The World More Full of Weeping by Robert J. Wiersema Page A

the next few days of men in hip waders and pick-up
trucks, of CB radios and low-flying helicopters, Jeff would
struggle to remember something else — anything else —
Brian might have said. Did he really not say anything for
the remainder of breakfast? Or while he was getting ready
to go out to the woods? He was mad; it was possible he was
giving his father the silent treatment. Likely, in fact.
    Had he even acknowledged that he had heard Jeff tell
him to be home by 3:30 for his mom? Jeff remembered him
turning and looking back at him as he went upstairs, but
did that mean he had heard? Or was he just looking back:
defiant, unhappy, misunderstood?
    Carly said you wouldn’t understand.

    Jeff was in his shop when he heard the sound of gravel
crunching in the driveway and the familiar engine. He
stepped to the open door in time to see Diane’s Explorer
pull to a stop between the shop and the back porch. He
raised a hand in greeting, then grabbed a rag to clean up.
    â€œWorking pretty hard for a Sunday,” Diane said as she
crossed the yard toward him.
    He shrugged. “The work’s always there. Figured I might
as well.”
    â€œAnd what are you elbow-deep in today?” she asked,
coming to a stop less than an arm’s length from him.
    He had to think for a moment: she had a knack for
disarming him with nothing more than her presence. It
had always been that way between them, but it had gotten
worse since she had moved out. Times like this, with her
looking so pretty and well-scrubbed, practically shining in
the afternoon light, made it difficult for him to even think.
“A re-build for Frank Kelly.”
    â€œNothing too challenging, then.” She smiled at him, and
it felt for a moment like they were flirting.
    â€œCould do it with my eyes closed,” he said, without a hint
of bragging. “How was the drive?”
    She shrugged. “Two hours on the freeway. Could do it
with my eyes closed.”
    He smiled.
    The argument that had ended their marriage had, in
fact, grown out of their very first disagreement. It had
started as a conversation seventeen years before, and had
played through the intervening time like background music
to every disagreement between them.
    Seventeen years before, she had said it as if there had
been no question: “You don’t really want to stay here.”
    They had been sitting at the table in his father’s
kitchen — this kitchen — drinking the day’s first cup of
coffee after their first night together in the house where
he had grown up. The house where he now lived with their
son, though not for much longer.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    She had looked at him as if she didn’t understand the
question. He knew the feeling.
    It wasn’t the first time they had seemed to be coming
from different worlds.
    They had both been going to school, BCIT in Vancouver.
Jeff was qualifying for his apprenticeship, and Diane had
been taking some introductory broadcasting classes. They
had met at a party; Jeff didn’t even know how he had ended
up there, standing alone in the corner with a warm beer.
    She had rescued him by swooping in and dancing him
away. That was the way she saw it, at least.
    It had been three months before he brought her home
for the weekend, to meet and be met.
    â€œWhy would I go anywhere else?” he had asked in
response to her question.
    She had shaken her head. “There’s a whole world to
see out there. So much more than this.” She had gestured
around her, at the kitchen, the house, the town. His world.
    If she had been at all mean, at all disparaging, it would
have been over right then. But there had been no trace of
haughtiness, no condescension. She was trying to rescue
him again, he understood.
    It hadn’t worked.
    â€œYou made good time,” he said, tossing his rag onto his
workbench. “You’re early.”
    She glanced at her watch and shook her head.
    He