Spoonwood by Ernest Hebert Page B

same place—at the bottom,” I say. “You come from both the top on your mother’s side and the bottom on my side. I think that’s okay. What worries me is you don’t have a middle in your background, and in America the middle rules. Let me look at you and see if you have perspective.”
    I take my eyes off the road and look at Birch. He grins at me.
    â€œThere’s the auction barn,” I say. “Used to be a real, hip-roofed cow barn, the Flagg place, until Ike bought it. It’s still called Ike’s Auction Barn, but there’s not only no Ike, there are no auctions. Critter revamped the place into a mini–shopping center and flea market. In the rear there used to be a porn shop, but it closed up. Now it’s headquarters for Critter’s used car lot.”
    While Dad is speaking I feel buzzy on my bottom.
    â€œDon’t look so alarmed,” Dad says. “We just hit the bumpy parking lot. Any time you deal with a Jordan think bumpy.
    â€œI made a budget last night. We have enough money to last a year, provided we live real frugal, I mean the bare necessities. The woods are going to be hard on both of us, damn hard, but, Birch, I feel free and eager for the first time since you were born.”
    I leave the auction barn with a chain saw, a splitting maul, wedges, a sledgehammer, a couple of blades for my 21-inch bow saw, anda front pack designed to carry babies. On impulse I buy a dozen versions of an item I’d never seen before. It’s called a bungy cord, an elastic rope fastener inspired by the latest craze, bungy jumping. I drive to Ancharsky’s Store for groceries and look over the town bulletin board. There’s usually a boat for sale and an unspoken story featuring an outraged wife and an irresponsible husband. But not today.
    I spend another two days gathering provisions and shopping for a reasonably priced boat, which I want for recreation and, more important, as a platform to catch fish—free food. I like the idea of a boat because water separates me from other people. I finally find a ten-foot aluminum johnboat with life preservers and oars leaning against the side of a garage in Keene. A leader line and sinkers are tangled in a rivet. I buy the boat for fifty dollars from the widow of the former owner. The craft is unwieldy, but light—no problem to lift it on top of my pickup camper and tie it down.
    My camper is crowded for one-man living. With a baby added it’s downright jammed. I go to work on the school bus to make it habitable. I haunt the flea markets for worn rugs, candles, kerosene lamps, shelving. I buy a used Franklin stove and piping for a crude chimney, a rusty set of chisels and gouges that appear useless but only need sharpening. With my bow saw I cut saplings and tree branches to make stick furniture—an improved crib, a highchair, a table, a frame for a sofa bed. No clocks. Human beings started down the road to unhappiness with the invention of timepieces. Birch and I are going to live by sun, stars, and weather.
    Abusive as he is, I miss the Elmans’ cat, but other than that I’m content with Dad. Two weeks have gone by when Grandpa Howard and Grandma Elenore show up at mid-day. Must be Sunday. We’re outside by Dad’s cookfire.
    Elenore pushes by Dad to reach me, comfortable in my new twig crib that Dad has lugged outside. She picks me up and inspects me.
    â€œWe heard you were up here, thought we’d pay a visit,” Howard says, his voice full of cheer and sarcasm. “How you doing?”
    â€œI’m gaining,” Dad says.
    â€œYou have a job yet?”
    â€œNo, and I don’t intend to get one.”
    â€œI knew you had bad habits, but I never thought being a dead-beat was one of them,” Howard says.
    â€œI never thought you were wrong about anything, Pop,” Dad says.
    â€œMe neither. It’s dispiriting to learn different.”
    Grandma Elenore