that I didn’t want to be left out and so there I was. But I was not the first option.
I went to the window.
He was right down below, his brilliant white soccer ball—he washed it more often than he washed himself—squeezed tight in his hands. He looked tiny down there, all washed out and shrunk in the brilliant sunlight and the sandy ground.
“Play with me,” Walter said.
“That’s not my job,” I said.
He just stared up at me.
“Dad is supposed to do this stuff, Walter, not me.”
“He’s doing other stuff.”
“What stuff?”
He paused, bit his lips, as if what he had to say was unspeakably distasteful. “Inside stuff,” he said.
I sighed.
It had been a week now since Dad had decided that the house was too porous and drafty, too insubstantial and insecure, too suspect, too open. In that time, he had started projects everywhere. Anyway, he started what he called projects, what you or I might call messes. Putting insulation in the attic. Weather stripping around any doors and windows he decided didn’t need replacing and taking a fat red felt-tipped marker and drawing a giant X on the ones that did. He worked for hours one day inside the fireplace, making sure the chimney flue was completely capable of opening and, especially, closing. Though we had no idea how much he achieved, he came back out of there at the end of the day looking like a coal miner. Had to throw away his white cutoff bib overalls, so at least we achieved that.
He was always doing something, really always doing something, rarely finishing anything, before a new and more important crisis caught his eye and he attacked it. All of his concerns seemed pointless to me and totally unnecessary until I finally saw the thread of what he was pursuing and that he was truly striving to make the house 100 percent airtight, secure, hermetically sealable inside from outside.
Moving away from old life and death was not enough. He had to lock it out in case it tried to follow us.
“Ah, Dad,” I said when I found him checking my own window sashes for rattles, spaces, breathability, “isn’t some air supposed to get in?”
“You’ll thank me, soon enough, when that ocean wind is banging on your window at night.”
“That’ll be me, banging on the window, because I am smothering to death.”
He left my window alone. But I knew that wouldn’t be the end of it.
Walter was still not as concerned about all this as I was, not as concerned as he should have been. Then one night the three of us unwound in front of a National Geographic special about the spread of urban and suburban wildlife. We all watched with what I thought was the usual fascination, until I noticed on passing the popcorn that Dad’s expression was more what you would call horror. He skipped the popcorn, got himself up out of his old favorite chair, and went straight to the kitchen. He removed the famous cat flap with a hammer and his trusty putty knife in a frenzy of banging and pulling and grim speech making about how many different varieties of intruder could fit through that flap, if they hadn’t already done so and were now taking up residence in the walls and basement.
He didn’t even have a proper alternative to the cat flap worked out, and he gasped in terror at the new and improved giant gateway between the outside world and ours before quickly hammering Walter’s regulation dartboard up as a stopgap.
I looked Walter. He looked at me. Right.
It took cat-flap fever to do it, but Walter appeared ready to help with the worrying.
“Come on down, Sylvia.”
He looked so sad and helpless there, I had to go.
“Yah, you know what, Walter?” I said, taking the ball out of his hands. “You only react to things when it costs you something.”
“Not true.” He grabbed the ball back and headed for the goal we had in the corner of the yard.
“It is so. You only started worrying about Dad going nuts when he nailed your dartboard to the kitchen
I went to the window.
He was right down below, his brilliant white soccer ball—he washed it more often than he washed himself—squeezed tight in his hands. He looked tiny down there, all washed out and shrunk in the brilliant sunlight and the sandy ground.
“Play with me,” Walter said.
“That’s not my job,” I said.
He just stared up at me.
“Dad is supposed to do this stuff, Walter, not me.”
“He’s doing other stuff.”
“What stuff?”
He paused, bit his lips, as if what he had to say was unspeakably distasteful. “Inside stuff,” he said.
I sighed.
It had been a week now since Dad had decided that the house was too porous and drafty, too insubstantial and insecure, too suspect, too open. In that time, he had started projects everywhere. Anyway, he started what he called projects, what you or I might call messes. Putting insulation in the attic. Weather stripping around any doors and windows he decided didn’t need replacing and taking a fat red felt-tipped marker and drawing a giant X on the ones that did. He worked for hours one day inside the fireplace, making sure the chimney flue was completely capable of opening and, especially, closing. Though we had no idea how much he achieved, he came back out of there at the end of the day looking like a coal miner. Had to throw away his white cutoff bib overalls, so at least we achieved that.
He was always doing something, really always doing something, rarely finishing anything, before a new and more important crisis caught his eye and he attacked it. All of his concerns seemed pointless to me and totally unnecessary until I finally saw the thread of what he was pursuing and that he was truly striving to make the house 100 percent airtight, secure, hermetically sealable inside from outside.
Moving away from old life and death was not enough. He had to lock it out in case it tried to follow us.
“Ah, Dad,” I said when I found him checking my own window sashes for rattles, spaces, breathability, “isn’t some air supposed to get in?”
“You’ll thank me, soon enough, when that ocean wind is banging on your window at night.”
“That’ll be me, banging on the window, because I am smothering to death.”
He left my window alone. But I knew that wouldn’t be the end of it.
Walter was still not as concerned about all this as I was, not as concerned as he should have been. Then one night the three of us unwound in front of a National Geographic special about the spread of urban and suburban wildlife. We all watched with what I thought was the usual fascination, until I noticed on passing the popcorn that Dad’s expression was more what you would call horror. He skipped the popcorn, got himself up out of his old favorite chair, and went straight to the kitchen. He removed the famous cat flap with a hammer and his trusty putty knife in a frenzy of banging and pulling and grim speech making about how many different varieties of intruder could fit through that flap, if they hadn’t already done so and were now taking up residence in the walls and basement.
He didn’t even have a proper alternative to the cat flap worked out, and he gasped in terror at the new and improved giant gateway between the outside world and ours before quickly hammering Walter’s regulation dartboard up as a stopgap.
I looked Walter. He looked at me. Right.
It took cat-flap fever to do it, but Walter appeared ready to help with the worrying.
“Come on down, Sylvia.”
He looked so sad and helpless there, I had to go.
“Yah, you know what, Walter?” I said, taking the ball out of his hands. “You only react to things when it costs you something.”
“Not true.” He grabbed the ball back and headed for the goal we had in the corner of the yard.
“It is so. You only started worrying about Dad going nuts when he nailed your dartboard to the kitchen
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