That night over dinner, Eve is different. Not low, but not high, either, and I can tell we’re thinking the same thing, wondering how long this is going to last. This morning, she put on makeup and curled her hair. The last time she did that was 486 days ago. I checked. It’s hard to look at her. Not because I don’t want to, but on account of my neck.
Joni left a bag of frozen peas out for me, to go along with my dinner. I press them against my forehead.
“How’s the book coming?” Eve asks, carefully picking at her dinner salad.
I stand and shuffle around the table, taking my peas and my dinner plate to the seat opposite of her. This way I can make eye contact. “It’s getting there.”
Her eyelids lower, her thick, dark lashes on display. Eve does not like to be lied to. “Why won’t you let him help? Isn’t that what he’s here for?”
“He is helping, clearly.”
“George.”
“What?”
“Answer the question.”
“I did…” Stabbing at a piece of ribeye, I stuff it in my mouth. “Did he say that?” I ask, in between chews. “That I wasn’t letting him help?”
“He didn’t have to.”
“Well, see…” I say, letting the fork fall onto the plate. “Then how can you know?”
“I know because he’s bored out of his mind, George. And he’s in love.”
“So?” Sometimes Eve tries to combine two ideas that make no sense.
Now she’s glaring at me like I’m the crazy one. “So. Don’t you remember what it’s like?”
Reaching for my spoon, I practically shove a pile of mashed potatoes into my mouth. “Hmmm.”
“To be in love, George. Remember?”
Eve expects everyone around her to see what she sees. This will be no different. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m trying to say—I’ve asked him to move in.”
I drop the spoon and look her dead in the eye, neck pain be damned. “You what?”
“I offered him the cottage.”
“Eve. You—”
“It’s not like anyone’s using it. He’s trying to help you.” She sighs heavily. “Can’t you see?”
Lifting my drink to my lips, I avert my gaze. “Who said I needed help?”
“It’s obvious,” she says, taking the glass from my hand.
“To who? To you?” I don’t mean it to be a dig, but the liquor runs warm through my veins, and I know how Eve feels about a one-sided fight.
She takes my chin in her hand and forces me to look at her. “To everyone.”
Two days later, on a Monday, a breezy, early summer day, Liam Martin shows up with his belongings and moves into the cottage, 862 steps from our front door. Eve was right. It hasn’t been used in awhile. She spent the better part of the weekend cleaning it out. I spent the better part of the weekend avoiding her, suddenly feeling very motivated to get this book finished and turned in.
To further complicate matters, she moved her belongings from downstairs back to our bedroom. “It’ll be fine,” she told me when I questioned her. “You’ll see.”
I didn’t want to see. I knew how seeing usually turned out.
“Wait until you see what I’ve done with the cottage. You’re going to love it!”
I wanted to tell her I liked it before, that it was fine as it was. But I said nothing. The cottage is mine. I had it built not long after we bought the house. Eve never much cared for it. In those days, we had more help, and I needed somewhere quiet to write, as the boys were young.
I think of Liam, how he is roughly the age that our oldest would have been, and I wonder if this is why Eve is so fascinated with him.
Liam didn’t ask me if it was okay, his moving in, but I know my wife. She can be very persuasive when she wants to be.
After Joni let him in and he climbed the steps to the office, taking them two by two, he greeted me with, “Howdy neighbor.”
“Funny.”
“Don’t worry, old man. We’ll get a lot more done this way.” He grinned proudly. “Just think—I’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”
I have no idea if he was trying to force my hand, or if for him it was mere convenience. I only know that the move was very, very clever.
Chapter Eight
I’m finishing up my normal afternoon walk, six miles, three one way and three back, when I spot him. I’m just about to round the hill when my heart sinks. The boy is a complication I don’t need, not today. Tyson…or is it Jason? It’s Jason, I think. Something like that.
I can’t recall.
He’s dirty today, as he often is, but he smiles when he sees me. Not a surprised kind of smile. He isn’t shocked to see me, the way I am to see him. His smile is the familiar kind.
There’s a farm up the road—a term to be used loosely—where the boy and his family live. By family, I mean there’s a mom, and what you could call a dad, and maybe four or five kids. Hard to say, seeing as I try not to get too close.
He’s perched on a guardrail, just off the two-lane road, staring in my direction. The closer I get, the worse it looks. His nose is runny, his cheeks are flushed, and his mess of black hair is sweaty and matted to his head. His shoes are worn through and on the wrong feet. It’s unusually warm out today. Nevertheless, he’s happier to see me than I am to see him. He has yet to learn what I know about life.
My mother’s words ring in my ears. Just remember, George, she used to say, not everyone has had the same good fortune you’ve had.
“Hello,” I tell him, with a slight wave. “Why dontcha come over here…back away from the road.”
He looks at me almost shyly and then nods, like this is the most sensible thing he’s heard all day. Sadly, it probably is.
His shirt is damp with sweat. His shorts are two sizes too small. He holds his tiny hand up toward the sun, toward me. He’s eager to show off something he has found. A dandelion, I see. Satisfied by the expression on my face, he blows hard, giggling as the seeds scatter in the wind.
“Come on,” I say. “Better get you home.” He’s walked further today than I’ve seen before, and this is concerning.
“How’s your mom?” I ask, knowing he’s too young to give me a proper answer. I’m guessing he’s around three, so he can speak words. But from what I can tell, he isn’t yet speaking in proper sentences. His mother is a CNA at the local nursing home, and also a waitress at the diner, and his father is a friend of the bottle.
There isn’t a lot going on out here, which means word travels fast among the locals. And word has it the kid’s dad is in and out of jail, mostly for domestic abuse. But also quite often for petty theft.
“Here,” I say, picking him up. I sling him over my shoulders the way he likes. “Let’s get there before the sun goes down, huh?”
As usual, I drop the boy at the gate. Only once, the first time, did I walk him up to the door.
I don’t know what I had expected, but I don’t think it was to come nose to nose with the barrel of a shotgun.