbolts so as to gauge their whereabouts. There is thunder in His whirlwind and the deeps also tremble, Moses. The way she finished each walk along the ocean by staring out to sea. Our paths are in His mighty waters, Moses, and so are holy and hidden.
34.
On the boat Declan unwraps sandwiches for himself and Grace and they eat silently. The grocer puts a handful of walnuts in his pocket for his little son who likes to crack them although he won’t eat them. Moses in flight snaps at a mosquito to see what it feels like to be a swift eating such swift little meats. The priest sips red wine and opens his mail. Owen is chopping carrots and potatoes and onions. The man who has beaten his son
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