Free Dwelling Places by Vinita Hampton Wright Page B

pulling the bags out of the truck bed. “I can drop these off anytime. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
    â€œHere. I’ll get that.” He reached for a bag, but she’d grabbed it already.
    â€œI’ve got it.” She didn’t look at him.
    â€œYou don’t have to sound so pissed.”
    â€œI’m not. I’m just in a hurry, okay?”
    They’ve had that sort of exchange many times before. But each time it feels bigger, more dangerous for some reason. So she fumed all the way to work, made a point to enjoy Terry’s lunchtime smile, and came home to her house, which makes her feel exhausted the minute she walks in the door. She microwaves some leftover coffee from this morning and brings it outside, to stand near the clover. As she sips it she tries to conjure the memory of butterflies in July. They do pretty much the same two or three things day after day. But they look so happy, just flit-flitting like that. She must learn to flit, to dance acrossher hours of work. Float across her life. Sweep and dart around Mack’s moods, as if they don’t have much to do with her. They really don’t. That’s what the doctors say—that Mack’s struggles are not her fault.
    Still, she doesn’t need to sound so pissed. Mack is right about that.
    Mack
    As is his custom, Mack stops by his mother’s on the way home. After Pop died, it seemed better for Mack and Jodie and the kids to move into the farmhouse and for Rita to move to town. She was too melancholy out there by herself. And Mack’s family spent most of their time there anyway. The rent they were paying on the house down the road got rerouted to payments on the house Rita moved to in Beulah. They miss her presence in the rooms of the farmhouse, and Mack comes to see his mother nearly every day. He fixes a faucet or moves furniture or hammers a nail if she needs it. Often he picks up a delivery from Mom to Jodie—a start of some plant or an extra package of macaroni or can of tomatoes. Mainly, he walks in the door after a call through the screen, and they chat for a while.
    There was a time when the chats were about Alex. What would they do about him? Had Mack talked to him lately? Yes, but did he listen? Had he been in touch with Marty and David and Sharon? Had he even started getting his fields ready for planting, or whatever it was time to do? Was he keeping up his payments? Around and around they’d talk, much of it meaningless since all they knew was what Alex told them, and often he didn’t give out any information. When he got in trouble with his payments, eventually a number of people knew, because that kind of news seemed to get out. That was how Mack had learned of the impending foreclosure—through Pete Jasper, who’d heard about it at the co-op from Dan Thomason, who’d heard it from his wife, who worked at the bank and knew everybody’s business.
    Now, though, when Mack stops by, he and his mother speak of mundane things, which are easy to manage but in the end don’t meananything at all. They don’t miss the stress they suffered when worrying over Alex’s life, but they miss the topic more than they would dare put into words. Mack never mentions it. Rita often does, as if saying her son’s name will allow her to remember him better.
    Today Mom is yakking at Amos Mosley across the fence. They are discussing tomato hybrids and peering at one another’s garden patches. They continue chattering even as Rita acknowledges Mack and the two of them turn and walk toward the house.
    â€œG’bye, Amos.” Rita pulls the door shut behind them and looks at Mack. “How’s Jodie’s thyme doing? Mine’s gone crazy. I can send a start if she wants it.”
    â€œMom, you know I don’t know about that. She screeches if I come within ten yards of her spice bed.”
    â€œIt’s an herb garden.”
    â€œSame