know how. You make people t alk to you all the time.”
When she raises her face, he sees what he's given her. You cannot be doomed, after all, as long as you can still see the faint outline of hope on the oppo site shore.
The day after his son goes mute for reasons that Caleb does not want to beli eve, he walks outside the front door and realizes his home is falling apart. Not in the literal sense, of course-he's too careful for that. But if you l ook closely, you notice that the things which should have been taken care of ages ago-the stone path in front of the house, the crest at the top of the chimney, the brick kneewall meant to circle the perimeter of their land-all of these projects had been abandoned for another commissioned by a paying cu stomer. He puts his coffee mug down on the edge of the porch and walks down the steps, trying to look objectively at each site.
The front path, well, it would take an expert to realize how uneven the stone s are; that's not a priority. The chimney is a pure embarrassment; it's chipped along the whole left side. But getting to the roof this late in the afternoon doesn't make any sense, plus, it helps to have an assistant whe n you're working that high up. Which means that Caleb turns first to the knee wall, a foot-wide hollow brick embellishment at the perimeter of the road. The bricks are stacked at the spot where he'd left off nearly a year ago. He got them from commercial contractors who knew he'd been looking for use d bricks, and they come from all over New England-demolished factories an d wrecked hospital wards, crumbling colonial homes and abandoned schoolhou ses. Caleb likes their marks and scars. He fancies that maybe in the porou s red clay there might be some old ghosts or angels; he'd be all right wit h either walking the edge of his land.
Thank goodness, he's already dug below the frost line. Crushed stone rests s ix inches deep. Caleb hauls a bag of Redi-Mix into his arms and pours it int o the wheelbarrow he uses for mixing. Chop and drag, set a rhythm as the wat er blends with the sand and concrete. He can feel it taking over as soon as he lays the first course of bricks, wiggles them into the cement until they seat-when he puts his whole body into his work like this, his mind goes wide and white.
It is his art, and it is his addiction. He moves along the edge of the footin g, placing with grace. This wall will not be solid; there will be two smooth facings, crowned with a decorative concrete cap. You'll never know that on th e inside, the mortar is rough and ugly, smeared. Caleb doesn't have to be car eful on the spots that no one sees.
He reaches for a brick and his fingers brush over something smaller, smooth er. A plastic soldier-the green army man variety. The last time he'd been w orking on this, Nathaniel had come with him. While Caleb dug the trench and filled it with stone, his son had hidden a battalion in the fort made of t umbled bricks.
Nathaniel was three. “I'm gonna take you down,” he had said, pointing the so ldier at Mason, the golden retriever.
“Where did you hear that?” Caleb asked, laughing.
“I hearded it,” Nathaniel said sagely, “way back when I was a baby.” That long ago, Caleb had thought.
Now, he holds the plastic soldier in his hand. A flashlight trips along the driveway, and for the first time Caleb realizes that it is past sunset; t hat somehow, in his work, he's missed the end of the day. “What are you doing ?” Nina asks.
“What does it look like I'm doing?”
“Now?”
He turns, hiding the toy soldier in his fist. “Why not?”
“But it's . . . it's . . .” She shakes her head. “I'm putting Nathaniel to bed.”
“Do you need my help?”
He realizes after the words escape that she will take it the wrong way. Do you want help, he should have said. Predictably, Nina bristles. “I think after fi ve years I can probably figure it out all by myself,” she says, and heads back toward the house, her
When she raises her face, he sees what he's given her. You cannot be doomed, after all, as long as you can still see the faint outline of hope on the oppo site shore.
The day after his son goes mute for reasons that Caleb does not want to beli eve, he walks outside the front door and realizes his home is falling apart. Not in the literal sense, of course-he's too careful for that. But if you l ook closely, you notice that the things which should have been taken care of ages ago-the stone path in front of the house, the crest at the top of the chimney, the brick kneewall meant to circle the perimeter of their land-all of these projects had been abandoned for another commissioned by a paying cu stomer. He puts his coffee mug down on the edge of the porch and walks down the steps, trying to look objectively at each site.
The front path, well, it would take an expert to realize how uneven the stone s are; that's not a priority. The chimney is a pure embarrassment; it's chipped along the whole left side. But getting to the roof this late in the afternoon doesn't make any sense, plus, it helps to have an assistant whe n you're working that high up. Which means that Caleb turns first to the knee wall, a foot-wide hollow brick embellishment at the perimeter of the road. The bricks are stacked at the spot where he'd left off nearly a year ago. He got them from commercial contractors who knew he'd been looking for use d bricks, and they come from all over New England-demolished factories an d wrecked hospital wards, crumbling colonial homes and abandoned schoolhou ses. Caleb likes their marks and scars. He fancies that maybe in the porou s red clay there might be some old ghosts or angels; he'd be all right wit h either walking the edge of his land.
Thank goodness, he's already dug below the frost line. Crushed stone rests s ix inches deep. Caleb hauls a bag of Redi-Mix into his arms and pours it int o the wheelbarrow he uses for mixing. Chop and drag, set a rhythm as the wat er blends with the sand and concrete. He can feel it taking over as soon as he lays the first course of bricks, wiggles them into the cement until they seat-when he puts his whole body into his work like this, his mind goes wide and white.
It is his art, and it is his addiction. He moves along the edge of the footin g, placing with grace. This wall will not be solid; there will be two smooth facings, crowned with a decorative concrete cap. You'll never know that on th e inside, the mortar is rough and ugly, smeared. Caleb doesn't have to be car eful on the spots that no one sees.
He reaches for a brick and his fingers brush over something smaller, smooth er. A plastic soldier-the green army man variety. The last time he'd been w orking on this, Nathaniel had come with him. While Caleb dug the trench and filled it with stone, his son had hidden a battalion in the fort made of t umbled bricks.
Nathaniel was three. “I'm gonna take you down,” he had said, pointing the so ldier at Mason, the golden retriever.
“Where did you hear that?” Caleb asked, laughing.
“I hearded it,” Nathaniel said sagely, “way back when I was a baby.” That long ago, Caleb had thought.
Now, he holds the plastic soldier in his hand. A flashlight trips along the driveway, and for the first time Caleb realizes that it is past sunset; t hat somehow, in his work, he's missed the end of the day. “What are you doing ?” Nina asks.
“What does it look like I'm doing?”
“Now?”
He turns, hiding the toy soldier in his fist. “Why not?”
“But it's . . . it's . . .” She shakes her head. “I'm putting Nathaniel to bed.”
“Do you need my help?”
He realizes after the words escape that she will take it the wrong way. Do you want help, he should have said. Predictably, Nina bristles. “I think after fi ve years I can probably figure it out all by myself,” she says, and heads back toward the house, her
Similar Books
