Dismember

like a headhunter’s shrunken trophy, but he never stayed for long, and Mike got the impression Trevor considered the work a little dull. To a six-year-old, Mike supposed it probably was. Although Mike felt entirely satisfied with his craft, it was sometimes slow going and tedious. It certainly didn’t have the action-packed appeal of Trevor’s anime cartoons or his super-hero comics, and they wouldn’t mass-produce a furniture-making action figure anytime soon.

Trevor took Mike’s hand, and they walked together to the house. Although his son did it naturally and unthinkingly, Mike knew the days of holding hands with Trevor were probably limited. He couldn’t remember holding hands with his own dad, must not have done so much beyond the age of four or five. He’d remained more affectionate with his mother, at least until his teenage years, but only slightly so. Of course, most of that distance had been his parents’ fault. Though not exactly unloving, Mike’s mother and father hadn’t been swoop-you-up-and- hug-you-till-it-hurts types either. Mike had tried to succeed where his own parents had failed, had tucked Trevor in at bedtime every chance he got, had always returned the boy’s kisses with more of the same, and had attempted to give Trevor at least ten hugs for every one he’d gotten during his childhood.

A few strides short of the porch steps, Trevor let go of Mike’s hand and bound up to the front door.

The door, like the garage, was unlocked, and Trevor only had to twist the knob to let himself inside. Mike hurried after him, instantly chilled by the air escaping through the open door. He’d turned up the air-conditioning earlier, when it had still been muggy outside, and had apparently forgotten to turn it back down before leaving for the mall.

“Brr,” Trevor said, somehow managing to rub his upper arms without letting go of his action figure. “It’s freezing.”

Mike said, “Yeah it is,” and hurried to the thermostat. Under his shirt, his nipples had become two little flesh BBs.

Shivering, he returned to the front door and opened it wide. The arctic air rushed past him. Mike shivered and followed the breeze onto the porch. It was warmer outside, though by no means toasty. “Hey,” he called back to Trevor, who was on his way out to join him, “guess what I forgot?”

“What?” Trevor asked through clenched teeth.

“I’ll give you a hint,” he said. “It comes in little white envelopes.”

Trevor brightened. “Can we go get it now?”

Mike nodded. He hadn’t actually forgotten the mail, had noticed that the mailbox’s door was slightly ajar when he drove past on his way out earlier that afternoon, but he knew Trevor enjoyed the long walk to the mailbox on the main road, and on the days Trevor stayed with him, he left the mail until they could go and get it together.

He hadn’t planned on taking the trip to the mailbox right away, and might have waited until the next day and gotten two day’s worth in a single excursion, but the house needed a chance to warm up, and the walk would not only provide the necessary time, it would also give him a chance to stretch his legs and get his blood flowing again. The drive up from Foothill had taken no longer than usual, but as had been the case when he hiked across the Mountain View’s parking lot, Mike was ready for the exercise.

Trevor reached out to close the door, but Mike told him to leave it open, and Trevor obeyed unquestioningly.

“You gonna bring your little friend with us?” he asked, indicating the action figure.

Trevor nodded and said, “Yeah. He wants to see where we live.”

“Ah,” Mike said simply. He wondered how it felt for his son, having two homes, two bedrooms, two toy boxes into which he had to split his belongings. Couldn’t be easy. He’d often wondered if he and Libby should have toughed it out for Trevor’s sake, wondered if they were inflicting permanent psychological damage. Trevor flew his toy through the air, smiling, and Mike guessed he didn’t have it too bad off.

With night drawing ever closer, they walked together away from the house. The trip to the mailbox and back, normally about a thirty-minute ordeal, at least by foot, was prolonged by Trevor’s constant stops to retie his shoes. Mike could have offered to help, could have double-tied the sneakers so they never came undone again, but Trevor obviously took pride in his impending mastery of the task, and Mike would never have dreamed of taking away his son’s confidence.

Trevor’s new shorts, still pleated where they’d been folded on the shelf in the mall, poked out from his thighs as if they’d been starched. Mike reminded himself to run them through the washer back at the house. Although Trevor had a decent supply of outfits here, most of his clothes stayed at Libby’s house, where he spent the majority of his time.

They collected the mail in the last of the day’s light, and Mike squinted at the return addresses. Circulars, credit card advertisements, and bills, some of which he’d have to deal with eventually, but nothing exciting. He handed the stack to Trevor, who clutched it to his chest like it was found treasure. Later, at home, he would go through the pile one piece at a time and ask Mike exactly what they were. It was a kind of ritual they had. Mike wasn’t sure why the mail held so much fascination for Trevor, but he always indulged the boy’s questions, sometimes marveling at his seemingly endless curiosity.

For part of the walk back, Trevor skipped, humming a song under his breath that Mike thought he recognized—might have been the theme to one of the Saturday morning cartoons—but couldn’t place for sure.

Halfway back to the house, Mike’s stomach growled. Libby said she and Trevor had already eaten an early dinner, but Mike hadn’t had anything since lunch, which had itself been only a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a handful of tortilla chips, and although his left wrist was bare, he knew from the setting sun that it was about eight o’clock.

“You hungry, bud?” he asked.

Trevor shrugged and then said, “I guess not. But maybe later we can make some popcorn and watch a movie.”

“Yeah, sounds good.” Mike kicked at a rock. It was stupid, and petty, but he wished Libby had waited so he could feed Trevor himself. They didn’t get a chance to have many meals together.

Although, to be fair, he hadn’t exactly planned anything; he wasn’t sure what, if anything, he had in the cupboards. Some soup, maybe a can of chili, and he was pretty sure there was half a pack of hot dogs. No buns, though. If he made some for himself, he’d have to use regular bread.

Mike sighed softly and kicked at another rock.

Back at the house, Trevor hurried in to check the temperature.

“Tons better,” he announced from inside.

Mike smiled and reached through the door to activate the porch lights. When he’d moved in, there had been only a single bulb over the front door and another in the back, where a second set of porch steps descended into the back yard. He’d added track lighting along all four sides of the house along with floodlights to shine out across the property. With the porch lights switched on, the place was brighter than an airport runway, although thankfully much quieter. Sometimes Mike came out onto the porch at night to sit in the dark, listen to the sounds of nature, take it easy, but the rest of the time he liked to see where he was going and what he was doing.

He circled around the side of the house to the back corner of the porch, where the grill sat covered but otherwise ready to go. The charcoal was of the lighter-fluid-already-added variety, which Mike found well worth the extra money; he dumped in a load of the briquettes and tossed lit matches onto the pile until it caught. He licked his lips. He had ketchup and mustard in the fridge and maybe a small jar of dill relish. Even on regular bread, a couple of over-cooked dogs would really hit the spot.

From behind him came the sound of a sliding window. His son peeked out from behind the screen, the curtains framing his face like wisps of ancient, whitened hair.

“Sure you don’t want a hot dog?”

“Nah.” Trevor pressed his face against the screen until his nose was almost perfectly flat. “I’m gonna watch some TV, okay?”

“Sure,” Mike said. “Just don’t wear out your eyes before movie time.”

“Kay.” Trevor disappeared behind the curtains as they drifted back together. He’d left the window open, which was fine.

Inside, Mike heard him plop down on the sofa and flip through channels. He knew before he heard the telltale sound effects that Trevor would end his search on the Cartoon Network. He replaced the grill’s hood and slid the vent on the top to allow the fire a little oxygen. In the living room, Trevor giggled, and Mike found the sound