“And then what?”
“Well, after a while we didn’t need to feed them from the droppers. We gave them other food. Birdseed.”
“They love birdseed!”
Here, squirrels are always climbing up and stealing seed from the bird feeder, which is attached to a post right outside the cabin. We chase them off, holler out the door, stomp on the porch. Like everything else, the birdseed is limited, and a squirrel can put a hurting on it. We can’t run out of food for the birds in the thick of winter when they’re counting on it.
“Exactly. And sometimes your mother would spread peanut butter on crackers. Boy, they loved that, let me tell you.”
“What about Kitty?”
“Well, once we adopted the squirrels, I knew Kitty would be a problem. So I took her down the road and dropped her off at a neighbor’s farm. I suspect she did just fine. She knew how to fend for herself. She might still be around, scaring nice people and robbing squirrel nests. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if that were the case.” I tousle Finch’s hair.
“The squirrels, were they cute?”
“Oh yes, cute indeed. Especially if you’re keen on little critters.”
“And my mother fed each one with the dropper?”
“Yes, ma’am. She had a mother’s touch, even before she was a mother.”
“I wish I could’ve known her.”
A twinge of sadness flickers upward, catching in my throat. “I know.” I lean in and kiss Finch on the forehead. “Time for bed now, sugar. Good night.”
“Night, Cooper.”
I head out to the kitchen and lean against the counter and look out, the clouds simmering across the sky. That story about the squirrels, it happened, but I change the ending. What really happened was we rescued the squirrels, and we nursed them with the little droppers for two days but then, one by one, they faded, not lifting their heads, refusing to drink, and by the third day all three of them were dead in the little cardboard box. Cindy was heartbroken. She cried and cried, and I think maybe everything felt a little worse on account of her being pregnant but I’m not sure. Whereas I blamed the cat, the course of nature, she blamed herself.
Truth is, I like the version I made up. Cindy and me and three pet squirrels, scuttling around the house, a happy sort of mayhem. Finch likes it, too, and even though it’s not fully true, parts of it are, the important parts, the ones that help her understand the type of person Cindy was. That’s what really matters. Besides, nobody needs another sad story, least of all me.
I step outside, listen. Such stillness here this time of year, with the peepers and crickets of summer quiet now. Tonight, clouds hide the skinny moon, so the yard is dark and shapeless. I slide into my boots and walk off the porch. Check the chicken coop for any sign of disturbance, shine the headlamp slowly from left to right, looking over the yard. Nothing. I head back inside, slide the locks on the door, and prop the shovel against the handle.
If there’s a time of day that’s hard, it’s the evenings. Not sure why, but maybe it’s this idea that after Finch is asleep and I’m alone, my mind pulls toward Cindy. Maybe when all the chores are done and there’s some downtime, I’m more aware of her absence. More aware that I’m alone. During the short window of happiness in my life, when Cindy was pregnant and the two of us lived at Aunt Lincoln’s farm, we’d sit together after supper and talk. Sometimes on the front porch, sometimes at the river, sometimes up by the pond. Didn’t matter where: that was our thing, talking in the evenings. What we’d done at work, who we’d seen. That was all good and well, but there was more. We’d talk about what we wanted out of life. We’d talk about the future. Updates we might make to the farm. Places we wanted to take our children. How we wanted to be.
Well. None of those things can happen now, of course, which can get depressing if I let myself think about it too hard. In the past, I’ve let myself do it, talk to her. Spin into regretting and wishing and remembering, and it’s a vortex, that type of thinking. It’ll suck you right down and you have to kick and claw your way back. Better to stay in the present. I turn down the kerosene lamp, watch the light fade to blue.
“You would’ve liked it here,” I whisper, and that is all I will say to her tonight.
ELEVEN
After breakfast the next morning, Finch gets back to work on her cross for the grave of Susanna the chicken. She finds two pieces of white pine and cuts them to size with her hatchet. I start splitting firewood, axe up high, down hard. I’ll feel it this evening in my right shoulder, a tightness, a soreness, an injury from my second tour where part of a building collapsed and a beam fell and knocked loose a chunk of bone, which the doctor said was probably best left untouched. It mostly doesn’t bother me—well, maybe I’ve just gotten used to it, a dull ache that never goes away—but certain activities aggravate it. Splitting wood. Drawing the bow.