Chapter 23: The Crib

By November, I had a small yellow house on Alder Street, bought with my half of the Baby account and a down payment I had not known I could save.

It had a creaky porch, a working fireplace, and a second bedroom with a window that faced the lake.

On the first Saturday of the month, that bedroom was full of flat cardboard.

"Step four," Beth read from the instructions. "Insert dowel B into panel C."

"Where is panel C?" Seth asked.

"You're sitting on panel C."

He stood up.

He was in a flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, holding a screwdriver with the grim expression he saved for resuscitations.

I sat in the glider by the window with my feet on a stool, eight months along and huge, and I ate crackers.

"You two have been at this for three hours," I said.

"We have a system," Beth said.

"Your system is shouting."

"Shouting is a system."

Seth fitted a rail to a post and tested it with his full weight.

It held.

"Look at that," he said, with deep satisfaction.

"Look at that," Beth said, "it's upside down."

I laughed so hard that the baby kicked me under the ribs, and I had to put the crackers down.

By late afternoon, the crib stood against the wall under the window, pale wood with rounded corners.

Beth pressed on it with both palms, then burst into tears and said it was the hairspray.

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