Free Dismantled by Jennifer McMahon Page B

too?”
    “Of course, sweetie.”
    “But you’re afraid of the water, Henry,” Tess said.
    She had him there. So much for Practical Henry.
    But he continued to go through the door in his tiny kitchen and into the workshop each night, to turn on the radio, pour himself some wine, and hack away at the giant log. He used a chain saw to cut a crisscross pattern in the belly of the log, then used an ax, an adze, and chisels to chop out the little pieces, hollowing the canoe. He had been at this for over a year now, and it was finally close to being finished. The inside was hollowed, the ends and bottom shaped. He was just doing the final smoothing, taking away the rough edges.
    It was a large canoe, big enough for three or four people. Some nights, when he was done working on it, he’d crawl inside and stretch out, his body perfectly cradled by the scooped sides. More than once, he fell asleep there, only to wake up hours later and make his way stiffly to the daybed on the other side of the barn.
    He’s done this again tonight. He wakes and looks at his watch. It’s nearly 1 A.M . He goes to the window, sees Tess still working on the new grotto, a mere shadow in lantern light.
    It’s unlike Tess to be this obsessed with a project, to work so many hours. But then again, there’s never been a project quite like this one, has there?
    For ten years, she’s mentioned Suz maybe half a dozen times. Now, suddenly, Tess seems consumed.
    Henry’s afraid that if anyone sees the grotto, like the private investigator Spencer’s father is sending, for instance, it could be viewed as evidence. People don’t build shrines for the living, do they? Surely Tess realizes this. He tried talking to her about it earlier this evening when he returned from the grocery store.
    “Do you think it’s a good idea? The grotto? I mean, having the photo of Suz stuck in there like that. It’s kind of a red flag, don’t you think?”
    “You don’t understand,” she told him.
    “What, Tess? What is it I don’t get? Christ, it’s practically a signed confession! And what do you think Emma makes of it?”
    “Emma thinks it’s a tribute to a friend. A friend who made the moose she loves so much.”
    Henry shook his head. “The photo of Suz needs to go, Tess. The private investigator might show up any day now—”
    “I don’t tell you how to carve your ridiculous canoe. And what do you think Emma thinks of that? What will she think when she learns the canoe is never actually going to go anywhere near the water, but just sit gathering dust in the barn?”
    He turned and walked away.
    Now, as he watches her out the window, he remembers her twenty-year-old self sitting cross-legged in a pile of wood chips on the sculpture-studio floor. The sweet, earthy scent of dark coffee and cardamom a swirling aura around her.
    Sometimes I think we’re just conduits.
    Shit.
    If Tess doesn’t get rid of the photo, he’ll have to. He’s sure she’ll see it as an act of hostility rather than an attempt to protect their family. How is it that whenever Henry tries to do the right thing, he ends up as a villain?
    Henry turns from watching Tess at the grotto, looks at his own senseless project, all lit up with halogen spotlights. He doesn’t let himself think about what he’ll do with it once it’s finished. He doesn’t admit to the probability that Tess is right: the landlocked canoe will stay in his workshop, there to forever remind him of his own futility, of how he failed his wife and daughter. The boat will taunt and tease, call out to him, whispering its deepest desire, which happens to be his greatest fear— Water, it will whisper in its low, woody voice; garbled, thick with pitch: Water.

[ PART TWO ]

WE OPPOSE TECHNOLOGY, HIERARCHY, RULES AND LAWS, AND ALL FORMS OF GOVERNMENT

Chapter 8

    I T’S A FORTY-MINUTE DRIVE from Henry’s office to Alden. Route 2 all the way, traveling east, toward Maine, following the twists and hairpin turns that