Chuck Logan - Absolute Zero

When he dumped the ashes he saw the heaped rounds of unsplit oak and the empty woodshed built along the side of the garage. Instinctively, his hand reached out and easily unfroze the heavy splitting maul with one hard slap and a yank. Then he kicked aside the damper sections of oak at the top of the pile and found several drier pieces. He put one on top of the chopping block, planted his feet, hefted the maul, and swung. The cold oak shivered and divided like balsa.

For several minutes Broker lost himself in the rhythm of the work, keeping warm, swinging the maul. Then more carefully he spilt several of the pieces into smaller strips. When he had a pile of kindling, he loaded an armful, turned to the deck, and saw Jolene standing on the steps watching him. Allen stood inside looking out the kitchen window.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said. She had pulled a bulky blue sweater around her shoulders and wore a pair of scuffed leather slippers that were many sizes too large.

“Kind of hard to have a fire without wood,” Broker said.

She hugged herself. “Hank brought in this stuff before he went on the hunting trip and it’s just been sitting.”

“You have at least two cords of good oak there,” Broker said as he carried his load up the deck back to the studio. Jolene ran ahead to hold the door. Inside, Broker filled the wood box and found a hand hatchet next to the wood box which he used to splinter off some tinder.

Jolene stood over him with her arms folded across her chest. A pile of old newspapers lay next to the hearth and Broker crumpled several sheets in the grate, added the tinder, and stacked smaller pieces of wood, pyre-fashion, spacing them so the fire could breathe. He took out his lighter, lit the paper, and set the flue. The hot flame from the newsprint was sucked up the chimney. In a minute he had a good fire crackling.

The flicker from the flames put a hint of color in Jolene’s face. “Nice to have a fire,” she said.

Broker stood up and dusted off his hands. When he turned he had another of those uncomfortable impressions that Hank Sommer was watching him. Almost like. . But when he looked more closely he saw that Hank’s eyes were wandering and rotating. The eye business engaged his curiosity. He needed more time, here, in this room. He needed a reason to come back.

“I have to get going. I’m going to need a ride. It’s not far; I’m staying at a friend’s farm about eight, nine miles away,” Broker said.

Jolene nodded. “Of course. Allen will give you a lift.”

For a moment Broker stood looking at Hank. He exhaled. “Words don’t come close, do they,” he said.

She smiled a utilitarian smile, then walked across the room and straightened the framed Life magazine cover. Broker followed her and inspected the June issue from 1942 that featured Vinegar Joe Stillwell’s face in black and white, looking like a weathered American Mars.

Jolene smiled and pointed to the date. “I found it in an antiques store; it came out on the exact day Hank was born. I probably shouldn’t have straightened it. What if it was the last thing he touched in this room?” She shifted her feet and started to lose her balance.

Broker raised his hand to steady her. She caught herself and said, “Thank you; I’m just a little tired.”

As they left the room Ambush the cat darted through their feet, crossed the floor, and smoothly leaped up on the bed. She curled against Hank’s motionless hands, and then slowly began to lick the fingers of his right hand with her pink sandpapery tongue.

Hi, Ambush, looky here; Broker is Prometheus, he brought us fire.

Broker found his reason to return as he followed her up the circular stairs. “You should get that wood split and out of the weather,” he said.

She turned, studied him, and simply said, “Yes.”

“Why don’t I drop by tomorrow afternoon and take care of that,” he said.

This time she just watched him and said nothing.

“About two,” he said.

“I’ll make a pot of coffee,” she said, and then they continued into the kitchen. Broker washed his hands in a bathroom off the kitchen while Jolene explained his transportation problem to Allen.

Allen had put on his coat and shoes and was holding Broker’s coat. “Let’s get going, I have to get back to the hospital and check on some folks.”

Jolene and Broker said good-bye. They did not mention chopping wood in the morning.

Allen drove over the speed limit but was very competent behind the wheel. For the first few minutes they chatted, catching up. Broker asked about Milt. Allen described again the insurance fiasco and the weird money-bind Jolene was in because of the trust. Then he delivered a flat, factual overview of Hank’s condition. “His involuntary muscles seem to function perfectly. But Jolene misinterprets his random blinking and eye movement for focused sight.” Allen turned to Broker and grimaced slightly. “It gives her false hope that he’ll recover.”

“She looks pretty done in,” Broker said.

“She’s watching him around the clock. So far, her jury-rigged home-care plan is working. In a few days Milt will have him into a full-care nursing home. Otherwise, he’s as good as his heart and lungs, and they are working just fine.”

“So he could go on for quite a while?” Broker said.

Allen pursed his lips and they remained quiet for a few miles. Broker asked finally, “The guy who answered the door? He was at the hospital up north.”

“Exactly,” Allen said. “Well, life’s a come-as-you-are party, and that guy-Earl Garf-is a visitor from Jolene’s previous life. I have to say that when she discovered she was broke, Earl was Johnny-on-the-spot to help her out. On the other hand, he, ah, also moved into the basement.”

“Maybe he smells a big malpractice settlement,” Broker said.

The remark caused Allen to study Broker’s profile for a few beats. “Yes, the thought has occurred to Milt and me.”

“Doesn’t look like the kind of person Hank would keep around,” Broker said. Some of the animus he felt against the younger man weighted his words.

“Believe me, if Hank was on his feet, Garf would be gone,” Allen said. “They had a fight once. Hank threw him out of the house.”

“Doesn’t sound like a good scene,” Broker said.

“I don’t think they’re intimate, if that’s what you mean,” Allen said tightly.

“Still,” Broker said.

“Right,” Allen said.

Then they arrived at J.T.’s and, seeing the birds gathered in a pool of barn light against the wire fencing, Allen said in a distracted voice, “Ostriches? They’re a healthy alternative to beef.”

They shook hands. Broker was hoping that Amy wouldn’t come walking out the door. Allen Falken was thinking that he was saying good-bye to Phil Broker forever. He turned his car and drove off with a final wave.

J.T. let Broker in and they went into the kitchen where Amy was helping a six-foot-tall thirteen-year-old set the table.

“Unca Honky, wazup?”

Broker narrowed his eyes at Shamika Merryweather. “You’re not suppose to be talking like that. It’s definitely not PC.”

“Certainly not in mixed company,” Shami said straight-faced. “And certainly not at school where it would be abusive and insensitive. But here at home I’m still under my daddy’s strict control, and my daddy says that’s your name.”

“How tall are you now?” Broker countered.

“Six foot. How tall are you?”

“Six foot.”

“Yeah, but I still have another five years to grow,” Shami said.

Amy walked up looking very sane and healthy to Broker after his visit to Sommer’s house. “How’d it go with Hank?” she asked.