Chapter 6: Cal's Porch

Rupert left on foot behind the tractor, with the boy's hand in his and Marcy beside him.

He didn't say goodbye, and neither did I.

I went inside and started on the floors.

By noon I had swept up every paper cup and carried the broken quilt rack out to the porch in two pieces.

Cal nailed plywood over the front window that someone had put a chair through.

I reached for the wedding portrait on the bench, and the frame came apart in my hands.

A long piece of glass opened the heel of my thumb.

"Don't move," Cal said from the doorway.

"It's fine."

"It's bleeding on a hundred-year-old floor. Don't move."

He crossed the room in three steps, took my wrist, and turned my hand palm up.

His hands were rough and very warm.

"Not deep," he said. "You'll want it clean, though."

"I have paper towels."

"You have a tetanus shot from when?"

"I don't remember."

"Then you're coming with me."

He took me out to the truck, and I let him.

His boat shop sat at the end of the lake road, with a small house behind it and a porch that faced the water.

Birdie met us at the door, took one look at my hand, and said, "Sit. Both of you. I'll get the kit."

She had a first aid kit the size of a toolbox.

Cal knelt on the porch boards in front of my chair and cleaned the cut with a cold, stinging cloth.

I watched the top of his head.

"You're good at this," I said.

"Twenty years of boat hooks and fishing line."

He pressed the gauze down and held it there, and his thumb lay across the inside of my wrist.

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