Erin Fisher - That Tiny Life

Though, what if the old man never wanted him here? The hospital called him, not his father. What if, instead of being added to the old man’s pyramid, he’s the looter? Robbing the tomb before the body’s cooled.

The old man’s throat catches and gargles. Milo tips the chair forward and hugs the Mason jar against his gut. “What are you waiting for?” The skin around the old man’s eyes is collapsed and purple. His hair — what’s left of it — is overgrown, and it occurs to Milo that his father’s on a different plane. For all he knows the old man is in pain, or, what if he’s not even lucid? Not even there.

Melanie knocks on the door frame.

“I didn’t see you,” he says. He sets the jar beside the rocker and stands, careful to move slowly. All the light comes from the porch lamp through the window and casts her shadow out into the hall. Her nose is pink, from crying or cold he can’t tell because her glasses obscure her eyes, and he doesn’t know her well enough, he realizes — standing there she’s a petite, blonde stranger in a shitty coat — to guess how she’d react to this morning.

“I know,” she says.

He nods. Well, at least she’s talking. At least he’s quit. The first time he quit was because of his daughter, too, after — a few years ago — her old school had called about her attitude.

“She’s ending everything with ‘yawn,’” the teacher back in the city had said. “I’ll ask her what’s the definition of a city-state, and she’ll say, ‘A city-state? Yawn.’”

“How can she have an attitude?” he’d asked.

“She’s twelve,” the teacher explained. “And I think she doesn’t know the answers. I haven’t seen any homework.”

“Homework? Since when does she have homework? Kids don’t start homework till grade four.”

“She’s twelve,” the teacher repeated. “That’s grade six.”

What a loser he’s been. But now, with Melanie waiting in the doorway, here’s his chance. Apologize. “This isn’t the worst thing,” he starts.

Melanie folds her arms. “You want to know my worst?”

Her worst? She’s never done anything. How can she think that? How can he respond to that? “Maybe we’ll find him a home.” He gestures to the old man then rubs his hand over his own chin and facial hair. Should shave. Should shave the old man, too. “A care home.”

She uncrosses her arms, rests a hand on the door frame, then asks, “Can you help me with the cow?”

They go out. Under the moon the field becomes a stark, open bone. Beneath his feet the ground is swollen and full of air and space, the dirt pulling apart from itself — expanding. The ice around the slurry, where he lit the booze, has melted and exposed a tangle of flat grass.

He hooks the tarp to the tractor and drags the cow to his pit. He pushes, Melanie beside him, and they tip the animal in, sliding it off the tarp.

“So long, Bess,” says Melanie.

“This one’s Bess?” he says.

“They’re all Bess.”

She tugs her collar closer around her neck, a small neck, like her mother’s — her mother, he has no idea where, with her new daughter and new family. The old man dying. In the bigness of the pasture, he and she are all of it. Solo.

The pit smells of good dirt. The night is wide — over the dairy, over Axel’s. Kendra’s truck — why wait till tomorrow? He leans back against the tractor. Why not start now.

At the table he traces the pattern pieces and cuts the leather. Halfway down the crest, he cuts a hole for the beak, then uses a sponge brush and daubs the pieces with brown dye.

Kendra adds another box, lugged from the spare room, to the pile in the living room. She dusts off her hands on her jeans. “You want this in the attic?”

“Mostly junk.” He’ll sort it later. He sets the wet leather aside and selects pieces he left to dry this morning — forest-green eye panels paired with crocodile crest. He circles their edges with a line guide and stitch marker. “Can bring me a water cup if you want.”

She fills a mug and sits beside him.

“Leather listens better moist.”

“I know.” She picks up the hole punch and indents the stitches to show through the other side.

He aligns the eye panels with matching marks. Next step is hole punching, then sewing. “Where’s the floss?” He lifts the leather and the pattern.

“Think Cody took it to the bathroom.”

“Where is he now?”

“Go easy,” she says.

“Thought he might want to make hoods.”

“I’ll get him.” Sets a roll of film on the table. “Last couple months.”

He nods.

“Milo rescued my truck. I’m going to head out.” She stands and leans on the chair back. “I know you won’t try,” she says. “She might breed fine. If you gave it one year—”

He waves her off. She won’t. The bird is present — locked in her pen — but only partly. The white’s around in the same way his leg is still around. A ghost of what it used to be. “Go fetch him already,” he says.

The moon has come up, faint, and like it’s stepped into the world after a rough, rough night, and so badly needs to wash its fucking face. She takes her bag from Cody and throws it into the cab of her truck.

The kid will do well with the hoods. So he’s not a hunter. Axel needs a helper. A companion, after these last few days.

She finds her keys in her vest. Across the paddock in the window of the dairy house she can see the outline of a person — Milo or Melanie — against the curtains, the window lit orange around the shadow like the house is being candled. That’s one thing she’ll be glad to escape — whatever hatches there.

Cody wraps his arms around himself. He’s changed into loose khakis and an orange fleece. Wears Axel’s extra set of boots. The porch door opens. Axel pauses on the stairs then walks into the training yard.

“Got my bird?” she calls. “That was a joke,” she tells Cody. She reaches in the truck and — thank goodness — everything starts. She leaves it running — let the engine warm — and walks to the back and opens the canopy. A mess. Her equipment tub tipped in the crash and dumped her supplies over the box. She slides the live noose trap to the side and throws the fit-all pigeon trap on top. She crawls in. Calcium supplement has spilled, nothing to do about that, but the pedestal scale and tail guards are good. She repacks the tub. Mite and lice spray, hides she picked up from the locals at the meat draw, trainer kite, sand anchor for the kite, swivels and carabiners, duck-wing lure, rabbit-skin tube lure. Gloves she’s made, two: winter-lined and spring design. Both calfskin, brown, full cuff.

She flips the gloves over. The truck creaks and she turns. Cody presses down on the tailgate. Kid’s cracked lip is swollen, his nose too, though it doesn’t look broken — that’s a plus. Bruise over the eyebrow and eye. Scratches — bites? What can be done. She crawls over and sits beside him. Hands him the winter-lined calfskin.

There’s a knock on the side of the canopy. Axel. She stands and brushes calcium powder from her knees.

“Here.” Axel extends his arm — a bird. The white. The big, blind beauty. So white she looks like someone erased a bit of scenery. Hooded in blue.

“Axel.” Kendra holds up her hands.

“Take the asshole.” He tosses a bag of frozen chicks in the tub with the traps, then goes round to the passenger side and sets the bird on the headrest. Kendra motions Cody off the truck and slams the tailgate and closes the canopy. She walks to the front and to Axel, runs her fingers over the weather strip and then — what the hell — over the white’s back. The bird dips and straightens.