Crows by Charles Dickinson Page B

grant.
    â€œTalk to O,” Ethel said. “That’s between the two of you.”
    â€œNot that ,” Robert said. “Am I still welcome in this house? Do I exist as anything other than O’s ex?”
    Ethel licked her lips. They felt crinkled with road film. “You’re handy to have around,” she admitted. “But you’ve been here more under the auspices of Ben than of Olive or me. He brought you here in the first place. I can’t kick you out.”
    Robert felt his chest ease. A pain behind his eyes diminished.
    â€œBut the time will come,” Ethel continued, “when I will bring myself to kick you out. Ben will fade from memory sufficiently for me to wonder what you are doing in my house. Be warned.”
    â€œI am warned,” he said.
    â€œI mean it.”
    Robert nodded, but he felt free to touch her papery cheek and leave the room whistling. He finished the third floor late in the afternoon, a clean storm pane on every window but Olive’s.
    Buzz was pitching again that night. He would leave soon to walk into town, where a bus would carry his team to Baraboo. He was locked in his room at the moment. No one had seen him all day. Duke was asleep on the living-­room couch. He looked off balance and endangered with his long leg stretched out next to nothing. Duke had asked Robert to drive them to Baraboo to watch Buzzard pitch, and Robert had agreed. The benediction of belonging granted by Ethel made him eager to do things for the family. He unfolded a plaid comforter and spread it over Duke. The boy said something in his sleep and turned away.
    In the mail that day had been a letter for Robert from a newspaper in Minneapolis. A sportswriting job had opened there and they wanted him to come for an interview. They would pay his way and put him up. This letter excited Ethel almost more than it would have his father, had he known.
    â€œYou’ll have to shave, of course,” she said.
    â€œI’m not interested in the field,” Robert told her.
    â€œHow do you know? When was the last time you tried it?”
    Robert scratched his beard; it was growing into that length where it itched routinely. “I try it in my mind all the time,” he said. “The other night at Buzz’s game, I wrote the story of that game in my mind. Quotes and all. I knew what those coaches and players would say after the game. I’ll do the same thing at tonight’s game.”
    â€œYou’re a natural, then,” she said.
    â€œMaybe,” Robert said. “I doubt it, but maybe. But it’s not something I want to do, so what’s the point?”
    â€œWorking is the point!” Ethel cried. “Making a living is the point!”
    He plucked the letter from her fingers and departed. Her eyes were wild with an anger or frustration he had never witnessed before. On the drive to Baraboo she pursued the matter further, but their bickering made Duke so nervous he asked them to stop.
    â€œDad liked Rob-­O,” Duke said from the backseat, “so we must respect that.”
    Ethel replied, “This goes beyond his permission to live with us. I’d think you would want to move out. Get started on something of your own.”
    He was at the wheel and felt just fine, useful. Ethel drove all day and hated the roads now, the oncoming traffic, the lights of approaching cars. In less than an hour they were on their way home. Buzz had been hit hard in the first inning and removed from the game. With Buzz gone there was nothing of interest to hold the rest of his family.
    R OBERT HAD COME to visit Olive long ago, before Ben disappeared. The month was March and it was cold and raining. Ben was sitting in a chair on the front porch reading a magazine. He wore gloves and a winter coat and the rain spattered the toe of his shoe where it poked beyond the influence of the overhang. He smiled at Robert hurrying through the downpour.
    â€œCome to