cleaner. She squirtedit at the window, and then the baby dabbed at it with its blanket. The baby left streaks.
“That baby’s no good at cleaning windows,” I said.
“He’ll learn,” Martha said. “This is his first one.”
So he was a boy. A blank-slate baby boy. He could do any trade, master any tool. Maybe he’d paint with me. I’d be his mentor of all things white and wall. The thought helped me forget about Betsy, who’d forgone her options.
“Where’s Betsy?” I stepped up one stair, closer to my wife and her grandchild.
“She left,” Martha said. “Your shoes are filthy.” The baby nodded his pink head.
I didn’t have any paper booties, so I kicked off my shoes, lifted one up to investigate the bits of earth packed into the tread. They weren’t that dirty.
“You know that ladders used to be the twelfth leading cause of injury in America?” Martha said.
“What changed?”
“Mostly extension ladders, though.” She lifted the baby so he could reach the top of the window. He squeaked as if he was going to cry, scrunched up his face, but then found his smile.
“I mostly use stepladders.” I peered inside my shoe for spots of blood, missing toes, anything.
Martha set the baby on the floor while she finished up. Her brown hair looked paler, and her few gray hairs blazed through the streakless window. The sun’s stark shadows cast her worry lines deeper.
A stonemason flapped by and darkened the room.
Free from Martha’s arms, the baby crawled for the stairs. It was a good thing I was at the bottom to catch him, and when I did, I’d let him hold my paintbrush. Before he had a chance to dive, a parade of trim-carpenter index fingers blocked the baby’s path at the top of the stairs. They curled up and down, up and down, like a dance or some kind of warning. The baby raised one chubby pink hand and opened and closed it, opened and closed it.
I was never any good at reading body language. What I did know was those indexies weren’t allowing my grandbaby to explore his world. If he wanted to go down the stairs, he had a damn right. He knew the risks: tumble and bump and crash. And he could clearly see me there waiting, no matter what decision he made, painter or plumber, electrician or roofer. If he fell and busted up, I’d take him somewhere better than Doc Robby.
The fingers curled faster. I wanted to jog up the steps and kick them all away. The baby swiped one up in his pink hand and jammed it into his mouth. All the other indexies inched away. The one in his mouth squirmed.
I opened up my arms for the baby to tumble into, but he just sucked that finger, gazing over my head at the flawless entryway wall I’d painted. It was perfectly untouched, as if no one had ever been there. That was me, my mark of nothing. I hoped the baby wouldn’t choke.
Ice-Cream Dream
Many ice-cream trucks trolled the streets of Defiance, Ohio, but mine was the only modified 1986 Astro van painted beige with brown spots. My customers liked buying ice cream from a man popping his head out the side of a giraffe. They ran down the street, chasing my bumper, and I kept coasting at seven or eight miles an hour, my boot kissing the gas every now and then. A trail of kids lured more kids, who lured parents screaming for them to get out of the road. That mess made a crowd, and crowds meant business, and business meant I made rent and paid the electric bill and the gas bill and maybe even bought a new old movie from Lacy Stacy’s Adult Boutique. But before I paid any of that, I’d drop fifty bucks into Roger and Frida’s bank account. They came first, and they always will. Even if I never see them. Even though I can’t pay child support, because their mother ran off with them when they were just learning to wobble on their stubby legs. A father doesn’t stop loving his kids, no matter how long they don’t know who the hell he is.
But as for all the boys not named Roger and all the girls not named Frida,
“That baby’s no good at cleaning windows,” I said.
“He’ll learn,” Martha said. “This is his first one.”
So he was a boy. A blank-slate baby boy. He could do any trade, master any tool. Maybe he’d paint with me. I’d be his mentor of all things white and wall. The thought helped me forget about Betsy, who’d forgone her options.
“Where’s Betsy?” I stepped up one stair, closer to my wife and her grandchild.
“She left,” Martha said. “Your shoes are filthy.” The baby nodded his pink head.
I didn’t have any paper booties, so I kicked off my shoes, lifted one up to investigate the bits of earth packed into the tread. They weren’t that dirty.
“You know that ladders used to be the twelfth leading cause of injury in America?” Martha said.
“What changed?”
“Mostly extension ladders, though.” She lifted the baby so he could reach the top of the window. He squeaked as if he was going to cry, scrunched up his face, but then found his smile.
“I mostly use stepladders.” I peered inside my shoe for spots of blood, missing toes, anything.
Martha set the baby on the floor while she finished up. Her brown hair looked paler, and her few gray hairs blazed through the streakless window. The sun’s stark shadows cast her worry lines deeper.
A stonemason flapped by and darkened the room.
Free from Martha’s arms, the baby crawled for the stairs. It was a good thing I was at the bottom to catch him, and when I did, I’d let him hold my paintbrush. Before he had a chance to dive, a parade of trim-carpenter index fingers blocked the baby’s path at the top of the stairs. They curled up and down, up and down, like a dance or some kind of warning. The baby raised one chubby pink hand and opened and closed it, opened and closed it.
I was never any good at reading body language. What I did know was those indexies weren’t allowing my grandbaby to explore his world. If he wanted to go down the stairs, he had a damn right. He knew the risks: tumble and bump and crash. And he could clearly see me there waiting, no matter what decision he made, painter or plumber, electrician or roofer. If he fell and busted up, I’d take him somewhere better than Doc Robby.
The fingers curled faster. I wanted to jog up the steps and kick them all away. The baby swiped one up in his pink hand and jammed it into his mouth. All the other indexies inched away. The one in his mouth squirmed.
I opened up my arms for the baby to tumble into, but he just sucked that finger, gazing over my head at the flawless entryway wall I’d painted. It was perfectly untouched, as if no one had ever been there. That was me, my mark of nothing. I hoped the baby wouldn’t choke.
Ice-Cream Dream
Many ice-cream trucks trolled the streets of Defiance, Ohio, but mine was the only modified 1986 Astro van painted beige with brown spots. My customers liked buying ice cream from a man popping his head out the side of a giraffe. They ran down the street, chasing my bumper, and I kept coasting at seven or eight miles an hour, my boot kissing the gas every now and then. A trail of kids lured more kids, who lured parents screaming for them to get out of the road. That mess made a crowd, and crowds meant business, and business meant I made rent and paid the electric bill and the gas bill and maybe even bought a new old movie from Lacy Stacy’s Adult Boutique. But before I paid any of that, I’d drop fifty bucks into Roger and Frida’s bank account. They came first, and they always will. Even if I never see them. Even though I can’t pay child support, because their mother ran off with them when they were just learning to wobble on their stubby legs. A father doesn’t stop loving his kids, no matter how long they don’t know who the hell he is.
But as for all the boys not named Roger and all the girls not named Frida,
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