don’t find the boy. A week later, a hunter finds a coat near the shore up the lake tangled in tree roots.
“We need to put this behind us,” Stieglitz says to me when we hear the news. “We could not have saved him.”
The others have gone to bed. It’s a warm night. Stars flood the sky.
“I wish we’d tried,” I say.
A deep silence falls.
“He was gone the moment the canoe tipped,” he says. “Even rowing back, I knew.” He is looking away across the lake, the dark mass of the island floating in the silver water.
“It was probably the right choice,” I say.
“There was no choice.”
“I’m not blaming you.”
He looks at me then, sorrow so blunt it takes my breath.
—
M ID- S EPTEMBER, AFTER MOST of them are gone, I come upon Hedwig in the upstairs hall. She is on her knees. She gapes at me. I try to help her up, an arm thrashes, her voice slurred, she stares through my face as if I am the door she is reaching for. Then her hand drops, and she slumps, the full weight of her pitching to one side.
I cry for help. Stieglitz calls back to me from the other end of the house. A team of doctors swoop to the Hill. She is only just stirring when they bear her away. He weeps when we receive the call from Lee. A stroke. She will recover. To a certain extent.
I hold him, late into the next morning. We take long walks as the leaves burn down into their autumn fire. He photographs lit raindrops on the apple tree. Like tears, he says.
I notice he seems anxious about my work, about what I am doing and not doing, what I have left to learn. Light ripples of tension pass through me when he wanders into the shanty as I am painting. Together, we look over my Apple series. My
Red Maples.
My
Tree with Cut Limb.
Everything I made this summer when the house was bustling seems slightly lackluster, truncated.
“These don’t seem to have the life of my earlier work,” I say.
“It will come,” he says.
But it’s hard not to feel the dark current of despair running through his hand into mine as we walk to the post office in town, or sit together in the kitchen in the morning.
—
“ Y OU WOULD HAVE to choose,” he says to me out of the blue one day. It’s late fall. The rest of them are gone. I’m washing dishes in the sink.
“Choose?” I say.
“Between a child and your art. You do realize this, don’t you?”
“No,” I say, rinsing a plate, watching the clean water drain off its face.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up.” He takes the plate from my hand and rubs the towel over it, grinding it so it squeaks.
“You are the one with too much on your mind,” I say lightly. “I could manage a child quite well.”
“Well, it’s not the time to make the decision.”
“I’m not the one who brought it up.”
He takes the two knives I’ve just handed him. I notice their thin metallic surfaces, light blinks off them.
I drop the bowl I am holding into the dishpan. Water sprays up, soaking us.
“You meant to do that!” he says, stepping back.
“Did I?”
He reaches for my hands to dry them with the dish towel, but I grab the waist of his trousers, push him back against the sink, and press my thigh between his legs.
“You’re sopping wet,” he says.
“I’m sick of this,” I say, “the moroseness, the glumness, it’s all such a waste of my time.”
“That’s not kind.”
“No one can undo what’s done. Not even you.” I unzip his trousers. I touch him, and he smiles.
“Finally,” I say. “A smile.”
He is hard in my hand.
My blouse is spattered with water. He touches my nipples through the cotton, he twists one as I stroke him back and forth. He touches my breasts, then slides his hand under the waist of my skirt, pushing it down my hips until it slips off, his hand around my backside, his fingers working into me.
“Everything’s wet,” he says.
His fingers push deeper into me, softly at first, then not.
“I want you,” I say.
“Hard over the sink?” His
“We need to put this behind us,” Stieglitz says to me when we hear the news. “We could not have saved him.”
The others have gone to bed. It’s a warm night. Stars flood the sky.
“I wish we’d tried,” I say.
A deep silence falls.
“He was gone the moment the canoe tipped,” he says. “Even rowing back, I knew.” He is looking away across the lake, the dark mass of the island floating in the silver water.
“It was probably the right choice,” I say.
“There was no choice.”
“I’m not blaming you.”
He looks at me then, sorrow so blunt it takes my breath.
—
M ID- S EPTEMBER, AFTER MOST of them are gone, I come upon Hedwig in the upstairs hall. She is on her knees. She gapes at me. I try to help her up, an arm thrashes, her voice slurred, she stares through my face as if I am the door she is reaching for. Then her hand drops, and she slumps, the full weight of her pitching to one side.
I cry for help. Stieglitz calls back to me from the other end of the house. A team of doctors swoop to the Hill. She is only just stirring when they bear her away. He weeps when we receive the call from Lee. A stroke. She will recover. To a certain extent.
I hold him, late into the next morning. We take long walks as the leaves burn down into their autumn fire. He photographs lit raindrops on the apple tree. Like tears, he says.
I notice he seems anxious about my work, about what I am doing and not doing, what I have left to learn. Light ripples of tension pass through me when he wanders into the shanty as I am painting. Together, we look over my Apple series. My
Red Maples.
My
Tree with Cut Limb.
Everything I made this summer when the house was bustling seems slightly lackluster, truncated.
“These don’t seem to have the life of my earlier work,” I say.
“It will come,” he says.
But it’s hard not to feel the dark current of despair running through his hand into mine as we walk to the post office in town, or sit together in the kitchen in the morning.
—
“ Y OU WOULD HAVE to choose,” he says to me out of the blue one day. It’s late fall. The rest of them are gone. I’m washing dishes in the sink.
“Choose?” I say.
“Between a child and your art. You do realize this, don’t you?”
“No,” I say, rinsing a plate, watching the clean water drain off its face.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up.” He takes the plate from my hand and rubs the towel over it, grinding it so it squeaks.
“You are the one with too much on your mind,” I say lightly. “I could manage a child quite well.”
“Well, it’s not the time to make the decision.”
“I’m not the one who brought it up.”
He takes the two knives I’ve just handed him. I notice their thin metallic surfaces, light blinks off them.
I drop the bowl I am holding into the dishpan. Water sprays up, soaking us.
“You meant to do that!” he says, stepping back.
“Did I?”
He reaches for my hands to dry them with the dish towel, but I grab the waist of his trousers, push him back against the sink, and press my thigh between his legs.
“You’re sopping wet,” he says.
“I’m sick of this,” I say, “the moroseness, the glumness, it’s all such a waste of my time.”
“That’s not kind.”
“No one can undo what’s done. Not even you.” I unzip his trousers. I touch him, and he smiles.
“Finally,” I say. “A smile.”
He is hard in my hand.
My blouse is spattered with water. He touches my nipples through the cotton, he twists one as I stroke him back and forth. He touches my breasts, then slides his hand under the waist of my skirt, pushing it down my hips until it slips off, his hand around my backside, his fingers working into me.
“Everything’s wet,” he says.
His fingers push deeper into me, softly at first, then not.
“I want you,” I say.
“Hard over the sink?” His
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