Touch by Alexi Zentner Page A

they’re something we could sell once you’ve finished them.”
    My grandmother smiled and reached out to pat her brother’s hand. He meant well, but sometimes she wondered if hethought much beyond the gold that passed through his hands. He seemed so odd to her sometimes. She asked for a house and he offered her dresses and books. “We’ll not be heading back to the Red River, will we?” she asked.
    Franklin let her touch his hand for a moment and then he took it off the counter. She watched him pretend to look down at the ledger book and felt a sudden stab of love for him. He had done the best he could with her since their parents died. He had taken her west with him when it would have been so much easier for him to simply leave her to her fate on the Red River. She would have married somebody. She could have scratched out her life as a farmer’s wife.
    “No,” he said. “We’ll not return there.”
    “Then let’s not live as if we will,” Martine said. “It’s thoughtful of you, Franklin, but I don’t need new dresses and I’ve nowhere to wear them anyway. What I want is a house, something with walls and real floors rather than swept dirt, with enough windows—glass windows, not greased-paper—to let in the light, and a properly built stove. I want something that feels more like a home than a coffin. You’ve given the goods that you’re selling a better home than you’ve provided for me.”
    “Well, they cost a pretty penny more than you do,” he said. “I only had to bring you from the Red River, and you walked some of that way on your own.” He waved his hand out toward the shelves and then touched her nose. “Some of this I had to have shipped in from San Francisco.”
    She swatted away his hand, and then, with a mischievous look, yanked the ledger book out from under his hands. She knew he hated her touching it. She slammed the ledger shutwith a flourish. “Lord knows you sell those damned tin pans for enough that you can afford to build me a proper house.”
    “Lumber is hard to come by right now,” he said. “I was lucky to get enough to build the store.” He reached out and gently pulled the ledger back from her. “My little temple of commerce.” He slipped the book under the counter. “Jeannot can’t keep up with the demand,” Franklin added, “and now some of the men are starting to work pit mines, so he’s making props, too.”
    At the mention of my grandfather’s name, Martine felt a coldness move through the store. The last hum of winter, she thought, and she pulled her shawl over her head and wrapped her arms around herself.
    “Are you all right?” Franklin, usually so self-absorbed, so busy with his books and his wares, sounded concerned.
    “You see, even in here I can’t get warm.”

    MY MOTHER HAS SHIVERED like that for the last few days. We kept her covered with blankets, the fire burning, the furnace turned up, and still she shivered. Her hands were cold in mine, and I rubbed at them, trying to put the chill at bay.
    “The winter they fell through the ice,” I said, “you shivered then, too.”
    “I wasn’t dying then,” she said. I flinched at the words, and my mother squeezed my hand. “Stephen. You’re a priest. You’ve sat by the bedsides of enough mothers and fathers.”
    “Never my own mother,” I said. “Besides, experience doesn’t make it easier.”
    “I was cold that entire winter. I felt like I’d gone through the ice myself. You were a good son, though. You kept the fire stoked, kept chopping wood for kindling.” She nodded at the fireplace. “I still like a good fire, but it’s easier now. Turn the dial and the furnace does the work. Same with the stove. Unimaginable luxuries, and all you have to do is turn a knob.” She shifted onto her side to face me, letting out a small grunt. Her bones had been hurting her. “Can you put a pillow behind my back?”
    Her body was hard angles. She was so thin and small that it was hard to