Bonnie Nadzam - Lamb

“You’re going to have a lot of new stuff to bring back with you.”

“I know.”

“Lucky girl.”

“I know.”

He bought cartridges for a .16 and pretied flies in a box. At the glass counter in the front, the skinny clerk with gray hair and pockmarks was reading a magazine, the cover pressed open on the glass case. He looked at the flies, then ran his gaze up and down Lamb, resting it upon his bruised cheekbone, then to the girl, his face unchanging. Without taking his eyes off her he asked Lamb if he didn’t want any knives. His teeth were gray.

“Knives,” Lamb said. “Do we need any knives, Em?”

“What would we want a knife for?”

The man behind the counter looked at her. “Don’t your daddy take you fishing?”

She shook her head and grinned. “Not yet.”

“Hunting?”

“Nope.”

He looked out the window at Lamb’s truck. “When you get out of that vehicle, and get out on the river, or up in the mountains, you’ll need a knife.” The clerk looked at him. “Won’t she?” He took a shining silver knife with a five-inch blade out of the case and handed it to the girl, handle first.

Lamb looked at her. “I don’t know. I think your mother would kill me.”

Tommie shrugged. “She won’t care.”

Lamb looked from the girl to the man behind the counter and into the glass. “You don’t have a good knife do you, Em.”

The clerk retrieved the first knife and picked up another. “Maybe you want a skinning knife.”

“Something practical,” Lamb said. “Something she can fold up and keep in the coin pocket of her jeans.”

“Like for an emergency?” The clerk asked, splaying his open palms upon the glass.

“Yes,” he said, “like that.”

The clerk nodded at the case. “Go ahead and look.”

Lamb looked the man in the eye. “Why don’t you give us the most expensive one you have in there.” The man slid open the glass doors and selected a tiny bone-handled pocketknife. Reaching over the counter, he nodded at the girl, who opened her palm. He set it in her hand.

“That’s one twenty.”

She weighed it in her hand—surprisingly heavy for its size. They both had the same thought: like the pencil sharpener. She nodded at Lamb, and the clerk pointed his eyes at the girl’s pockets.

“You can fit that one in your Levi’s,” he said.

The first morning was cold, gas blue, perfect. As the light evened out above him, David Lamb leaned against the Ford in the sheepskin jacket he’d found in the cabin and listened to sporadic trills of white-throated sparrows tipping in the wind along the fence wire. Paper birch stood in thick white rows between the river and the road, straight and bare as bleached bones, their uppermost branches feathered and brain green. A headache that began as a tightening of the temple had now spread to the back of Lamb’s eye, to his neck and jaw, clenched and twisted up toward the corner of his brain as if in deference to or fear of some thought lurking there. Altitude. She’d have a headache too.

He shaved in the frigid river water and scrubbed his face and nose and eyes with it, the wind like cold breath in his hair and filling his teeth and cleaning him through.

In the shop he chose a can of chili beans and five eggs and a flat tin of brisling sardines in cottonseed oil, and set everything on a flat rock behind the cabin where he’d already decided they’d make their fires. Out of Foster’s view.

He lifted a bird’s nest from a low slope of the gutter and tucked it under his arm. He filled his pockets with dead leaves and dried and broken grass and gathered a fistful of brittle sticks and carried it all back to camp. From the diminished woodpile in the shop he carried out the longest, narrowest logs, set them parallel in the dirt and drew two ends together, stuffing the closed point with tinder. He lit the bird’s nest on fire and set it on top.

Gently he set one egg and a handful of coffee grounds into the smallest pan filled with water, then poured just a finger of brown whiskey into his tin cup. In a short while his bones were warm and the fire was cheerful and the birds were at it and his coffee was boiling. He drank the first cup slowly as he peeled the warm boiled egg in his cold hands, eating it in small bites, sipping the coffee. He was in this moment half sorry about the girl, that he’d brought her at all.

There were antelope everywhere on the ridge to the west, beyond Foster’s house, their faces long and matted with shaggy white fur. Smoke from the fire rose in blue curls and woofed up into the cold and he imagined seeing it as if from a distance, the low ceiling of it thinning in a flat line beneath a slowly rising column: a signal of his presence in the world.

He refilled his cup, black this time, and opened the chili beans and spilled them into the round metal pan. His ears and fingers were stinging with cold, his nose running, his insides radiant with warmth. Shadows of grass blades in the grass blades, rising sun knitting everything together in its warmth. For the first time in a week, maybe it’d been a year, he didn’t know anymore, he felt if given the chance he could really sleep.

He set the pan on the narrowest end of the fire and stirred to keep the beans from burning. One clear breaking note of birdsong. Meadowlark. The trees were luminous now, frost dissolving off the grass and off the top of the truck and here comes his girl, his little freckled daughter-niece, new sleeping bag around her shoulders. She found Lamb behind the cabin stoking a bright orange fire that stretched and shrank in the wind. There was a little pile of a mess kit beside him and a pan balanced on the pointed end of the logs.

“Come over here if you want to see the world’s most perfect fire,” he said. A little crooked flag of gray hair stood up on the back of his head.

She stood beside him, her face still closed up with sleep, and stared at the fire. “How long have you been up?”

“Hours. I had to make the day. One detail at a time. Very painstaking. How does it look?”

“Besides freezing?”

“It’ll warm up. What do you think of the black-and-yellow bird I put over there?”

“Nice touch.”

“Nice touch, she says.”

“What are you drinking.”

“Black coffee. We’ll mix some cocoa into yours in a minute.”

“I take it black.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“How about we mix a spoonful of cocoa in today, see if you like it. We can make it stronger tomorrow.”

Shrug.

“Come have a seat.”

“The sleeping bag will get dirty.”

“That’s what sleeping bags are for. How did you sleep?”

“I forgot where I was.”

“Perfect.”

He moved the pans and poured cold water from a plastic gallon jug into the smallest one.

“How did you learn to do this?” she asked him.

“Been waiting about fifty years to have a breakfast just like this one. I guess in all those days I figured out pretty well how it would go.”

“But you didn’t know about me all that time.”

“No,” he said, checking the water in the pan. “You I had not planned on. You are a complete and total surprise.”

“A good surprise?”

“I’m withholding any evaluative judgments for the time being.”

“So you won’t miss me when you take me back?”

He looked at her, his tin cup held to his lips. “Let’s just have the morning, okay? No more hard questions.”

He gave her the job of making toast and told her soon she’d be preparing the whole breakfast, fire and all, which she didn’t believe. He latched bread slices inside a little metal cage and showed her where to hold it over the wide end of the fire.