it. I just didn’t have enough time. I was starting the project late. So I thought maybe I could make it work. When am I going to learn not to start shit late?
Well, Irene said, I think you’re being hard on yourself.
No I’m not. I’m an ass. I’m an incompetent ass, and that’s what I’ve always been. Every project.
Gary, she said, and she tried to put her arms around him, but he stomped off into the trees. Hard to believe he was fifty-five years old. He could have been twenty, or thirteen, or three. Having a tantrum, just like the children she’d taught for thirty-three years.
And meanwhile, Irene said quietly to herself, this gets to be my life. Because you can choose who you’ll be with, but you can’t choose who they’ll become.
Gary was through the trees at the back of the property quickly, moving fast. The rain coming down heavy, his footsteps just as heavy, snapping deadfall. He felt like he could go forever, hike clear across Alaska into the Yukon and Northwest Territories, hike until his legs burned away and his mind cleared. He found that other cabin again, with the large even logs. He examined the gaps and still couldn’t tell what they used. The prongs of his hammer and the logs themselves curved enough that he couldn’t quite dig in, so he swung hard to bite into one of the gaps, tearing away at the log face. The lighter wood exposed, the surface gone almost black. He was able to free a small piece of the filler. A gray grout or cement or epoxy. It had flexibility but wasn’t rubber or silicone. Slightly grainy in his fingers. He smelled it and couldn’t tell what it was. And he doubted it could fill several inches of gap. Nothing would fill that. He’d have to nail up plywood. Instead of a cabin, the inside would look like a storage unit.
Gary turned and threw his hammer at a tree. It hit with too quiet a sound, nothing satisfying. So he walked over and picked it up and threw it at another tree, closer, and it bounced back at him so he jumped to the side.
He wanted to reach down into the island and tear it apart with his hands, see the lake’s water rise up in the gap. That would be enough. Nothing less than that.
Well, he said. Because it was time to move on.
He hiked back to Irene, who was sitting on the edge of the platform, turned away from the wind and rain, hunched over. He should let her go back home. She shouldn’t have to be a part of this. Just a few more layers of logs and they’d go.
He walked up to her and said sorry. This is just frustrating, he said. There’s another cabin back there, and I don’t know where they got their big logs.
It’s okay. Maybe we can work something out with these.
So they made another layer, sawing and nailing corners, then stood back to look at the gaps. They stood there in the rain and tried to figure out how to make it work.
Maybe you can nail each layer down into the next, Irene said. With longer nails. That might bring them closer together. And she was thinking this was a kind of metaphor, that if they could take all their previous selves and nail them together, get who they were five years ago and twenty-five years ago to fit closer together, maybe they’d have a sense of something solid. For themselves and for their marriage, a marriage not unlike a sense of self, something fleeting and changing, important and also nothing. You could rely on it for years, just assume it was there, but then if you looked for it, needed it, tried to find some substance to it, something to grab on to, your hands closed on air.
That’s a good idea, Gary said. I’ll try that. Thanks, Reney.
They made one more layer, then lifted each layer off and dragged it aside for tomorrow’s work. Tomorrow they’d try to make it all fit together more closely.
Monique and Carl were lying on the bed in Jim’s spare bedroom. Late afternoon, after showers. Carl praying she’d have sex with him, afraid to say anything. Monique staring at the ceiling.
I’m
Well, Irene said, I think you’re being hard on yourself.
No I’m not. I’m an ass. I’m an incompetent ass, and that’s what I’ve always been. Every project.
Gary, she said, and she tried to put her arms around him, but he stomped off into the trees. Hard to believe he was fifty-five years old. He could have been twenty, or thirteen, or three. Having a tantrum, just like the children she’d taught for thirty-three years.
And meanwhile, Irene said quietly to herself, this gets to be my life. Because you can choose who you’ll be with, but you can’t choose who they’ll become.
Gary was through the trees at the back of the property quickly, moving fast. The rain coming down heavy, his footsteps just as heavy, snapping deadfall. He felt like he could go forever, hike clear across Alaska into the Yukon and Northwest Territories, hike until his legs burned away and his mind cleared. He found that other cabin again, with the large even logs. He examined the gaps and still couldn’t tell what they used. The prongs of his hammer and the logs themselves curved enough that he couldn’t quite dig in, so he swung hard to bite into one of the gaps, tearing away at the log face. The lighter wood exposed, the surface gone almost black. He was able to free a small piece of the filler. A gray grout or cement or epoxy. It had flexibility but wasn’t rubber or silicone. Slightly grainy in his fingers. He smelled it and couldn’t tell what it was. And he doubted it could fill several inches of gap. Nothing would fill that. He’d have to nail up plywood. Instead of a cabin, the inside would look like a storage unit.
Gary turned and threw his hammer at a tree. It hit with too quiet a sound, nothing satisfying. So he walked over and picked it up and threw it at another tree, closer, and it bounced back at him so he jumped to the side.
He wanted to reach down into the island and tear it apart with his hands, see the lake’s water rise up in the gap. That would be enough. Nothing less than that.
Well, he said. Because it was time to move on.
He hiked back to Irene, who was sitting on the edge of the platform, turned away from the wind and rain, hunched over. He should let her go back home. She shouldn’t have to be a part of this. Just a few more layers of logs and they’d go.
He walked up to her and said sorry. This is just frustrating, he said. There’s another cabin back there, and I don’t know where they got their big logs.
It’s okay. Maybe we can work something out with these.
So they made another layer, sawing and nailing corners, then stood back to look at the gaps. They stood there in the rain and tried to figure out how to make it work.
Maybe you can nail each layer down into the next, Irene said. With longer nails. That might bring them closer together. And she was thinking this was a kind of metaphor, that if they could take all their previous selves and nail them together, get who they were five years ago and twenty-five years ago to fit closer together, maybe they’d have a sense of something solid. For themselves and for their marriage, a marriage not unlike a sense of self, something fleeting and changing, important and also nothing. You could rely on it for years, just assume it was there, but then if you looked for it, needed it, tried to find some substance to it, something to grab on to, your hands closed on air.
That’s a good idea, Gary said. I’ll try that. Thanks, Reney.
They made one more layer, then lifted each layer off and dragged it aside for tomorrow’s work. Tomorrow they’d try to make it all fit together more closely.
Monique and Carl were lying on the bed in Jim’s spare bedroom. Late afternoon, after showers. Carl praying she’d have sex with him, afraid to say anything. Monique staring at the ceiling.
I’m
Similar Books
