enjoy being out on the porch again. For Paulâs part, he couldnât imagine being seen publicly to be enjoying life too soon, not tending ornamental flowers and certainly not sitting in a porch swing for every passerby to see. Same with the house and the yard, at that rate. If heâd swept the porch hard with the old broom from the garage and if he was scrubbing every inch of it now, it was only so he could stand to walk on it again, not because it was time to set things to rights.
The neighborhood is quiet, not peaceful like itâs always been, but empty. No childrenâs voices to be heard, no cars rolling over the cobbles in the streets. If there is a din to be heard, itâs in the tent cities now, he supposes, although things might be somber there, too, what with waiting for the burials to begin. Heâd like to go out there and have a look around one of the tent cities and see how folks are fixed. Lon and Clarence are living in those tents with their families, and Irene and her mother. Russ Meeker, too. He could probably walk over there with them after work one day soon and have a look without being too conspicuous. Just see them home, have a laugh at their all being down-the-row neighbors now, and leave. Then again, maybe not. Thereâd be others there heâd know, folks heâd have to greet and explain himself to and convince somehow that he wasnât there touring like the gawkers.
Paul wonders what Mae ever did with the bedsheets she used to cover the bodies out here on the porch those first few nights before the Guardsmen took them away. He doesnât suppose theyâll find their way back onto any of the beds. Not any time soon. Would boiling be enough to satisfy her, he wonders? Thereâd be no way of knowing until you were standing there with the sheet in your hand, dry, ironed, and folded, about to snap it out over a mattress. It might be an idea to confuse things, to wash those sheets again with others from the linen closet so you couldnât know for sure which was which. It might also be an idea just to burn them. Paul drops his brush in the pail and gets up to look over the porch rail at the debris alongside the house.
He has less and less excuse now for putting off clearing the yard. Once the electricity was on again at the lumberyard, finishing the cutting of lumber for all the coffins had been quick work. They were cutting government lumber by then, sent in in boxcars, and the National Guard had simply requisitioned the use of the lumberyard as a place to build the coffins and sent Paul and his men home. With nothing to do now until those boxes are in the ground, with having to wait for shipments of lumber to replenish his own stock, and with there being no takers for the help he has to offer, he doesnât know how he can wait any longer to begin work at home, cleaning up the place.
This is the moment he has been dreading, the moment heâs been delaying, hoping others on his street would spare him by beginning first. It had worked out all right at the lumberyard where heâd made Irene and the others wait until there was cleaning underway next door at the Liberty before they got started. Even then, heâd prevented them from doing too good a job. Paul saw how they were itching to clean the place; having lost everything of their own, they were that much keener to see the lumberyard restored to its old self. Heâd had to say it out loud finally and explain to them all that the storm had left him walking a high wire of sorts, and that for the time being, and no matter what they were doing next door at the Liberty, his having an overly clean storefront amounted to preening. And now, because he is not needed at the lumberyard, and because everyone knows he has nothing else to occupy him at home but the yard, he will be seen as calculating if he waits. Paul empties his pail, throwing the last of his wash water out over the brown grass in the yard in a
The neighborhood is quiet, not peaceful like itâs always been, but empty. No childrenâs voices to be heard, no cars rolling over the cobbles in the streets. If there is a din to be heard, itâs in the tent cities now, he supposes, although things might be somber there, too, what with waiting for the burials to begin. Heâd like to go out there and have a look around one of the tent cities and see how folks are fixed. Lon and Clarence are living in those tents with their families, and Irene and her mother. Russ Meeker, too. He could probably walk over there with them after work one day soon and have a look without being too conspicuous. Just see them home, have a laugh at their all being down-the-row neighbors now, and leave. Then again, maybe not. Thereâd be others there heâd know, folks heâd have to greet and explain himself to and convince somehow that he wasnât there touring like the gawkers.
Paul wonders what Mae ever did with the bedsheets she used to cover the bodies out here on the porch those first few nights before the Guardsmen took them away. He doesnât suppose theyâll find their way back onto any of the beds. Not any time soon. Would boiling be enough to satisfy her, he wonders? Thereâd be no way of knowing until you were standing there with the sheet in your hand, dry, ironed, and folded, about to snap it out over a mattress. It might be an idea to confuse things, to wash those sheets again with others from the linen closet so you couldnât know for sure which was which. It might also be an idea just to burn them. Paul drops his brush in the pail and gets up to look over the porch rail at the debris alongside the house.
He has less and less excuse now for putting off clearing the yard. Once the electricity was on again at the lumberyard, finishing the cutting of lumber for all the coffins had been quick work. They were cutting government lumber by then, sent in in boxcars, and the National Guard had simply requisitioned the use of the lumberyard as a place to build the coffins and sent Paul and his men home. With nothing to do now until those boxes are in the ground, with having to wait for shipments of lumber to replenish his own stock, and with there being no takers for the help he has to offer, he doesnât know how he can wait any longer to begin work at home, cleaning up the place.
This is the moment he has been dreading, the moment heâs been delaying, hoping others on his street would spare him by beginning first. It had worked out all right at the lumberyard where heâd made Irene and the others wait until there was cleaning underway next door at the Liberty before they got started. Even then, heâd prevented them from doing too good a job. Paul saw how they were itching to clean the place; having lost everything of their own, they were that much keener to see the lumberyard restored to its old self. Heâd had to say it out loud finally and explain to them all that the storm had left him walking a high wire of sorts, and that for the time being, and no matter what they were doing next door at the Liberty, his having an overly clean storefront amounted to preening. And now, because he is not needed at the lumberyard, and because everyone knows he has nothing else to occupy him at home but the yard, he will be seen as calculating if he waits. Paul empties his pail, throwing the last of his wash water out over the brown grass in the yard in a
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