Chapter 13: Ashes

I stood in the doorway and looked at that empty shelf until Abel came up the stairs behind me.

He didn't say anything.

He walked past me, picked up the stove door and set it back on its hinge.

Then he got down on his knees and started folding my clothes off the floor.

"Leave it," I said.

"It's your stuff."

"They took Gran's whole life, Abel."

"I know." He kept folding. "So we pick up what they left."

The camera case was under the bunk, kicked into the corner.

Old brown leather, cracked at the seams, the strap mended twice with fishing line.

They hadn't wanted it.

I set it on the shelf where the albums used to be, so the shelf wouldn't look so empty.

Then I took Gran's red blanket down to the cook, like I'd meant to.

She wrapped it around her shoulders and didn't ask why my eyes were wet.

Monday, I watched the clock all day.

I couldn't help it.

Abel split cedar shakes for the new roofs, and every time he swung the maul I flinched.

"Stop that," he said.

"Stop what?"

"Watching me like I'm a pot about to boil over."

"You might be."

"I'm a man splitting wood."

At noon he cut his thumb on a splinter and I nearly had a stroke.

The sisters laughed so hard one of them fell off a stump.

Sophie came up at five with a cooler of hot dogs, a sack of buns and a case of root beer.

"Funeral potatoes are in the truck," she said. "In case."

"Soph."

"I'm covering my bases, babe."

The sun went down behind the western peaks at eight forty.

I sat on the rock with my back against Abel's leg and counted every minute.

He ate four hot dogs.

The cook told a long dirty story about her late husband and a canoe.

The trapper laughed once, a creak.

Eight forty came, and went.

Nine.

Abel reached down and took the black photo out of my shirt pocket.

He looked at it, then tucked it back in and buttoned the flap.

"Still here," he said.

"I can see that."

"You want to take another one? Make sure?"

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