He returned to his son’s room and stood at the window. His eyes traveled from the lavender balloon, which had been cleared off and was being examined by young men with ponytails, to his own reflection. His face was inches away. He was wearing a sweater he didn’t recognize. It was the color of hazel eyes. Gee had told him he wasn’t brave, as if anyone was as brave as she was. He wasn’t a coward, but he knew what she’d meant. He wasn’t kind and he had no friends. He wasn’t kind or trusting and the worst thing about other people was they were those things. He’d seen the same folks every day at the factories and warehouses, knew their orders by heart, but he’d never known one thing beyond what they liked to eat. He’d had customers and a couple employees and a wife who’d gotten to know him but whom he hadn’t truly known, a wife he’d never had a fight with, that he’d never cried in front of. Soren had come along and made all that moot. That’s what Gee had meant about using Soren as an excuse. Soren’s father was worse now. The warmth in his life was frozen and sitting still was his business. He had a space to be alone and he’d defended it against the nurses and doctors and against Gee and he’d even been cold to Soren’s piano teacher, the poor woman. There’d been a cousin Soren’s father had been close with as a child who’d died when they were both in their twenties. Soren’s father didn’t know why he was thinking of him now. He couldn’t remember if that cousin had been a genuine friend or just a family member about the same age whom he happened to get along with. He couldn’t remember why they didn’t stay close once they weren’t children anymore. Soren’s father had been sitting in this room for a long time and he saw that he hadn’t been hoping properly, not with a live heart, not in a way that meant anything.
Soren’s father took a step back from the window. He was still holding the canvas bag. He thought of the people who had sat and taken time to write the letters he’d sent down the trash. They were better than Soren’s father because they could admit they were desperate and try to do something about it. Soren’s father folded the bag like a big pillowcase. He couldn’t get it to look neat. He rested the bag on the dresser and went over next to Soren and kneeled beside him. He pulled Soren’s stiff crossed arms off his chest with a gentle effort and put his ear to Soren’s body.
CECELIA
She went out with her guitar and muted the TV and played for her mother, an old Arizona mining ditty that was one of her mother’s favorites. It had been months and months since she’d played a song that wasn’t Reggie’s. She watched her mother’s expression soften during the first verse and her posture improve during the second. It was like back when Cecelia was first learning guitar, back when she and her mother were proud of each other. Her mother wanted to know that Cecelia didn’t despise or resent her, and Cecelia was letting her know she did not. The song was a peace offering that could open the door for other offerings. The two of them hadn’t had it out. Cecelia hadn’t said anything mean to her mother, had never raised her voice. They’d both stood their ground long enough that the ground had become worthless.
Later, while Cecelia’s mother made them sandwiches, sandwiches that would constitute the first meal they’d shared in way too long, Cecelia went over to the Waller lady’s house and bought her mother a bird, a tiny inside bird that lived in a cage. She felt a pure physical relief at buying her mother a gift, as if she’d escaped a building that was caving in. Driving home with the well-mannered bird in her passenger seat, she felt no dread at the thought of arriving back at the house, and she realized in a way she hadn’t before how terrible that was, to not want to walk into your own house. There wasn’t going to be a tearful reconciliation, but a restoration was in progress, and that was enough for now.
Once home, Cecelia presented her mother with the new pet and they found a spot for it and admired its stately habits. Cecelia promised her mother she’d always be home in the mornings, and she convinced her mother to donate the wheelchair, to make an effort to eat proper dinners. They were both giving in, that was the important thing.
Cecelia offered to clean up the feathers in the backyard and her mother said she wanted them to stay. Cecelia remembered the chickens being dingy, but the feathers were bright as snow. Cecelia didn’t tell her mother about getting fired. She certainly didn’t tell her about Reggie’s songs. For now she was only going to treat her mother like a respectable adult who had a right to her own business, and she could treat herself the same.
Cecelia had no clue whether the new bird was supposed to be able to speak, but she and her mother talked to it anyway. They asked it who the yellowest bird in the whole desert was. They asked it who had the best little birdie manners.
MAYOR CABRERA
Ran was in New Mexico and wanted to meet. No decision yet, but he wanted to meet. He didn’t know Mayor Cabrera wasn’t the mayor anymore. Mayor Cabrera didn’t want to invite him to Lofte and have people wonder who he was and start busy-bodying around, so he suggested a bar out east, out where the old mining concerns used to operate.
It was a good afternoon for driving. The landscape appeared painted in oil, and Mayor Cabrera was putting himself into the painting. To be nervous for this meeting with Ran was the sensible emotion, but Mayor Cabrera mostly felt distracted. He saw that the situation was not urgent, whether he was the mayor or just a citizen. It wasn’t urgent in the big picture. Lofte would fail, of course. It would fail in a couple short years or it would find a way to hang on for several decades, and it didn’t matter which. Lofte’s story was going to end sadly, whether pretty soon or very soon. People were going to have to find another place to live now or find another place when they were older and had less energy. They were going to have to find another place to get attached to, and what exactly were they attached to about Lofte? Most of the folks Mayor Cabrera knew could use a change. A big one. Mayor Cabrera was one of them.
The bar looked like a log cabin. There was one person inside and this was indeed Ran. Mayor Cabrera sat down at his table. Ran had a soft-looking spike haircut. His hands were pudgy.
“There’s a sign up there that says the bartender stepped out for a bit,” Ran said. “I’ve thought it over and I’m going back there and mixing us a round of drinks.”
Mayor Cabrera peered back toward the kitchen.
“Stay put.” Ran smirked. “I don’t want you getting involved in this.” Ran went and found what he needed and mixed the drinks, humming as he worked. He brought the drinks to the table on a tray. They were tan in color, each with a twist of lemon on the rim.
“I don’t know why I picked this place,” Mayor Cabrera said. “Maybe I felt like a drive.”
“I always feel like a drive,” Ran said.
“I could’ve shown you around town. That would’ve been the smart thing.”
“I’ve been to Lofte plenty,” Ran said. He sipped his drink, judging the flavor. “There’s no bar in Lofte. Not really. Not one I’d want to go to.”
“Is that a positive for your church?” Mayor Cabrera asked. “Not having bars around?”
“There are a lot of positives. Plenty of positives. I’ve observed you in secret and I like your style. The town takes on the personality of the mayor, in my experience.”