The Leave-Takers by Steven Wingate

Author:Steven Wingate [Wingate, Steven]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC045000 Fiction / Family Life, FIC019000 Fiction / Literary
Publisher: Nebraska

15

Aftermathing

They had their share of shitty days after the miscarriage. The worst came while February’s weather had a March encore, and both of them woke at four thirty in the morning when something the wind tore loose crashed into the bedroom window nearest the bathroom. Even with tons of cardboard on the empty pane and an extra blanket on top of them, it was still too cold to be in the room. They went down to the kitchen to huddle near the stove, but that didn’t work because the wind had blown out the pilot lights on both the furnace and the water heater, which Uncle Ed had taken great pains to make nearly impossible with a series of shields and diverters. Even though both machines had emergency shutoffs, Jacob opened some windows to clear any gas before he relit the pilots. They shivered in the kitchen, drinking coffee way too early because at least the coffee maker worked.

“Fuck this place,” Jacob said, breathing heavily on his fingertips to warm them.

“Absolutely,” Laynie said back. “Fuck this place.”

But by and large art kept them out of trouble. Laynie set up a projector she borrowed from Don-o and pointed it at a store-bought canvas, ready to paint once she worked up the mojo. Jacob set up some electric heaters in the barn and worked his clay with sopping wet hands that he had to periodically warm. He’d started with the seven-week embryo, which he called Tadpole, but soon started working on Bighead, the twelve-week fetus who’d died. He didn’t like people seeing his works in progress but let Don-o check them out while he was over. It was just the two of them—no wives, no Rico Suave.

“You don’t expect praise or approval on these, do you?” Don-o asked.

“Nah, I just want you to know I’m not wasting my time.”

“And you show me you’re not falling off the wagon after the miscarriage, even though you’re thinking about pills half the time.”

“Half? No way.” Jacob dried his hands on a rag and started covering up his sculptures with plastic. “Fifteen percent maybe.”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay, twenty.”

They went inside to cook an omelet because Laynie had started buying farm fresh eggs from a teenage girl who stopped by Caffeine Paradise every Monday, and they had way too many eggs. Jacob got a text from Lovetrain alerting him to a small shitstorm on SMS, so he let Don-o chop up some veggies and sing in the kitchen while he checked the message boards. Carlos Woodheit in Milwaukee was coming up on the anniversary of his father’s murder suicide (wife, brother-in-law, mother-in-law) and wondering why the man didn’t kill him too. What had he done to stay alive? Carlos’s father had driven his only child to baseball practice, then gone and done his deed. What does it mean to be chosen as the designated survivor? Jacob needed some food before he could wade into that conversation.

“That site’s sucking up your life,” Don-o said when Jacob came back to the kitchen and told him about Carlos.

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