Free Return to Oakpine by Ron Carlson Page A

kids shuffling along, a loose gaggle coming down the street for school. Six or seven ten-year-olds with their little backpacks. Three boys marched in a line, their arms out on the shoulders of the boy ahead of them, trying not to stumble, a boy machine. Two girls stopped and got on their hands and knees by one of the large poplars on Berry Street, examining something in the raised gray bark. They looked like children at the foot of an elephant. A little boy came along behind them all, shuffling thoughtfully. He’d lift his palms away from his ears and stop walking. Then he’d cover his ears and walk a few steps. Mason stood in his old weedy driveway, the two-track of cement utterly overgrown, and watched the boy traverse the whole street. The smell in the shade of the house was familiar, weeds and oil. He scanned the open backyards down the block, and he realized that this—in all the world—was the place he knew best. He was a little dizzy. Down by the Brands he could see old man Brand’s boat under a bright new tarp beside the garage. Mason stood still and made sure.
My god, the old boat.
It was shocking to see it really, and he remembered Matt Brand drunk at the reservoir the day after graduation. And Matt Brand’s body found that night. Mason put his hands over his ears, and listening to that high distant roar, his body working, he made the decision to stay and clean this place and fix it up. He felt light being out of Denver, and he wanted this dirty work. He couldn’t make anything that mattered in his life happen, but he could make this happen.
    Ten minutes later Shirley Stiver pulled up in her white Town Car. She was still vaguely blond after all these years and polished with a fine coat of realtor’s makeup. “Looks like you’ve got a day of it,” Mason said to his old friend. “Nice suit.” He stood out of the passenger seat of his Mercedes, where he’d been on the phone with his office.
    Shirley smiled and kissed his cheek. “Same old, but we’ve got some big new places up on the mountain.”
    â€œYou know this country’s about done when they start building trophy homes in Oakpine.”
    â€œYou be nice, Mason Kirby. Oakpine’s a good place. You’d be smart to take a look around. The big city has got a genuine hold on you.”
    â€œOh Christ,” he said, taking her arm and walking over to the sidewalk in front of his house. “I didn’t mean anything. It’s everywhere you go. I’m glad to be here. Did you know the Gunnars?”
    â€œI had heard they were gone, probably back to her folks in South Dakota. He worked at the high school, maintenance, painting, something.”
    â€œThat’s what I got here: some maintenance, painting, plenty of something.”
    â€œI figured it was a mess. Did they owe you much?”
    â€œNo, not really. Three months. Four.”
    â€œDo you want me to hire it done and call you?” she said. “It looks like there’s some roofing. We can get it patched up and on the market.” She moved to the side and was looking it all over. “We’ve had a week of rain.”
    â€œWhen I called, I thought I was going to flip you the keys and blow town, but now I don’t know. There’s some volunteer zucchini out back, and a lot of this work looks like I ought to do it.”
    â€œYou got a month?” She’d come over, and they were standing by his car. Both turned to view the house. “Two months?”
    â€œIt’s wide open. I’ve got as much time as I want. But I’m thinking that I need this job.”
    â€œAnd how is Elizabeth?”
    â€œElizabeth is better than she’s been for a while. She’s getting on with her new life.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that.”
    â€œIt was inevitable. She did the right thing. How would you like being married to an asshole?”
    â€œMason, I can answer that question