He relaxed a bit farther into the tub. The last thing she wished to do was burden him, but a final, awkward question pressed on her mind.
“George, what was our son doing out there with August? What is between them?”
He took a long breath.
“What is between anyone?” George asked her. “I couldn’t say. Trust. Suffering. Some element of love, to be sure. How often did we see Caleb come home in tears, cursing his friend, only to keep his eye on the window all throughout supper, hoping he might appear once more? They had a bond. Why inspect it any closer?”
“Perhaps it’s easier for you,” she said. “I just don’t know anymore. This business with August—it was a relief, I believe. The idea that someone else might carry the responsibility for how he’s turned out. But I go back and look at Caleb’s letters, searching for some semblance of the boy we raised, yet they’re so empty. So hollow. I fear it was always in him. That blank space. And we missed it.”
George appeared to be at a loss for words, but when he finally spoke it was with a confident tone of finality.
“Every time he fell, we were there. That is all that could be asked of either of us.”
He looked so helpless, so at rest. She moved her chair closer to the tub, so close she might see the grime of the water, the ripples of George’s belly descending into the depths of the bath.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” she said. She put out a hand and stroked his cheek, rolled her finger down the length of his chin.
“If Prentiss agrees,” he said, “I think sweet birch will do.”
Isabelle made a small noise of agreement. “It’s the finest option,” she said. “Appropriate for the occasion.”
And with this, exhausted, she stood up to leave. It was time she got some rest.
*
When she rose in the morning George was fast asleep. Once dressed, she thought to knock on Caleb’s door, but figured him to be asleep as well, and went downstairs instead. Outside, in the early-morning dim, the grass was tinged with dew. She started out the back door to feed the chickens, and in doing so glimpsed the outline of Prentiss, with only the clothes on his back and a bucket in hand, walking off toward the fields. A part of her wished not to intrude upon his morning, yet another part felt deeply that in times of grieving the hospitality of others was paramount to overcoming loss. When her friends had brought flowers upon learning what had turned out to be the rumor of Caleb’s death, it had been a source of comfort. No one, she knew, would be bringing Prentiss anything at all. She slipped on George’s boots, as they were the only ones sitting out back, and made her way after him.
The farm was still edged in dark, the plants dappled in the morning shadows. For a moment she simply watched Prentiss. He was hand-weeding one of the furrows—pulling ryegrass out by the root and dropping it into the bucket, carefully working around each plant.
As she drew closer she called his name and waved. He offered her a glance before continuing. She was beside him now but might as well have been invisible.
“Should you be working?” she asked. “I’m certain George is not expecting you to. Not with all that’s happened.”
“I don’t mind,” he said.
“Is there any way I get you to quit?
“No, ma’am.”
“I was about to make myself some toast. I could brew some coffee as well. Why don’t you join me inside?”
He shook his head resolutely.
“Ain’t nothing for me in that house.”
“Coffee does not interest you, then.”
“Ain’t what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
The bucket hung limp in his hand. He stared at her, his eyes sparked with anger.
“I mean what I said. This ain’t complicated, Mrs. Walker. I’m right where I want to be. With these plants. See ’em? They thriving. I made ’em that way. Me and my brother. And I’ma keep ’em thriving, keep ’em strong, ’cause there ain’t nothing else I—”
He could not finish. He rubbed his hand from his forehead to his mouth, then from cheek to cheek, as if doing so might scour his pain.
Though hers had abated with Caleb’s miraculous return, Isabelle knew the feeling: the utter helplessness, the all-consuming pain. She could only say what was on her mind. What came to her naturally.
“He left me a pair of socks. It could not have been anyone else. Right on the clothesline, the same place where I first met him. They’re the color of the sky, soft blue, and they fit so snugly you would have thought he’d taken the measurements of my foot. It was perhaps the nicest gesture I’ve known. We hardly shared a word, but his kindness was unrivaled. There was a purity to him I can’t even begin to express. I’m not sure I understand it myself.”