“How’s your foot?”
“I can put all my weight on it.”
“We should get damages for that too, the bastards.”
“Who you going to call about that?”
“A bunch of people. Tomorrow’s lawyer day.” He looked at me and smiled, then stood and tossed the last of his coffee over the railing. “Let’s do it.”
We spent the morning and early afternoon cleaning the whole cabin. And it was filthy. Under the dust on the floor around the chopping block were fish scales stuck to the planks. I got down on my hands and knees and scraped them off with a spoon. In the corners were dust webs four and five feet long, and all around the card table by the window were cigarette and cigar butts. While I was sweeping Les heated two small pots of river water on the woodstove, then he mopped the floor after me. He didn’t have any detergent to use so I poured in some glass cleaner I’d found under the pots-and-pans crate. There was a ripped T-shirt there too, and I went to work cleaning the windows and screens. At first, I’d wanted my Walkman, some fast beat in my head to keep me going, but after a while I didn’t miss the music. It was nice just hearing the squeak of the rag on cleaner against glass, the gurgling of the Purisima River through the trees, Lester working with me.
In the corner of the porch next to a rusted-out barbecue grill was a dirty blanket and under it was a long ax, a yellow chain saw, and a plastic gallon jug half full of what looked like oil and gas. Les found a pair of pliers and a screwdriver and he tightened the chain blade, then got the thing started. It spewed out blue smoke and was as loud as a dirt bike and he carried it off into the trees and I heard him cutting for a long time. I was glad when he stopped. I walked out there, still limping a bit, and helped him carry logs back to the camp. He had cut up some kind of smooth-barked tree, maple, he thought, a hardwood that would burn well in the stove. We made three trips each. He’d load my arms up, then grab two armfuls and follow me to the house. On the way back for more logs we held hands and Lester pointed out different kinds of wildflowers in the trees, or else we’d just walk through the heat of the woods together, sweating and breathing a little hard from the work, the sun on us in places, nothing but the sound of the river and a few birds.
Once we got all the logs in a pile in front of the porch, Lester took off his shirt and started splitting them with the ax. I went down to the Purisima with a plastic cup and filled and drank three times, then brought Lester some. The sweat was dripping off his nose and mustache and he smiled and thanked me, drank the water, then leaned over and gave me a short wet kiss. I smoked a cigarette on the porch step and watched him split wood awhile. His shoulders and back were gleaming with sweat, and veins were starting to come out in his long arms. Sometimes he would let out a little grunt as he swung the ax down onto the end of a log, then he’d kick the split wood aside, bend over to prop up another full log, and swing again. A fly landed on his face and walked across his cheek to his ear, but Lester didn’t even seem to notice it. I thought at first it was because he was concentrating so hard on what he was doing, but then I began to wonder if it wasn’t something else, if Lester was maybe thinking about his family, his wife and kids. And I hoped he wasn’t.
I left the porch and went inside to make tuna fish sandwiches. After a few more logs, Lester stopped and walked back through the trees towards his car. Then I saw him walking back to the camp, carrying his suitcase, his dry-cleaned uniform and clothes on hangers draped over his shoulder. He was still bare-chested, the sunlight on him as he stepped into the clearing whistling some tune through his teeth. I was relieved to hear it; I really liked being with Lester Burdon. I thought how this morning I’d felt more like myself than I had in a long time, maybe since the first days with Nick. And I wanted it to be good for Les too, and when I heard him whistling, I hurried to the door to take his clothes on hangers from him, and he kissed me deep, pulling me to his slick chest.
Up in the hot loft we took off our clothes and lay down together on the mattress. The room smelled almost like an attic, like dry wood and old furniture stuffing. But I could smell the woods outside the open screen windows too, the pine and eucalyptus, the hardwood tree Lester had cut up. And I could smell my own wetness as I lay on my back and Les licked me and I reached down and held his head in both my hands, my eyes on the rafters above me. I thought of Nicky the morning he left, the way he sat on the edge of the bed and just looked at me. Just that. Looked at me. Then I thought of my house, mine and Frank’s, of that Arab family living there, having parties there. What Les was doing felt good, warm and slightly electric, but I was thinking too much to let go into the orgasm I knew he was trying to give me. I pulled away and took him in my mouth, until he came against the back of my throat and I swallowed. I moved up and kissed him while he tried to push himself back inside me but he’d gone soft and so we lay there awhile, holding each other, our skin sticking.
I wanted a cigarette, but I didn’t want to move.
“My wife never did that to me.”
“Did you like it?”
“Did you?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
“What if I didn’t like it, though?”
“You didn’t?”
“No, I did. But what if I didn’t?”
He kissed my upper cheek. “Then I wouldn’t like it either.”
“Bull shit.”
“Well it’s true, Kathy.” He got up on one elbow and looked me long in the face, his mustache and eyes calling dark attention to themselves. “It’s true.”
I kissed him, opening my mouth, and he slid back on top of me. “Man, I’m in trouble, Les. I believe everything you say.” He began to move and my mouth tasted sour and I wanted one of those tall Budweisers in the ice chest downstairs. I raised my legs up and held his back and I wanted him to let go inside me, deep inside, where everything I say has another side to it, like telling him to wear a condom when I know I don’t want him to do anything like that at all. Not at all.
Q UITE EARLY SUNDAY MORNING I CARRY TO MY SON’S ROOM A TRAY OFsugar and hot tea and I tell to him everything we face as a family. Esmail sits up in his bed with no shirt upon him, his eyes still heavy with sleep, his black hair uncombed. He drinks his tea and listens quite intently as I explain the young woman with whom he spoke on the grass Saturday afternoon. He looks away from my eyes.
“She said this is her house, Bawbaw-jahn. And it was taken away from her for no reason.”
“No, as I have just said, there wasa reason. She did not pay her taxes, Esmail. This is what happens when we are not responsible. Fardmeekonee? Do you understand?”
“Yes, Bawbaw.”
I do not like lying to my son, but I am certain if he knows the woman’s home was taken from her due only to bureaucratic mistake, he will not be able to keep all of this from Nadereh.
“Weown the home now, Esmail. We purchased it legally, and that woman has no right to harass us. This is why I do not want you telling to your mother any of these things. You know how easily she can become sick with her worries.”
“Moham-neest, Bawbaw-jahn. No problem.”
I nod my head and drink from my tea, weighing whether or not I should tell to him more, that I had planned for us to stay here until cooler weather began but now I feel compelled to sell and leave while it is still clear no one has legal recourse against us. And I enjoy sitting here with Esmail, discussing serious matters. It has been the nature of my life’s work to keep secrets, and to bear heavy responsibility for others. But oftentimes, I feel very tired and quite alone. And of course it is an important moment for Esmail, to have his father confide in him for the first time. My son sits straight in his bed, his brown shoulders pulled back while he holds his teacup and saucer and nods his head along with me.