The grass had all turned brown. Snow, crusted gray by car exhaust, hugged the curb. A blare of shift change whistle blew at the factory a few blocks away; 5:00 pm and the gloaming of evening had already fallen. From his bedroom window in the rectory, Father Francis watched the cold breeze tug at a lone leaf on the tree in the front lawn. His own heart felt like that leaf. He went down the hall to the kitchen to heat water for tea. Although he’d only turned forty-six earlier that month, days after his mother’s death, he walked with a slight limp. The rectory was as quiet as a tomb.
At the sound of the factory whistle, Sister Katherine glanced up and looked outside the convent’s basement window. …
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My grandmother sat on the toilet seat. I was on the floor just in front of her.
She brushed my brown curly hair until my scalp hurt.
“You got your grandfather’s hair. Stand up. Look at yourself in the mirror.”
My hair looked flat, like someone had laid a book on it overnight.
I touched my scalp. “It hurts.”
“You gotta toughen up, Aiden. Weak people get nowhere in this world. Your grandfather was weak. Addicted to the bottle. Your mother has an impaired mind and is in a nuthouse. And your father, he just couldn’t handle the responsibility of a child. People gotta be strong.” She bent down and stared into my face. Her hazel eyes seemed enormous. I smelled coffee on her breath. She pinched my cheeks.…
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On my morning run, I met a boy with a flute case. I was jogging up Highland when he flagged me down and asked directions to the library. He told me his school was closed because of a bomb threat. Then he started swinging his flute case forward and back.
“I’m the only boy in school who plays. I get teased all the time,” he said.
The boy was tall and thin with wet hair that fell over his face. He looked to be around twelve. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a backpack. I paused the timer on my watch.
“I think it’s cool that you play the flute,” I said. “It’s different.”
I kneeled down to retie my laces.
“Why are you running?” he asked.…
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I couldn’t believe we were even having the conversation. The sign said, “No Swimming.” That’s enough for me, but they were posted along the bank so incrementally as to ensure wherever a person stood, the message was unavoidable. Yet, Carl had already stripped his shirt, revealing the sweater of hair beneath, and was unbuttoning his pants. Our masonry crew had a long laugh after I mentioned his “sweater” when he removed his shirt one hot, summer day.
“Ah, they just post signs like that for kids and pansies,” Carl said, “for liability purposes. All the lawsuits these days, you know. Look over there. I used to jump from that rope when I was a kid.”…
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The day before my brother died I went to see Clara for the last time. I hung up my mother’s soft voice and walked to the bedroom window. I rubbed a circle in the condensation and watched puddles collect on the sidewalk below. Two black squirrels ran up bare tree limbs fighting over an acorn. A girl, who might have been pretty, waited at the crosswalk beneath her umbrella in the drizzle.
I took off my wedding ring and drove through rainbow-soaked streets to Clara’s apartment. The oaks lining the way bent in the wind. At a stoplight, a little girl in a red parka jumped in a puddle, mud spattering on her white tights.
Clara opened the door; a pink bathrobe was cinched loosely at her waist.…
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5. ‘Twenty Questions’ day
The sky is—?
“Blue.”
The grass is—?
“Green.”
How many days are there in a week?
“Six.”
The son laughs in attempt to lighten the mood, gangling arms scratching coarse hair that is faded and gray. “Sunday doesn’t count, apparently.” The daughter does not smile as she looks at the muted television, which has been on the same five minute loop for who knows how long.
There is no day of rest for the sick.
—…
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When we say, “Bet your bottom dollar,” we mean we’re sure of a thing, so much so that we’d risk losing all we had. But I have never been that financially fragile, so strapped I’m clutching the last coins in my pocket and wondering where my next meal might come from. Even when I’ve lost a bet, my risk was marginal. But if I were living a life of such desperation, would I take such a gamble? Have I ever been that sure of anything?
Here are the things I’m sure of:
My grandfather believed money made the best gift, and from every holiday and birthday card a crisp and bemused Franklin stared out from an envelope. My grandfather was a teenager during the Depression and showed a willingness to work a strange array of jobs throughout his life, a vocational wanderlust he came by naturally.…
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