He broke their gaze. Looked up at the ceiling.
“I know the land,” he said.
“You know who else knows the land well? Better than you, even?”
Carl nodded.
“Vic Hewitt,” said Maryanne.
“What if you go back?” Carl asked. “I’m sure they still need extra hands.”
Maryanne scrutinized him. “Who’ll look after you?”
“I’m fine,” said Carl. “Dr. Treadwell said so. I’ll rest. Jeannie will help.”
“Our Jeannie?” said Maryanne. “Or another one?”
He smiled. Most of the humor between them, now, could be found in the gentle deriding of their remaining children. It was something mundane; something that reminded them of before, when the fragility of their children’s bodies wasn’t so heavy on their minds. Maryanne had once confessed to him, in the wake of Scotty’s death, the fear that she would be unable to let the girls out of her sight. To make fun of them, ever so slightly, was a reminder to be light with them as well.
Maryanne placed a hand on his cheek. It was the most generous touch she’d given him in a year. She stroked his hair back from his forehead. He blinked rapidly to prevent himself from crying.
“You’re a good soul,” she said.
He put his hand over hers. Brought it to his mouth. Kissed it.
“All right,” said Maryanne. “I’ll go.”
• • •
He woke up some time later to the sound of Maryanne’s footsteps. They were different from the footsteps of his daughters, who had been traipsing around the house with abandon since their mother’s departure.
Now he sat up first on his elbow, measuring how that felt, and then, when no light-headedness threatened to fell him, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and then rose slowly until he was on his feet.
“Maryanne?” he called, tentatively.
Upon receiving no response, he shuffled toward the threshold of his bedroom. The house—their house—had been in Maryanne’s family for 150 years. It was close-walled, low-ceilinged, built to accommodate only the insubstantial height of her ancestors. Across the upstairs hallway was the dormer bedroom that all three girls shared; Scotty had slept downstairs, on a former sleeping porch that Carl had imperfectly winterized. Now the Stoddards rarely ventured onto it, despite the small size of the house.
It was a surprise, therefore, to descend the staircase and find Maryanne standing quite still in the threshold of that room. For a moment he gazed upon her rigid back, inside her Sunday dress, both hands pressing upon the doorframe as if bracing against a storm.
He spoke her name quietly so as not to startle her, but still she jumped.
“What are you doing out of bed,” she said to him. “You should be in bed.”
“I feel better,” said Carl—a half-truth. In fact, the walk down the stairs had made him dizzy.
He approached her, and together they gazed out onto the closed porch. A twin bed still sat at the edge of the space, but the rest of the room was bare, every artifact boxed up and placed in the basement: Maryanne’s work. She had been asking him to do something to it, to make use of the space in some way, an instinct that Carl understood to be self-protective rather than cold.
“Maybe we can open it up again,” Carl said now—imagining this to be the thought on Maryanne’s mind. “Put the screens back on. It’d be nice to eat out here in summer.”
But Maryanne said nothing.
Carl was beginning to feel like he should sit down. He shifted his weight from one leg to another.
“How was the rest of the day?” he asked. “Did they find anything?”
Maryanne nodded.
“What was it?”
“Carl,” said Maryanne. “How well do you know that boy?”
He frowned. “Oh, a little,” he said. “He liked the outdoors. He used to come around asking about the plants we were putting in. Once I taught him how to build a fire.”
“Carl,” said Maryanne, “why are you talking about him like he’s dead?”
He paused. “How do you mean?”
“You said liked,” said Maryanne. “You said he liked the outdoors.”
“I don’t know.”
“They did find something,” said Maryanne. “A few feet off the path to the trailhead, buried in some underbrush. Ron Shattuck’s hound sniffed out a little carving of a brown bear. Just like the ones you know how to make.”
“All right,” said Carl.
“That’s strange,” said Maryanne. “Don’t you think it’s strange?”
“Not so much,” said Carl. “I taught him how to whittle once. Taught Bear, I mean. I probably taught him how to make a couple things. Maybe that was one.”
