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Show Woodworth/117 from your hand. It soaks it up, just like breathing. It suaks up the thoughto,-tho tonoionch-so-that-when-yott-gtand up-, you <*±'0 relaxed, rofroohed-*--B«t the wood -ha-s. taken on that greasy black skin of age and use. Sanded clean, it's soft. Like baby's skin. She wipes traces of sawdust away with her fingers. Dips her rag in the stain, and rubs it in to the wood. Porous. Wood has pores, too. Grayson hums the beginning of a tune. Stops. Whistles the same tune, continuing verse after verse. She can't tell if she wants to go or stay. She rubs the stain harder. Circles, stripes, gashes. Like blood, going on. But dried blood, used blood. Oh, well. It protects the finish. Protects the wood. Blocks the pores so they won't absorb too much dirt, so the wood won't dry out. Gray grufcsfes a little as he hauls himself to his feet. Stands back, looks at the chair. "She's lookin' good," he comments, and wipes his face, leaving a trail of gray dirt across his cheek. Marty stands, backs up. "Yeah," she admits. "A whole*new piece of furniture," he comments, and goes back after his task. Marty watches him, bent over the chair. He could be shoeing a horse, dressing a child.. The sentence almost gets said again, and she catches herself, but then lets it go. Almost to the chair more than Gray she says, "I didn't ask Jake to kill himself, either." "No," Grayson says. It almost sounds like a question, the hint of a question to Marty. The world begins to spin, and she is spinning with it, a tornado of hedges, pools, the clatter of birds, a sprinkler whispering tsktsktsk. She concentrates on Gray's back, trying to steady herself. Bent over the rocking |
