Mark Spragg - Bone Fire

When he couldn’t sit anymore, he searched very quietly under the sink and in the pantry, finding an all-purpose cleaner and a brush, a bucket and rubber gloves, and got down on his knees cleaning one square thoroughly, and then the next, subtracting against the total. That’s where he was when Claire came in wearing a pink-and-lavender robe, staring at him openmouthed as if she’d discovered a thief. She wasn’t wearing slippers, her feet so white he could see the blue veins beneath the skin.

He said he was sorry, that he hoped he hadn’t woken her.

“Oh, my God,” she said. She hugged him. She called him a sweet boy, and he stayed as still as he could, breathing shallowly, enjoying every bit of it. He didn’t think about pulling away. His mother was good at lots of things, like telling stories, but she wasn’t much of a toucher. McEban hugged him sometimes, but not like this. He couldn’t remember any similar experience in his life.

Later that morning his father loaded everyone in the car, Claire, and his new brother and sister, Kurt and Corley, and they bought a paper bucket of chicken, mashed potatoes, rolls, gravy and coleslaw at the Colonel’s, and drove east out of town up a long grade until they topped out in the National Forest. Vedauwoo. That’s what the place was called and it was cool as the house up there, though the sun was hot on their faces. Big, pale stones were standing everywhere, like a herd of elephants, and when he stood in the glare reflecting off a stone it felt as if he was onstage at the high school in Sheridan, which he’d done once in a play, with all the spotlights on him, unable to see the audience, even with his hand raised over his eyes.

Claire spread a blanket out in the shade of one of the stones, holding little Corley on her lap, and they had their picnic. The gravy and potatoes were barely warm, but it didn’t matter. Everyone was relaxed and quick to laugh, and then he and his father threw a football back and forth, letting Kurt try when he wanted, but he was only a year older than his sister, only three and a half, and wasn’t any good. When Kenneth lobbed the ball softly toward his little outstretched arms, it bounced into his face and he cried until Claire took him by the wrists and swung him around in circles.

On the ride back to Laramie he tried to keep every episode of the day linked together in his mind, like a highway with each separate memory represented by the yellow dashes in the middle, so he could tell McEban. But he already knew that Claire’s hair in the sunlight was what he’d remember most. Above anything else. It was a deep red color, and he’d always liked red hair and thought Rodney must too. That it was a preference he’d gotten from his father. And she had freckles on her forehead and arms that had darkened in the sun as the afternoon wore on, and he liked those too.

On Monday his father went back to work at the university. He was teaching summer school but said he didn’t mind, that he liked to stay busy and they could use the extra money.

Kenneth got up with him and when they were eating their cereal-because that’s what you had for breakfast in Laramie -he asked his father to make a list of chores. Rodney just laughed at first, reminding him he was on vacation, and then Kenneth brought him the pad and pen by the phone. Rodney’s list said:

Play basketball in the driveway.

Sweep the driveway with the broom in the garage if you feel like it.

Take a nap after lunch.

Read a book.

There’s a shelf of DVDs, but don’t watch the ones rated R.

Enjoy yourself.

After his father left, and before Claire and the little kids got up, he swept the driveway. He thought about calling McEban to see how he was, but he had no idea what a long-distance phone call cost. Besides, he’d almost cried when Claire hugged him, so he wasn’t sure what hearing McEban’s voice would make him do.

He took his wallet from his back pocket and slipped out the credit-card-size calendar he’d gotten at the feed store in Ishawooa, counting out how many days were left. Eighteen. He counted twice to make sure, then put his wallet back.

He left a note on the counter for Claire and walked a couple of blocks down Baker, stopping where it dead-ended into Ninth. He could see a park across the street with a lake in the middle. He waited for a break in the traffic and sprinted across, walking around the lake twice before sitting on the curb watching for license plates from different states. There weren’t as many as he’d hoped, and then Claire was coming down Baker. She had Corley up against her hip, Kurt by the hand, and his little brother was sucking the thumb of his other hand. He crossed back to where she stood waiting for him.

“I left a note,” he said.

“That’s how I knew where you were. And I saw the list your father made.” She set the little girl down, holding the back of her collar so she couldn’t go anywhere. Kurt stood gripping the crotch of his pants. “Do you have to go to the bathroom?”

He shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

Kurt shook his head again.

“Can you swim in that lake?” Kenneth asked.

“I wouldn’t,” she said, and then, “You’re used to a good deal more, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “McEban and I, and my Uncle Paul, we don’t sit around a lot.”

“What do you do all day when you’re home? I mean in Ishawooa.”

They both acted as if she hadn’t said “home” like that.

“I’ve got a horse,” he told her. He thought about all the chores during a day, from start to finish, and couldn’t decide where to begin. “A ranch doesn’t run itself,” he said. It was something he’d heard McEban say.

Corley began to cry, and Kurt said, “I can ride a horse better than anyone. Better than you. Or, better than anybody.”

“Well, you can help me today.” She spun around toward the house. “That’ll be something to do.”

They all drove to the store together. His job was to keep his brother from touching anything, which wasn’t especially hard after Claire let the kids pick out their candy. She asked him what his favorite was and he said a box of brownie mix. That made her laugh, so he was glad that’s what he’d chosen. He’d also been thinking about a bag of Skittles. The small one.

When they got home and unloaded the groceries, she pointed out what cupboards and drawers he should look in for the things he needed to mix his brownies. His brother and sister painted on tablets of paper laid out on the kitchen floor, and they ate lunch while the oven was heating.

“Did your mother teach you to cook?” she asked.

“McEban did.”

She wiped Corley’s mouth, the little girl fighting away from her. “I hear your mother’s writing a book.”

He set the pan in the oven, squaring it in the middle of the top rack. It made him uneasy to talk about his mother’s talents, because he knew how much she relied on the advice of ghosts. Ghosts made him nervous. “It’s about how to live a spiritual life.” He sat back down at the table. “She says everybody needs to heal their relationship with the world.” He was proud of his memory. “She says we have to break free from our trances of unworthiness and fear.”

“Really?”

Kurt said, “Spiritual life, spiritual life, spiritual life,” like he was a parrot showing off. Then he lowered his voice, repeating the same phrase again, pretending to be a frog.

“She hasn’t let me read it yet. She says it’s a work in progress and if anybody reads it before it’s done it might break her confidence.” He carried his plate to the sink, then the other plates. “She teaches too.” He didn’t want Claire to think his mother wasn’t a hard worker.

“I’m going back to teaching when the kids are older.” She was drinking out of Kurt’s glass and the rim was all slimy with his spit, but she acted like she didn’t notice. “That’s where I met your father. At the university here. Do you like school?”