Jake raised this issue with me a few years back when Finch cursed when she tripped in the yard: the fact that she was learning every word and action and mannerism from me and I better do my best to model good behavior. Which, coming from Jake, he said it in his usual gracious way, and I took it to heart. Since then, I’ve tried to clean up the way I talk, in part out of respect for Jake and in part because I could see his point.
But Scotland—he has a way of bringing out the worst in me, and besides that, I have no interest in child-rearing advice from the likes of him. “What do you know about raising kids anyway,” I mutter, turning my back to him.
Scotland kneels down beside me so that our faces are so close I can smell him: dirt, animal, woodsmoke, wintergreen. He looks past me, to the woods. “Oh, neighbor. You don’t know the first thing about me, and I’d be obliged if you’d bear that in mind. Also”—and he looks at me, here, holds my eyes, his pupils small in the bright light, his gray eyes gleaming— “‘Judge not, and ye shall not be judged.’ Luke 6:37.”
Not much I can say to that, so I just turn away from him and start pulling carrots again.
Scotland peers into the basket of carrot stumps. He shoves a hand into the dirt, holds a handful, squeezes it, lets it drop. “You need to sift this dirt, too many rocks. And with all these pine trees around, I’m guessing it’s far too acidic.”
“We’ve been composting. It’s getting better.”
Scotland grunts and gestures toward the basket. “Looks like it.”
I dig and pull up a good carrot—three inches in length, our best one. “See?”
“You should haul up some dirt from the river’s edge. That rich, good stuff from the floodplain. Full of nutrients. That’ll get things going. Put your ashes in, too. Now that Jake’s no longer coming, you’ve got to do better with this garden.” He hops up, curls his feet under him and stands quickly, and for the hundredth time I wonder how old he is and how he can possibly get around the way he does. My own knees and back and shoulder are always nagging at me about my age.
He saunters over to the porch, leans in, and looks up. Then he grabs one of the chairs and drags it to the edge of the porch. Climbs onto it, reaches high, grips the edge, and shimmies up, onto the roof, lickety-split, like a kid on a jungle gym, body contorted and bent at impossible angles. Such agility. I admit it, I’m impressed. Jealous, even.
“Gutter’s broke,” he calls down. “Better get that fixed. Don’t want to be up here on this metal roof, once the snow hits. You got a hammer and some nails? I can do it now if you want.”
I stand there and debate this. Think about whether I want to owe him a favor.
Finch pokes her elbow into my side. “What size nails?”
He holds out his finger and thumb, demonstrating a length.
She bounds into the house, grabs the nails and hammer from the drawer in the kitchen, and reappears. I reach up and hand them to him.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Your spotting scope. What brand is it?”
“Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“It’s a Vortex.” Up on the roof, he starts hammering.
I kick at a clump of dirt in the yard. It belonged to her, then. The lens cap. Which means she’d been on our land before. But how many times? And will she be back? I swear under my breath.
Scotland pauses, holding the hammer midstrike. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“You been down to the river lately?” he asks.
I can’t help but wonder what all he knows about our trek down there last night. Whether he was close, whether he was watching. Whether he saw her, too. Whether he has known about her all along and was just waiting for us to encounter her ourselves. “No.”
“Yes,” Finch says, giving me a look. “We saw a girl yesterday. That’s why we were so late getting back. Cooper had a panic attack. Sometimes he has those, on account of him being a soldier.”
Scotland tucks a nail between his lips and looks at me, then scans the woods. “A girl, huh?” He is a good pretender, I know. A master at holding tight to information and then releasing it when he sees fit.
“A girl or a woman,” Finch continues. “I’m not sure. How do you tell the difference, anyhow? Well, either way, she’s very pretty.” She runs her hand down her braid. “With long, red hair. Today I determined that she’s a wood nymph. We were down by our hunting spot. There’s a big sycamore, and it’s beautiful and majestic. We call it the King of Trees.” She gestures, holding her arms wide. “Do you know where that is?”