Free Man in The Woods by Scott Spencer Page B

nice to have really great old windows. Those mass-manufactured ones? They’re okay, but not like the old ones. The old ones…” He closed his eyes, shook his head: there were no words with which he could describe the poignancy of the old glass.
    “So old glass,” she said. “Where do you find such a thing?”
    “Lady, I’ve got a truckload of just what you’re looking for. The problem is you’ve got new frames and sashes—the people before you didn’t care what they put up.” Paul had made this aside in a low voice, as if the previous owners might still be within earshot. “What I have to do is make all new frames and put the old glass in them. It’ll end up looking as if they’re the original windows, here forever, and if you want to save on your heating I could double-pane them, but I have to tell you it’s not going to be cheap. You might want to go with whatever they’ve got at Home Depot.”
    “No, no, I’d rather go with what you’re recommending,” Kate said.
    Paul smiled. He had a handsome man’s absence of vanity—he didn’t take very good care of himself. His bottom teeth were crossed, his fingernails were caked with dirt. “I have to tell you,” he said, “I’m very glad you’re going to do this. I happen to love this building.” He walked to the front of the house, patted the plaster near one of the windows he would now replace, as if to reassure the muted white walls that better days were ahead, and these offensive windows were going to be plucked out like thorns from the paw of a mighty lion.
    Now, Ruby stands at one of those shimmering windows as Paul swings his truck around the circular parking area in front of the house. She shields her eyes with her little starfish of a hand. The sight of a child disturbs his fragile equilibrium of remembering and not remembering. Her face, her smallness, her newness, triggers in Paul a sudden chaos of remorse. He begins to talk to the dog because it makes him feel better. “All right, here’s the drill. I’m going to go inside for a minute, I’m going to talk to Ruby, and then we’re both going to come out here. Okay? Shep?” The dog does not seem to be listening. Something on his paw has captured his full attention and he is alternately licking and nibbling at the webbing between his blunt, black claws.
    Paul turns off the truck’s engine. Even this small change in reality is upsetting—the engine’s hum gone, the headlights extinguished. Everything must be just so for him to tolerate the memory of this afternoon. He is like a man carrying a load that is far heavier than he can manage but who has nevertheless found a way to hoist it up and stagger forward a few steps. If his balance is at all disturbed, the true weight of what he is carrying will assert itself, and the task will prove impossible. He slides out of the truck, feels the familiar crunch of the driveway’s stones. When he looks again at the window, Ruby is no longer standing there. A wedge of light falls onto the gravel. Ruby has opened the front door. She is in jeans and a lavender turtleneck.
    “Hi Paul,” she says. “Your truck looks beat up.”
    “And you look like a girl who might do very well with a surprise.” Paul is calmed by the jolly boom of his own voice. The role of father is a comfort to him, the powerful encompassing mask of it.
    “Do you have one?” Ruby says. The cold breeze whips her hair around. The light from the house illuminates the back of her; moonlight glistens on her teeth. Children should not be in the dark , Paul thinks. He sees her shiver and he hoists her up, brings her close. Her finger hovers above the bruise on the right side of his forehead. Her knees grip his rib cage.
    “All right,” he says, “I’ll show you.” He carries her back to the truck. Shep has come to the window. He has lifted his snout to the little crack of opening Paul has left, and his tail is going around and around. His eyes bulge, but he has stopped