Ike Hamill: Migrators

Liz nodded. “That’s true.”

“Maybe I could build a cabin or something out back. I could do a log cabin, like they used to…”

“Oh! Why don’t you start putting together your photos for Edwin’s book? When’s that deadline?”

“He needs them by the end of February. I’ve decided to wait until January before I look at those. You know I need time before I can evaluate my work.”

“Why don’t you take some pictures around here? That would certainly make it easier on the cousins once we start to make changes next year. If you took a tasteful picture of the barn door before you fixed it, then at least we’d have the photo.”

“That’s an idea,” Alan said. He got up to light the grill. “I suck at still life, but I could try to get better. Your cousins wouldn’t know the difference, I’m sure.”

“Hey.”

“I took some terrible photos out back today. I call them ‘Blurry Finch Against Washed-Out Sky.’ They’re very tasteful.” As the flames heated the grill, Alan opened the lid so he could scrape the grates. “Can we replace this grill at least? Some of this grease dates back to before we were born.”

“The Colonel said that the black stuff gives you all the flavor.”

“I bet,” Alan said. “Hey, it’s the offspring.”

Liz turned to watch Joe cross the driveway. He had a sheet of paper in one hand and a can in the other.

“Soda?” Liz asked. She pushed open the door for him.

“It’s diet,” Joe said.

“Still.”

Joe sat at the picnic table and laid the sheet in front of himself.

“Abandon,” Joe said. “To leave someone or something.”

“Yeah?” Liz asked.

“Vocabulary,” Joe said.

“You know what abandon means. Why do you have to study abandon?” Liz asked.

“I have to get the definition just right. I can know what it means, but I have to be able to write down the definition. Can I get a dog?”

“Is non sequitur on your list?” Liz asked.

“That’s two words,” Alan said. He paused in his scraping and looked at the tool he was using. It was a paint scraper that someone had enlisted into service on the grill.

“When we moved here I wanted to get a dog, but you said we had to wait. Have we waited long enough? Can we get one now?” Joe asked.

“Ask your father,” Liz said.

Alan dropped his hands to his side and glared at his wife.

“What?” she asked.

“How are you going to ask me ‘what,’ when you just made the dog into my decision?” Alan asked.

“Well, it is mostly your decision,” Liz said. “You’re home during the day, so a lot of the responsibility would fall on your shoulders.”

“I’d take care of it the rest of the time,” Joe said. “He could sleep in my room and I’d feed him and do everything.”

“We don’t have a fenced-in yard and there would be no good way to put one in even if we wanted a fence.”

“The Colonel never had a fence,” Liz said.

“You’re not helping,”Alan said.

“Joe,” Alan said. “We’ve got a lot of company coming for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Let’s wait until after then before we jump into any big changes, okay?”

“Okay,” Joe said. He turned his attention back to his vocabulary words.

Liz raised her eyebrows at Alan.

“What’s your next word, bud?” Alan asked Joe.

“Bias,” Joe said. “It means prejudice.”

“It can also mean to sway or influence,” Liz said. “The prosecutor tried to bias the jury in his favor.”

“And did it work?” Alan asked.

Liz smiled.

Alan woke but didn’t move. The moon was so bright that for a minute he thought he’d forgotten to turn off the big light on the front of the barn. Their bedroom had a bay window that looked down on the dooryard and the barn. If you believed the story, the little wing window on the right was the one through which the Colonel had shot the woodchuck.

Alan looked out at the sky. The silver clouds were moving fast across the stars. Under the covers next to him, the little lump that was his wife rose and fell with her deep breathing. Alan turned his head and stole a glance at the door. He had the sense that someone was watching him.

Liz groaned in her sleep and rolled over onto her back. She burst out from under the covers. Her wide eyes found Alan.

“Did you lock the door?” she asked.

Alan pushed up to his elbow.

“What? What are you talking about?” he asked.

Liz shook her head. Her golden hair looked silver in the moonlight. From what he could see of her eyes, they were crazy. She blinked slowly.

“Alan. Can you lock the door?” she asked.

“Which door, honey? The front door doesn’t open from outside and the shed door doesn’t have a lock.”

“Oh,” she said. “Someone’s in the house.”

“You had a bad dream.”

“I know,” she said. “But there’s someone here. Can’t you feel it?”

“I’ll go look,” Alan said.

He slid his legs from under the covers. He wore pajamas now—ever since they’d moved. Alan tucked his feet into slippers as he got out of bed. They were new as well. He felt like the father in a black-and-white sitcom as he crossed to the door.

The bedroom door didn’t have a normal mechanism with a knob to turn, it had a little spring-loaded ball that popped in and out of a socket.

“So much for stealth,” Alan mumbled. The ball clanked as he opened the door. The sound echoed in the upstairs hall. The door to Joe’s room was open a few inches. Alan looked through the gap and smiled at his son’s sprawled shape. Joe wasn’t fully at rest until he’d kicked all of his covers to the floor.

Alan retreated to the stairs. The moon came through the window and made sharp shadows of the balusters. Alan ran his hand lightly down the thick rail as he descended. The stairs creaked. The layout of the old house was a nightmare. It had been built back when small rooms were important to trap the heat. The Colonel took down some of the walls, but what remained was a maze of rooms. He checked the TV room and the den first. They were empty.

The living room was dark and deep. The north-facing windows didn’t get any of the moonlight and the far end of the room swam in shadows. Alan clicked on a floor lamp. His eye caught movement near the fireplace. Maybe it was wishful thinking. He’d set a tray of mouse poison there earlier in the week and he hoped it had some visitors.

While the light was on, Alan rolled open the door to the coat closet. He found nothing but long coats and hat boxes—more relics of the previous inhabitants. The dining room and kitchen were divided only by a wall of cabinets. This was the nerve-center of the old house. Alan stood in the threshold for a minute. The windows on one side looked over the dooryard and the barn. On the other side, the windows saw the driveway as it rolled down to the road.

Even with its fairly recent cabinets and appliances, the kitchen belonged to every era. It had clearly been the heart of the house since the first stones of the foundation had been dragged from the quarry by “ox strength and ignorance,” as the Colonel used to say.

Alan forced himself to move. He opened the door to the shed and flipped on the lights. The one switch triggered bulbs all down the shed and into the barn. Alan followed their path.

The screen door had a little latch on it, but that wouldn’t stop anyone. Just past that, there was a heavy entry door. It had a keyhole on the outside, but they didn’t have a key. On the inside the knob was plain. Alan didn’t see a way to lock it. He glanced around the rest of the shed and then shut the door anyway. He didn’t want to bother with sliding the door to the outside closed—it would be a hollow gesture.