Recognition of a boundary. Violation of a boundary. Stellaâs fingertips feel numb. Sheâd like to have a cold beer. Smoke a cigarette. Open a book. Go to sleep.
Did Jason read the same thing she did?
I read about it, Stella can hear Jasonâs voice. She turns off the computer, leans back, and remains sitting in Jasonâs environment that has now suddenly become disquieting; his mail, his glasses, his pencils, 6B pencils sharpened with the blade of his cutter and equipped with a protective silver cover. Photos above his desk and on the wall, Stella in the morning, an old model Lada Niva car, Ava lying on her tummy, her little head raised, a drop of saliva on her chin, and a photo of a suburban town on a river taken on the only trip Stella and Jason took together, a trip before Ava was born. What does the choice of photos imply. And what does it mean that Stella is looking at them, not Jason. What does Jasonâs absence signify.
Stella tilts her head and looks for a long time at the photo of the suburban town. Innumerable balconies above and next to one another; the meadows along the riverâs edge, muddy; the water, glittering. Jason had said, This is where Iâd like to live with you. The day had been rainy, they had walked hand in hand; Stella was pregnant and hadnât known. They didnât move to the development by the river. They moved into another housing development, into this one, and at some point theyâll move elsewhere. Mister Pfister will stay here. He is going to stay here; he wonât move elsewhere; thatâs how it will be.
Mentally, Stella counts off the days. Twenty-five â not even half of the eight weeks have passed. She gets up from the desk. Then she leaves the room.
Twelve
Jason comes back along with the cold. Steady rain and gusty wind; heâs standing in the hall, already thoroughly soaked from the short walk through the garden from the car, and pushing his bag and backpack into the house with his foot.
Youâre here, Ava says.
She goes on sitting at the kitchen table, drawing her picture: a house in the woods surrounded by giant butterflies; she draws an endlessly long butterfly antenna, and Jason takes hold of her and lifts her up. He says, Youâre just like a cat, youâre only pretending youâre not glad to see me, and Stella sees Avaâs chin quivering with joy.
Jason has brought a perch he caught himself. Heâs brought a sceptre carved from birchwood for Ava and a lake pebble for Stella. He is tanned and looks unkempt, unshaved. Youâre so scratchy, Ava says, and for one selfish moment Stella wishes she could be all alone with Jason.
You got very tall, Jason says. Youâve grown like crazy, both of you.
Like crazy.
Ava stands with her back against the door frame in the kitchen, and Jason draws a new line above her little head, one metre and three centimetres. Ava has grown two centimetres since the last line, a line drawn in the winter, in long-ago January. She continues to stand in the door frame and looks at the new line, proud and doubting.
How long will you be staying, Stella says. When do you have to leave again; she turns away before Jason can answer her.
*
They eat the fish that evening. Daylight fades away; rain falls outside the kitchen window like a wall. The barrel at the corner of the house fills up and overflows, the rain drums onto the outside metal windowsills and against the windowpane. Jason takes a bath. Ava sits down near him. Stella dries the dishes. Listening to their voices. Jasonâs stories about perch, sunken boats, about trips, and about the summer, Avaâs questions.
It was very hot here when you were gone. So hot. In kindergarten we all played only in the shade, nobody wanted to go into the sun.
You have to do what the chickens do when it gets so hot.
What do the chickens do?
A chicken just lies down flat on the ground. As flat as possible, with its wings spread out. It lies
Did Jason read the same thing she did?
I read about it, Stella can hear Jasonâs voice. She turns off the computer, leans back, and remains sitting in Jasonâs environment that has now suddenly become disquieting; his mail, his glasses, his pencils, 6B pencils sharpened with the blade of his cutter and equipped with a protective silver cover. Photos above his desk and on the wall, Stella in the morning, an old model Lada Niva car, Ava lying on her tummy, her little head raised, a drop of saliva on her chin, and a photo of a suburban town on a river taken on the only trip Stella and Jason took together, a trip before Ava was born. What does the choice of photos imply. And what does it mean that Stella is looking at them, not Jason. What does Jasonâs absence signify.
Stella tilts her head and looks for a long time at the photo of the suburban town. Innumerable balconies above and next to one another; the meadows along the riverâs edge, muddy; the water, glittering. Jason had said, This is where Iâd like to live with you. The day had been rainy, they had walked hand in hand; Stella was pregnant and hadnât known. They didnât move to the development by the river. They moved into another housing development, into this one, and at some point theyâll move elsewhere. Mister Pfister will stay here. He is going to stay here; he wonât move elsewhere; thatâs how it will be.
Mentally, Stella counts off the days. Twenty-five â not even half of the eight weeks have passed. She gets up from the desk. Then she leaves the room.
Twelve
Jason comes back along with the cold. Steady rain and gusty wind; heâs standing in the hall, already thoroughly soaked from the short walk through the garden from the car, and pushing his bag and backpack into the house with his foot.
Youâre here, Ava says.
She goes on sitting at the kitchen table, drawing her picture: a house in the woods surrounded by giant butterflies; she draws an endlessly long butterfly antenna, and Jason takes hold of her and lifts her up. He says, Youâre just like a cat, youâre only pretending youâre not glad to see me, and Stella sees Avaâs chin quivering with joy.
Jason has brought a perch he caught himself. Heâs brought a sceptre carved from birchwood for Ava and a lake pebble for Stella. He is tanned and looks unkempt, unshaved. Youâre so scratchy, Ava says, and for one selfish moment Stella wishes she could be all alone with Jason.
You got very tall, Jason says. Youâve grown like crazy, both of you.
Like crazy.
Ava stands with her back against the door frame in the kitchen, and Jason draws a new line above her little head, one metre and three centimetres. Ava has grown two centimetres since the last line, a line drawn in the winter, in long-ago January. She continues to stand in the door frame and looks at the new line, proud and doubting.
How long will you be staying, Stella says. When do you have to leave again; she turns away before Jason can answer her.
*
They eat the fish that evening. Daylight fades away; rain falls outside the kitchen window like a wall. The barrel at the corner of the house fills up and overflows, the rain drums onto the outside metal windowsills and against the windowpane. Jason takes a bath. Ava sits down near him. Stella dries the dishes. Listening to their voices. Jasonâs stories about perch, sunken boats, about trips, and about the summer, Avaâs questions.
It was very hot here when you were gone. So hot. In kindergarten we all played only in the shade, nobody wanted to go into the sun.
You have to do what the chickens do when it gets so hot.
What do the chickens do?
A chicken just lies down flat on the ground. As flat as possible, with its wings spread out. It lies
Similar Books
