Fellow Mortals by Dennis Mahoney Page B

his elbows and his neck. He has a broad, open face and a long grizzled beard, and his body looks pained, writhing on the rock.
    Henry gazes at the hole in the middle of his chest.
    “That’s … how do you do that?”
    “I used to have to model them in clay before I started,” Sam says, but that’s as far as he’ll explain. He might have answered, Magic .
    There’s a breeze in the uppermost branches of the trees—rustling overhead, buds falling at their feet—but the air isn’t moving on the ground around the sculpture and it’s strange, how it feels like they’re standing indoors.
    “I plan on putting suet in the hole to draw the birds.”
    “Ha!” Henry says, wishing Ava were here to see it.
    “So the cabin,” Sam says, “keeps me closer to the work.”
    Henry coughs. Something gummy leaves the bottom of his throat, but he can’t spit it out and has to swallow it again. “I don’t know the first thing about building a cabin.”
    “I only need your strength,” Sam says.
    Henry thinks of Ava’s face when she found him at the fire. All she’d heard at that point was somebody had died, not the way the fire started, not the fact of the cigar. He’d been terrified to tell her and had fought to get it out, blubbering and thinking she would leave him on the spot. But she only drew him closer with her fingers on his back, squeezing hard as if the only real victim were him.
    “We’d start by cutting a path out to the trailer,” Sam says. “I’ll need to get an ATV to bring supplies into the clearing. You’ll help me gather rocks and carry concrete to lay the foundation, but the harder part is dragging all the logs from the woods.”
    Henry could tell her about the path and he could tell her about the sculptures, but the rest of it would have to be a secret. Not a word.
    “If you’re going to stay and help,” Sam says, “we need some rules. First is no more apologizing.”
    “That’s gonna be hard,” Henry says.
    “It’s the only one I really care about.”
    “Okay.”
    “I don’t want to talk when I’m sculpting.”
    “I wouldn’t talk at all.”
    “No,” Sam says. “It’s fine if we’re doing something together. But I really have to focus when I’m working.”
    Henry nods.
    “I’ll resent you if you treat me like a pity case. That’s it for now. I might think of more,” Sam says. “Is it a deal?”
    All the blood in Henry’s head settles to his feet until the weight is so profound he isn’t sure that he can move. The hole inside the sculpture looks deeper than before, the tension in the chains more tangibly severe. He can feel the seconds passing, very slowly, very quickly, and it’s Ava more than Sam who seems immediately real.
    “If you don’t want to help…” Sam says, growing cold.
    “No, God, it isn’t that,” Henry says. “I’ll definitely help. I was just … nothing. I was trying not to apologize again. I want to do this. Wait till Wing finds out. Assuming that’s okay…”
    “Sure,” Sam agrees. “As long as he isn’t running around the neighborhood. You don’t want Peg calling Animal Control.”
    “Right,” Henry says, freeing up his feet. “When do you want to start?”
    “Now,” Sam says.

 
    11
    Billy Kane’s worked at True Value for three years and bets that he could build a house from scratch, given money and time and no distractions, same as he could get in shape if he didn’t work forty hours a week and the gym fees weren’t so offensive. His entire life boils down to organizing screw drawers and mowing dandelion heads; next week it’s like he didn’t do a thing, and his manager and Sheri only notice that the screws are intermixed and the backyard’s a weed farm. Work leads to work, not some fantasy reward, and if his current income is any indication of the future, he’ll be working past retirement, right until he’s dead.
    He’s been stocking pesticide and fungicide this morning—he can almost taste the chemicals and feels