Chester stared at the stains in his coffee cup. In the other room, Bea was knitting again, and whenever she took to the needles something was amiss. Blue wool winding around cold metal–up, over, around, and through, up, over, around, and through as she furiously clicked and clicked. She had that picture out again, yellowing with age. Tiny face on powder blue. No hair, no smile. One cry—that was all. Then still. So damned still.
Chester looked out at the gray day. Maybe a walk to clear his head. She wouldn’t notice. Not now.
Outside, the gravel crunched under his boots. The bones of the earth grinding into dust. The way of all flesh. He shook his head. Thinking too much. He didn’t care. No, he couldn’t care.
He passed the new elementary school, bright and glassy. Sterile, he thought. Its library lacked the woody smell of books thoroughly thumbed, the waxy tables, etched with passionate confessions. Bill loves Mary. Tina loves Joe. Bea loves Chester.
Thirty years it had been. Half a lifetime filled with sinks of dishes, sips of coffee, and her face in the morning. Years ago, she would smile when she waked, eyes glistening, embracing him. Now, she just looked away, checking the time. He used to reach out, try to touch. No more.
He passed a meadow where a doe and her fawn had bedded down. Not snuggling together but in separate hollows on opposite sides of the field, so the scents did not mingle, did not attract predators. Separation is safety.
Turning back, Chester saw the old folks home. Four people, their gray heads bowed over a deck of cards. Cards slapped the table. One cried out, “Gin!” They cheered. A pencil recorded the victory. The cards were gathered and dealt, gathered and dealt as they would be tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow, one gray head replacing another but always four, leaning over, leaning over waiting for the chance to shout “Gin!”
The familiar house squatted at the end of road, the paint just beginning to peel. Maybe just keep walking, snatch a few more minutes of solitude. No, it was time. He shivered and crossed the threshold, listening. Silence. No more knitting. And no photograph. Good. Usually he had to tuck it away. Baby steps, the doctor had said.
Maybe a sandwich, a beer, or another cup of coffee. Maybe not.
Then he saw her, through the crack in the bedroom door, staring out the window. As the fading sunlight touched her face, she looked almost young again. A trick of light—that was all. Cannot turn back time, erase the loss, change the outcome. As he watched, she turned and saw him. Did he have the courage? She smiled. Baby steps . . . He hesitated, took a deep breath, walked over, and caressed her outstretched hand.
