Chapter 11: Armed With Pins

On Monday night Abraham knocked on my door with a torn canvas jacket over his arm.

"I'm asking," he said. "Rule two works both ways. You said not to fix anything unless you ask."

"I didn't say it worked both ways."

"It does now." He held out the jacket. "The sleeve caught on a nail. I can't sew."

I took it.

The sleeve was ripped from the cuff to the elbow, a clean tear along the seam.

It was a small lie.

I knew he'd torn it himself with a utility knife, to give me a reason.

"Put it on," I said. "I have to pin it."

He shrugged it on and stood in the middle of the room, too big for it.

The lamp on my table made a yellow circle, and the stove ticked behind us.

I knelt on the rug and took hold of his wrist.

His skin was warm, with sawdust in the fine hair along his forearm.

I turned his hand over and laid the cuff straight.

I pinned along the seam, one pin and then another.

He didn't move.

I could feel him not moving.

"I was unfair on Thursday," I said, to his sleeve.

"You were right."

"I was right and unfair. Both."

"Joanna."

"You let me sleep because you thought it would help." I pushed a pin through.

"It did," I said. "I'm angry about it and I'm grateful, and I don't know how to be both."

"You don't have to."