[first part, work in process]
“What time is it?”
He glanced over at her, where she sat looking out her window, through the rain, at the trees. Taking one hand from the wheel, he started to push back the sleeve of his jacket to see his watch, then changed his mind.
“There’s a clock on the dashboard in front of you.”
“Is it right?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
“What’s the use of having a clock in the car, if you always ask me anyway?” And now he did push back his sleeve and look. “The clock on the dash says the world is one minute older than the watch on my arm. So I’m going with the clock. I’m feeling pretty old right now.”
She frowned and watched the trees, a dark wall in a dark field, on a grim and rainy day. She did not look at him, or care about the time. It was only something to say, some excuse to conjure his voice out of the distance between them. It was a good voice, solid and deep, a comfort so often, and always in the dead of night. Sometimes she lay awake and whispered I love you, and he would answer in that voice, without waking. Love you too.
As they passed the end of the trees, a field opened up. It was fallow, the earth broken and turned, and in the center a brick house and a barn. The house was brightly lit, and smoke from the chimney. It was like life sitting quietly surrounded by death, and waiting to be swallowed up by time and rain. She could not wait to get home, turn on lights and music, make tea, and pretend, like that house pretended, that the world was safe.
“I hate myself for leaving him there.”
“It’s a nice place,” he said.
She turned at looked at him. “Nice? I hate us both.”
“Now, now. Yes, it’s very nice. Pleasant and homey.”
“Well.”
“He’ll see, once he gets used to it, that it’s very nice. He’ll make friends, have activities. You saw they have a piano in the recreation room, and the courtyard will be sunny on a sunny day. We’ll go, and take him out. He’ll be fine in no time.”
“He’s never yelled at me like that. Not since I can remember. So angry. Like we’re Eskimos, shoving him out on an ice flow. Do they even do that, did they ever?”
“I don’t know.”
“We should bring him home. Fix up the spare room.”
“Honey.”
“Rent one of those beds. I could take care of him, I know it. I could quit my job, we’d get by.”
“You couldn’t. You can’t even lift him. I can’t either.”
There was another line of trees. Almonds. Dark and full of rain.
Metaphor 