In the Pines by Kevin Moffett

Author:Kevin Moffett
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

The wind made barely a sound, Alta realized. Whatever was strained and blown by it—leaves, grass, scarves, flags— did the work. The gusts called to mind a neglected house, a storm door opening and closing, opening and closing.

Everyone made a noise. Her first husband made a glassy noise. Her second and third made humming and rasping noises, respectively. Thinking about the husbands reminded her of the lieutenant, and remembering the lieutenant, who made the most noise of all—a marching-away noise—now reminded her of the man in the wheelchair. Who made a word noise: Hand job. From time to time she still waited for the lieutenant on her patio, and this wasn’t reasonable, she knew, but who expected her to be reasonable with so much noise?

The Boer War! Fenn yelled through the wall. Geometry! Far away, the battle made a faraway garbage-truck noise. Her men were there. She’d dreamed about them, Vic, Don, George, all charging the enemy with the same rifle. Acting and counteracting.

She awoke thinking: I am losing my mind. She’d begun saying this aloud before George died. Whenever she couldn’t find her keys, or when she forgot to turn off the television. She wanted to get into the habit of saying it so that she’d remember to continue to once she indeed started losing her mind. Saying it aloud, even if it didn’t avert things, might at least soften the stupor when it came. Make her sympathetic, the same way a drunk admitting he was drunk lent himself a sorry sort of dignity.

One night, after reading a magazine article about how the brain like any other muscle needed regular exercise, she told George she wanted him to start asking her more questions. This was one of the suggestions in the article.

“About what?” he’d asked. They were in the living room, having a predinner drink. Alta drank a glass of sherry while George sipped an unrefrigerated Coors from its twinkly can.

“Anything,” she said.

He squinted, considering. Though not handsome, his face had a volatile softness that made it interesting to look at. “Name me,” he said, looking at his beer can. “I’m what you get by combining copper and tin.”

Watching him wait for the answer, she tried to remember what it was he’d first said to her, how he’d expressed interest. It wasn’t much. Hello, maybe. Or, Hey you. After Vic she stayed a widow for a few years, but Don came along and then George, and here she was, sitting next to her third husband, her third, a couple of spent batteries nestled inside a toy. George sighed while Alta listened. She knew she’d outlive him. She could hear his spirit clawing off as he breathed.

When you combined copper and tin, you got . . . something else. “I have no idea,” she said.

“Uh-oh.”

“What?”

He patted at his shirt with a napkin. “Spilled a little beer.”

He was going to make her ask for the answer. Though she knew very little about him, she knew him. She knew that he would continue silently sipping his room-warm Coors until she said something.

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