me—he’s finished.”
Finished. That was the second time she’d used that word to describe her ex-husband today.
“I’m just—”
But she cut him off again. “I love you, Bobby. But it’s late. Go to bed. You’ve got a long day ahead of you. And I’ve got things to do around here in the morning. So get some sleep. Love you,” she repeated.
“You too,” he said, and hung up.
The phone didn’t ring again, but Robert sat up waiting for it all the same. At around midnight, he thought again about calling her, driving out there anyway. But her tone hadn’t been welcoming. And she was a big girl, he reminded himself.
Finally, Robert decided to give in to sleep, and stood up to go to the bedroom. It was unnaturally quiet—he couldn’t even hear the leaves rustling over the house.
When he opened the window beside his bed, a cool summer breeze teased through his beard. He peered through the screen, out into the dark. A lone caterpillar was curled in an imperfect “S” shape on the outside of the screen. Robert flicked the wire mesh with his forefinger. The worm went tumbling into the night.
“Summer worms,” he muttered and pulled off his shirt and blue jeans. He crawled into bed, pulled up the deep green comforter that Sharon had brought over the week before, and settled onto his side. The night was quiet as winter, and through it all Robert slept a fine, dreamless sleep.
The alarm clock jangled Robert awake in darkness, and he fought an inclination to roll over and sleep another hour—if he did, he knew he wouldn’t be out of bed until six. It was so quiet in the early morning dark.
With a deliberate groan Robert threw aside the comforter and made his way to the kitchen. The temperature couldn’t have dropped too much overnight, but the cabin air was freezing against his bare shoulders and thighs. He measured some instant coffee into a mug and filled the kettle, then went back to the bedroom to get into something warm.
The bedroom was, if anything, worse than the rest of the house. The window, still open from last night, admitted a north breeze that rustled across the two small curtains like flags. They made a faint flapping noise, and that was the only sound Robert heard.
The only sound.
He wrapped the housecoat tight around him and shut the window, but he couldn’t stop shivering. Some things, he thought, you only notice by their absence. And with a breeze like that, the rustling of the leaves and branches in the maple tree over his cabin should have been steady, all night long.
“Ah, hell.” Doing up the belt of the robe as he went, Robert hurried to the front door and slid his bare feet into an old pair of rubber boots. As an afterthought, he grabbed the flashlight from the hook beside the coat rack—it was still dark outside—and flipping it on, unlatched the front door and went out onto the stoop. He swung the flashlight beam up, to the branches that dangled over his roof.
“Hell,” he said again, slack-jawed at the sight.
The branches were white, wrapped in silk thick as cotton candy. Strands of it hung taut between the limbs of the old maple tree, and as Robert played the flashlight beam across the expanse, he saw that it made nearly a perfect wrap; as though an enormous bag had been dropped over the tree, tied snug at the trunk. The leaves, the branches were all caught tight in the fabric, sheltered by it, and the wind left them still in the night. Robert stepped away from his porch and moved around the nest’s perimeter, playing the flashlight up and down it. The morning dew glimmered off the nest like spun sugar.
The nest. That’s what it is. Robert was awestruck by the immensity of it.
The tent caterpillars had come in the night, and before dawn they had woven a nest around a single tree that must have measured more than forty feet across, maybe half again as high. How many caterpillars would that have taken? Millions? A billion?
As he stood wondering, it occurred to
Finished. That was the second time she’d used that word to describe her ex-husband today.
“I’m just—”
But she cut him off again. “I love you, Bobby. But it’s late. Go to bed. You’ve got a long day ahead of you. And I’ve got things to do around here in the morning. So get some sleep. Love you,” she repeated.
“You too,” he said, and hung up.
The phone didn’t ring again, but Robert sat up waiting for it all the same. At around midnight, he thought again about calling her, driving out there anyway. But her tone hadn’t been welcoming. And she was a big girl, he reminded himself.
Finally, Robert decided to give in to sleep, and stood up to go to the bedroom. It was unnaturally quiet—he couldn’t even hear the leaves rustling over the house.
When he opened the window beside his bed, a cool summer breeze teased through his beard. He peered through the screen, out into the dark. A lone caterpillar was curled in an imperfect “S” shape on the outside of the screen. Robert flicked the wire mesh with his forefinger. The worm went tumbling into the night.
“Summer worms,” he muttered and pulled off his shirt and blue jeans. He crawled into bed, pulled up the deep green comforter that Sharon had brought over the week before, and settled onto his side. The night was quiet as winter, and through it all Robert slept a fine, dreamless sleep.
The alarm clock jangled Robert awake in darkness, and he fought an inclination to roll over and sleep another hour—if he did, he knew he wouldn’t be out of bed until six. It was so quiet in the early morning dark.
With a deliberate groan Robert threw aside the comforter and made his way to the kitchen. The temperature couldn’t have dropped too much overnight, but the cabin air was freezing against his bare shoulders and thighs. He measured some instant coffee into a mug and filled the kettle, then went back to the bedroom to get into something warm.
The bedroom was, if anything, worse than the rest of the house. The window, still open from last night, admitted a north breeze that rustled across the two small curtains like flags. They made a faint flapping noise, and that was the only sound Robert heard.
The only sound.
He wrapped the housecoat tight around him and shut the window, but he couldn’t stop shivering. Some things, he thought, you only notice by their absence. And with a breeze like that, the rustling of the leaves and branches in the maple tree over his cabin should have been steady, all night long.
“Ah, hell.” Doing up the belt of the robe as he went, Robert hurried to the front door and slid his bare feet into an old pair of rubber boots. As an afterthought, he grabbed the flashlight from the hook beside the coat rack—it was still dark outside—and flipping it on, unlatched the front door and went out onto the stoop. He swung the flashlight beam up, to the branches that dangled over his roof.
“Hell,” he said again, slack-jawed at the sight.
The branches were white, wrapped in silk thick as cotton candy. Strands of it hung taut between the limbs of the old maple tree, and as Robert played the flashlight beam across the expanse, he saw that it made nearly a perfect wrap; as though an enormous bag had been dropped over the tree, tied snug at the trunk. The leaves, the branches were all caught tight in the fabric, sheltered by it, and the wind left them still in the night. Robert stepped away from his porch and moved around the nest’s perimeter, playing the flashlight up and down it. The morning dew glimmered off the nest like spun sugar.
The nest. That’s what it is. Robert was awestruck by the immensity of it.
The tent caterpillars had come in the night, and before dawn they had woven a nest around a single tree that must have measured more than forty feet across, maybe half again as high. How many caterpillars would that have taken? Millions? A billion?
As he stood wondering, it occurred to
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