Amidst This Fading Light by Rebecca Davis

Author:Rebecca Davis [Davis, Rebecca]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780997951882
Publisher: SFK Press
Published: 2018-08-28T06:00:00+00:00

Over time, the small bed in the guest room seemed not so hard, and he was finally used to the sounds of Mrs. Jones starting breakfast (his headboard was on the other side of the stove in the kitchen). He was almost accustomed to seeing the family throughout the day, even Lela. No more simple visits. He saw her yawn over oatmeal in the mornings, read books in the afternoon while he pored over numbers, and even in her robe as the night grew thick with the laments of cicadas.

One evening, Mr. Jones stood over Quince as he tried to balance the numbers. “School’s almost done. I thought you might like this back for when you have some free time.” He put a whittling knife on the ledger. “I’ve been keeping that for you.”

Quince reached for the knife but didn’t take it. He could say that he’d forgotten about it, but he hadn’t. He didn’t know that it had been with Brooks Jones this whole time. Quince took the knife. It felt fine, and he knew that his hands remembered what to do with it. “Thank you, Mr. Jones.”

He avoided the hobby for a few days because the knife was old and scarred and remembered too much. But after he took up whittling again, he liked the way the knife felt in his hand. It kept him busy and focused on his strokes, and he could see so much better since he’d finally been bought glasses. He liked even more how it felt to hit his knuckles with the blade. He’d done it on accident countless times as a boy. His mother had scolded him that he would have scars. She had been right in so many ways.

Quince was sitting on the back steps shaping a rabbit. Lela chased James K. Polk around the yard. Her face was flushed. The dog won the stick and Lela fell on her bottom. Quince’s hand slipped and he cut himself. He hadn’t seen much blood since the puddles on the floor of his house. When he was younger, the bleeding always gave him pause, though it never hurt much. It was strange to see it oozing from him. It seemed unnatural, a body spilling blood.

“Are you okay?” Lela was in front of him. She had his hand in hers.

There was no pain and little blood, and the blood he did see was slow and bright and, though he couldn’t explain it, made him feel light. He couldn’t name the feeling. Gently, Quince drew his hand back. “Just fine.”

Whenever he whittled from then on, he’d make one or two errant strokes, splitting his knuckles afresh or the sides of his fingers. It was never enough to give Lela’s parents pause, though Lela had noticed and told him he should be careful. He’d grown clumsy. Her face had betrayed her worry. Quince tried to make the cuts smaller but deeper after that.

The night after he finished at Germantown school, Quince sat awake for a long while.

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