only because her tears frightened him. Like all chil-71
dren, he assumed that his life was blessed, that the tragedies that consumed others would not come to him. And then both his grandparents had died within a week.
Doss Crowder was fire chief then, and father to the frail; little girl that Joanne had been. Doss was over at the farm a lot, helping Anna sell off some of the acreage she could no longer manage, somehow taking his granddad's place for Danny, and Danny couldn't remember if Joanne came because Doss was there or if it was the other way around. She was a pest, following Danny around like a shadow, asking stupid questions and getting in his way. It was years before he saw her as a young woman so pretty and soft that he ached to touch her, and quaked at the thought of Doss's wrath if he did. But by then, Joanne was so popular that he had to stand in line to date her.
God, he had been so jealous and so filled with frustration, secure only in athletics. Watching the river had comforted him during those years—until the day an aneurysm lying dormant in his mother's brain had burst and flooded that vital tissue with a sea of killing blood. She was dead before he could get there. She was forty-six years old and Danny was seventeen, and there was no one who could assuage his grief. He'd hated the river for continuing to flow, and the apple trees for daring to blossom that spring.
He refused to leave the farm, and he and Frank batched it while he finished high school. Joanne was the only one who could break through the anger that consumed him, and she'd given up going to college on the coast to marry him. Then the farm was a home again and after a while he even forgave the river. But he never took anything for granted after that, knowing that what seemed safe and permanent could be taken away in an instant. Doss too. But when Doss died, he had Joanne and she had him, and Danny was a man finally who could take care of his own.
Danny reached down absently to stroke B.C.'s crooked neck, felt the peck coming without seeing it, and jerked his hand away. "B.C., you're an old son of a bitch. You ever hear how easy duck soup is? Well, think about goose soup." He laughed and walked into the kitchen.
72
As always, he" walked softly through the dim rooms to glance into the bedroom. She was there, curled on her side, her dark hair curtaining her face, her arms hugging the pillow. She lay on the edge of her side of the bed as if she'd fallen asleep determined to be untouchable even when he wasn't there. The room was morning cool and Joanne was covered with a sheet. He pulled the spread up over her, but she didn't move. He watched for a moment to see if she was really asleep, and then relaxed to see the steady rise and fall of her ribs beneath the quilt.
Danny shut the bedroom door gently and flipped on the kitchen light. Except for the new stove and refrigerator, Joanne had insisted that the kitchen stay just the way it had always been. It was a good kitchen. Suddenly fashionable again, the old oak table with
red-and-white-checked oilcloth still stood in the middle of the room. The wood stove, seldom used, was there too with his grandmother's rocker beside it. Even the pitted sink with the pumphandle you had to prime to get water. He'd put in real faucets years ago, but Joanne wouldn't let him take the funny old pump out.
The day she'd walked into this room as his bride, she'd touched everything in it lovingly, and then smiled at him.
"I used to come over here to get warm a long time before I thought of you as anything more than a smelly little boy. You thought I had a crush on you, but I came here in spite of you, old Danny. Your mom. Your grandma. They always had time for me, and, if I got something dirty, they didn't act like I'd just walked in with shit on my shoes. My mother spent her whole life wiping things down with Lysol. Even me probably. I shouldn't say that—she tries so hard."
Danny had hugged her.
dren, he assumed that his life was blessed, that the tragedies that consumed others would not come to him. And then both his grandparents had died within a week.
Doss Crowder was fire chief then, and father to the frail; little girl that Joanne had been. Doss was over at the farm a lot, helping Anna sell off some of the acreage she could no longer manage, somehow taking his granddad's place for Danny, and Danny couldn't remember if Joanne came because Doss was there or if it was the other way around. She was a pest, following Danny around like a shadow, asking stupid questions and getting in his way. It was years before he saw her as a young woman so pretty and soft that he ached to touch her, and quaked at the thought of Doss's wrath if he did. But by then, Joanne was so popular that he had to stand in line to date her.
God, he had been so jealous and so filled with frustration, secure only in athletics. Watching the river had comforted him during those years—until the day an aneurysm lying dormant in his mother's brain had burst and flooded that vital tissue with a sea of killing blood. She was dead before he could get there. She was forty-six years old and Danny was seventeen, and there was no one who could assuage his grief. He'd hated the river for continuing to flow, and the apple trees for daring to blossom that spring.
He refused to leave the farm, and he and Frank batched it while he finished high school. Joanne was the only one who could break through the anger that consumed him, and she'd given up going to college on the coast to marry him. Then the farm was a home again and after a while he even forgave the river. But he never took anything for granted after that, knowing that what seemed safe and permanent could be taken away in an instant. Doss too. But when Doss died, he had Joanne and she had him, and Danny was a man finally who could take care of his own.
Danny reached down absently to stroke B.C.'s crooked neck, felt the peck coming without seeing it, and jerked his hand away. "B.C., you're an old son of a bitch. You ever hear how easy duck soup is? Well, think about goose soup." He laughed and walked into the kitchen.
72
As always, he" walked softly through the dim rooms to glance into the bedroom. She was there, curled on her side, her dark hair curtaining her face, her arms hugging the pillow. She lay on the edge of her side of the bed as if she'd fallen asleep determined to be untouchable even when he wasn't there. The room was morning cool and Joanne was covered with a sheet. He pulled the spread up over her, but she didn't move. He watched for a moment to see if she was really asleep, and then relaxed to see the steady rise and fall of her ribs beneath the quilt.
Danny shut the bedroom door gently and flipped on the kitchen light. Except for the new stove and refrigerator, Joanne had insisted that the kitchen stay just the way it had always been. It was a good kitchen. Suddenly fashionable again, the old oak table with
red-and-white-checked oilcloth still stood in the middle of the room. The wood stove, seldom used, was there too with his grandmother's rocker beside it. Even the pitted sink with the pumphandle you had to prime to get water. He'd put in real faucets years ago, but Joanne wouldn't let him take the funny old pump out.
The day she'd walked into this room as his bride, she'd touched everything in it lovingly, and then smiled at him.
"I used to come over here to get warm a long time before I thought of you as anything more than a smelly little boy. You thought I had a crush on you, but I came here in spite of you, old Danny. Your mom. Your grandma. They always had time for me, and, if I got something dirty, they didn't act like I'd just walked in with shit on my shoes. My mother spent her whole life wiping things down with Lysol. Even me probably. I shouldn't say that—she tries so hard."
Danny had hugged her.
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