the stove in a weeping rage or take it home and hang it on his kitchen wall to see for the rest of his life and sometimes hold in his lap, as though it contained the phantom touch of his lost family. Hearing Lily come in behind him, he set it down and leaned it against the stove. “Maybe not.”
“Well, can I take it?”
He put a hand on her shoulder and turned her toward the door. “What would you do with that?”
“I just want it.” She darted back around him and tucked the washboard under her arm.
“What for? That thing’ll just keep me looking back.” He glanced past her toward the kitchen, not understanding.
Her blue eyes were reddening and brimful. “I think we should keep it. It doesn’t have to make you think only about the bad things.”
He reached out to her. “Just leave it. I don’t remember any good things.”
She clamped her arm against the washboard and stepped back. “You came here to find something. Here it is. It’s to imagine what happened before those.” She pointed to the bullet holes.
He turned his head up and stared at the shafts of sunlight blazing through the wall. In a small voice, he said to the dust-haunted room, “I found something from before the shooting.”
She walked up and stood close. “
Outside, they saw that the horse had sidled up to the porch and was scratching his head against a post. Sam swung Lily into the saddle, untied the reins, and got up behind her. “Your turn to drive.” She handed him the washboard, and he stood it up on the saddle between them. “Now your seat’s got a back.”
The horse began to whinny and sidestep away from the house, and she yelled, “I don’t know how to work the reins!”
He rested his chin on the top of her head. “Lily, if anybody can figure it out, you can.”
TIM GAUTREAUX
