myself. Tool . At school we learned our thoughts were powerful. If it was in a mind, it was in a body, and soon it would be in the world for everyone to see.
âSplit into eighths,â she said. âYou know how many that is? Eight pieces?â
I was confused. Did she think I wasnât a native speaker? I did have a slight accent, a touch of rural Oregon. âThe whole pile?â I asked.
âWhatever you can do.â She hurried into the house, locked the door, and spoke through the open kitchen window. âStack them next to the shed.â
I glanced at the other yards. They were all deserted, but manicured. A red plastic car, only large enough to hold a child, lay on its side, the roof bleached pink by the sun. Ornamental sage grew in clumps along the fence, and I crushed a leaf between my fingers, rubbing its scent on my hands. The maple was newly cut. The wood still had a golden hue and there was no sign of disease, no apparent reason for its removal. I knelt beside the tree and counted back seventeen rings from its outer edge. My finger stopped on a narrow ring. There had been a drought the summer I was born.
I took a section of trunk and made this my chopping base. I rolled it near the shed, then removed the hated jacket and necktie. I stretched my back, reached over my head. Holding the ax in two hands, I imagined this was my house, my yard, my tree. It took several strokes to warm up and find a rhythm. But once I did, I felt relief to be outside, doing something I was good at. I knew when to relax into the swing, when to tense and when to exhale. I knew to go slow, to pace myself. It was like one of the tasks at school where work had no ending, only an endless middle.
I continued for a while, humming under my breath, and then, since nobody seemed to object, I sang a little louder. As I worked, shade ebbed across the yard. I lost track of time, and my mind was finally quiet, my body working, a melody surrounding and protecting me. I knew mostly religious hymns. At my old school Iâd sung in the choir, and I missed the music.
I heard the kitchen door open and I went silent. Bethany was walking down the stairs carrying two cups of dark liquid. âThought youâd be thirsty,â she said. Her feet were bare and her toenails were painted an astonishing candy-pink color. I quickly dropped the ax, not wanting to frighten her. âTheyâre drinking Bloody Marys and playing bingo,â she said. âTotally moronic. Rachelâs lost like two babies, and I bet this one will flush, too. They all go at five months. Aunt says itâs Godâs will and that some children are too pure to be born, but I know itâs farm runoff in the water. Thatâs why I drink root beer and nothing else.â She seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. Her brown hair had red highlights that had been invisible indoors. âHere.â She handed me a cup and I was surprised to feel real glass. Weapon , I thought.
âI donât really want kids,â she said. âBut I do believe in adoption. Itâs the right thing and a lot of people think itâs wrong to adopt out of the country and I definitely agree, since itâs racist if you donât want an American baby just because itâs too brown or on drugs or whatever. Your voice is beautiful, by the way,â she said. âI was listening to you just now.â
âI thought I was alone,â I said.
âI had my window openââshe shruggedââso technically, you were.â
I didnât know what to say. It had been months since Iâd sung in front of anyone, and now the thought of an audience made me surprisingly nervous. I took a sip of the root beer and almost gagged. It didnât taste like food.
âLetâs stand in the shade,â Bethany said. She grabbed my arm and tugged me toward the shed, then rubbed the spot where sheâd gripped me as if trying to erase the contact. Her