wanted to replicate their
tents. He stood, confirmed in the neighborhood opinion that the man was odd. So far, that was all.
But when the basic structure was done—a one-hour job—Mr. Harvey went toward the house without giving a reason. My father assumed
it was breaktime. That Mr. Harvey had gone in to get coffee or brew a pot of tea.
He was wrong. Mr. Harvey went into the house and up the stairs to check on the carving knife that he had put in his bedroom.
It was still in the nightstand, on top of which he kept his sketch pad where, often, in the middle of the night, he drew the
designs in his dreams. He looked inside a crumpled paper grocery sack. My blood on the blade had turned black. Remembering
it, remembering his act in the hole, made him remember what he had read about a particular tribe in southern Ayr. How, when
a tent was made for a newly married couple, the women of the tribe made the sheet that would cover it as beautiful as they
could.
It had begun to snow outside. It was the first snow since my death, and this was not lost on my father.
“I can hear you, honey,” he said to me, even though I wasn’t talking. “What is it?”
I focused very hard on the dead geranium in his line of vision. I thought if I could make it bloom he would have his answer.
In my heaven it bloomed. In my heaven geranium petals swirled in eddies up to my waist. On Earth nothing happened.
But through the snow I noticed this: my father was looking toward the green house in a new way. He had begun to wonder.
Inside, Mr. Harvey had donned a heavy flannel shirt, but what my father noticed first was what he carried in his arms: a stack
of white cotton sheets.
“What are those for?” my father asked. Suddenly he could not stop seeing my face.
“Tarps,” said Mr. Harvey. When he handed a stack to my father, the back of his hand touched my father’s fingers. It was like
an electric shock.
“You know something,” my father said.
He met my father’s eyes, held them, but did not speak.
They worked together, the snow falling, almost wafting, down. And as my father moved, his adrenaline raced. He checked what
he knew. Had anyone asked this man where he was the day I disappeared? Had anyone seen this man in the cornfield? He knew his
neighbors had been questioned. Methodically, the police had gone from door to door.
My father and Mr. Harvey spread the sheets over the domed arch, anchoring them along the square formed by the crossbars that
linked the forked posts. Then they hung the remaining sheets straight down from these crossbars so that the bottoms of the
sheets brushed the ground.
By the time they had finished, the snow sat gingerly on the covered arches. It filled in the hollows of my father’s shirt and
lay in a line across the top of his belt. I ached. I realized I would never rush out into the snow with Holiday again, would
never push Lindsey on a sled, would never teach, against my better judgment, my little brother how to compact snow by shaping
it against the base of his palm. I stood alone in a sea of bright petals. On Earth the snowflakes fell soft and blameless,
a curtain descending.
Standing inside the tent, Mr. Harvey thought of how the virgin bride would be brought to a member of the Imezzureg on a camel.
When my father made a move toward him, Mr. Harvey put his palm up.
“That’s enough now,” he said. “Why don’t you go on home?”
The time had come for my father to think of something to say. But all he could think of was this: “Susie,” he whispered, the
second syllable whipped like a snake.
“We’ve just built a tent,” Mr. Harvey said. “The neighbors saw us. We’re friends now.”
“You know something,” my father said.
“Go home. I can’t help you.”
Mr. Harvey did not smile or step forward. He retreated into the bridal tent and let the final monogrammed white cotton sheet
fall down.
FIVE
P art of me wished swift vengeance, wanted
tents. He stood, confirmed in the neighborhood opinion that the man was odd. So far, that was all.
But when the basic structure was done—a one-hour job—Mr. Harvey went toward the house without giving a reason. My father assumed
it was breaktime. That Mr. Harvey had gone in to get coffee or brew a pot of tea.
He was wrong. Mr. Harvey went into the house and up the stairs to check on the carving knife that he had put in his bedroom.
It was still in the nightstand, on top of which he kept his sketch pad where, often, in the middle of the night, he drew the
designs in his dreams. He looked inside a crumpled paper grocery sack. My blood on the blade had turned black. Remembering
it, remembering his act in the hole, made him remember what he had read about a particular tribe in southern Ayr. How, when
a tent was made for a newly married couple, the women of the tribe made the sheet that would cover it as beautiful as they
could.
It had begun to snow outside. It was the first snow since my death, and this was not lost on my father.
“I can hear you, honey,” he said to me, even though I wasn’t talking. “What is it?”
I focused very hard on the dead geranium in his line of vision. I thought if I could make it bloom he would have his answer.
In my heaven it bloomed. In my heaven geranium petals swirled in eddies up to my waist. On Earth nothing happened.
But through the snow I noticed this: my father was looking toward the green house in a new way. He had begun to wonder.
Inside, Mr. Harvey had donned a heavy flannel shirt, but what my father noticed first was what he carried in his arms: a stack
of white cotton sheets.
“What are those for?” my father asked. Suddenly he could not stop seeing my face.
“Tarps,” said Mr. Harvey. When he handed a stack to my father, the back of his hand touched my father’s fingers. It was like
an electric shock.
“You know something,” my father said.
He met my father’s eyes, held them, but did not speak.
They worked together, the snow falling, almost wafting, down. And as my father moved, his adrenaline raced. He checked what
he knew. Had anyone asked this man where he was the day I disappeared? Had anyone seen this man in the cornfield? He knew his
neighbors had been questioned. Methodically, the police had gone from door to door.
My father and Mr. Harvey spread the sheets over the domed arch, anchoring them along the square formed by the crossbars that
linked the forked posts. Then they hung the remaining sheets straight down from these crossbars so that the bottoms of the
sheets brushed the ground.
By the time they had finished, the snow sat gingerly on the covered arches. It filled in the hollows of my father’s shirt and
lay in a line across the top of his belt. I ached. I realized I would never rush out into the snow with Holiday again, would
never push Lindsey on a sled, would never teach, against my better judgment, my little brother how to compact snow by shaping
it against the base of his palm. I stood alone in a sea of bright petals. On Earth the snowflakes fell soft and blameless,
a curtain descending.
Standing inside the tent, Mr. Harvey thought of how the virgin bride would be brought to a member of the Imezzureg on a camel.
When my father made a move toward him, Mr. Harvey put his palm up.
“That’s enough now,” he said. “Why don’t you go on home?”
The time had come for my father to think of something to say. But all he could think of was this: “Susie,” he whispered, the
second syllable whipped like a snake.
“We’ve just built a tent,” Mr. Harvey said. “The neighbors saw us. We’re friends now.”
“You know something,” my father said.
“Go home. I can’t help you.”
Mr. Harvey did not smile or step forward. He retreated into the bridal tent and let the final monogrammed white cotton sheet
fall down.
FIVE
P art of me wished swift vengeance, wanted
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