It gave him pleasure just to hold it. So much pleasure that instead of opening it right away he set it aside while he made himself a sandwich—grilled cheese. Dave is old enough to know that the jackpot of anticipation is always a grander prize than truth affords.
He knows how to disengage a hungry tick with a spot of whisky—which he long ago decided was a good enough reason to carry a flask wherever he went.
There are many satisfactions in this beautiful life, but one of the great satisfactions, up there with great meals and great friendships, with love and afternoon naps, is fixing something that is broken.
The kids sensed their distraction. In one corner a group of grade sixes were circled around the infamous Mark Portnoy, watching with academic interest as he tried to feed his Ritalin to a boy in grade four.
Every night before bed Eugene’s mother led them in an hour of prayer. His father would sit by the table with a rosary in his hand and hit anyone who fell asleep.
We used to read to each other at night before we went to sleep. When he died, we were about a third of our way through a book of Alistair MacLeod’s stories. The night we buried him I couldn’t settle because the book wasn’t finished. So I went up to Art’s grave with a lawn chair and a flashlight and I took the book and I read to him.
It was deer—three deer moving from grave to grave eating the flowers. They would stop by a stone and eat all the cedar and the greenery and then move on to the next one. It was the most calming thing I ever saw. Watching nature come out and seeing how life goes on.