Ron drew a line above all the old marks.
Then he wrote:
Nate, 36 yrs.
And the year.
He handed me the pencil.
“My turn?” I asked.
“No.”
He stepped against the frame.
“Mine.”
So I marked Ron.
We gave notice at our rented duplex.
We moved into the farmhouse during the second week of October.
The same day, I gave notice at the truck stop.
Patty cried.
Before I left, she gave me a key to the pie case as a keepsake.
I considered it the highest honor the establishment could bestow.
For Thanksgiving, we set the table in the room off the kitchen.
It was the only room downstairs large enough once every leaf had been added.
And there was something right about using it.
Seventeen people came.
Kim’s boys sat at a card table.
Jeff carved the turkey because Ron claimed his hands were tired.
Nobody believed him.
Judy put rhubarb sauce on the table.
The rhubarb had come from the patch beside the cistern.
The same patch Opal’s mother planted in 1931.
Opal sat at the head of the table.
She wore the navy dress.
Nate carried her chair in himself.
When everyone was seated, Ron stood to say grace.
“Lord,” he began, “we thank you for this house—”
Then he stopped.
His hand rested on the back of his mother’s chair.
His mouth moved.
Nothing came out.
Nobody rescued him.
Nobody looked away.
Kim’s youngest boy started to ask a question.
Kim put one hand gently on his shoulder.
He stopped.
Opal reached up.
She placed her hand over Ron’s.
“And for the children who brought us back to it,” she said.
Her voice was perfectly steady.
“And for the ones who are tired, Lord, and do not say so.”
The room stayed silent.
“Teach us to look.”
She squeezed Ron’s hand.
“Amen.”
Ron swallowed.
“Amen.”
Everybody echoed him.
Opal looked slowly down the table.
At Kim.
Jeff.
Stacy.
Nate.
Me.
Then she turned toward the kitchen window.
The same window she had stood behind in 1961 because she could not bear to watch her husband lose their machinery.
“I was born six feet from this chair,” she said.
Then she unfolded her napkin.
“Somebody pass me those potatoes.”
The bluebird card still lives in my kitchen drawer.
With rubber bands.
Birthday candles.
Spare batteries.
All the small things nobody knows where else to put.
I eventually found another use for it.
In February, once I was certain, I took it out.
Judy’s handwriting was still inside.
You two have always been so capable. We never worry about you.
Beneath it, in pencil, I added one sentence of my own.
We are still very capable. But come August, you will have somebody new to worry about.
I put the card into a fresh envelope.
Then I mailed it back to Judy.
Ron was at our front door within the hour.
He had his level with him.
Apparently the upstairs back bedroom was going to need shelves.
Before he left, he walked into the pantry.
He stood in front of the old door frame for a long time.
There were Henry Brandt’s marks.
Opal’s.
Little Ronnie’s.
Nate’s.
Ron’s.
And plenty of untouched wood above and below them.
There was room for a good many more marks.
Ron took out his tape measure.
And measured.