Free Falling to Earth by Kate Southwood Page A

folks’ clothes was ripped right off their backs. Walkin’ naked as God made ’em, right down the middle of Main Street,
one man says.
I heard that, too
, the man opposite him replies.
Course most everybody was covered up good with mud and dirt, wherever their clothes had got to
. They shake their heads at the stubbornness of those too prideful to accept a tent and cookstove from the National Guard.
Any roof, even a canvas roof, is better than sleeping rolled up in a rug next to a bonfire in a field
, a man says.
Well, they don’t want charity, they say
, is the answer.
They’ll come around soon enough, we keep having these flurries at night.
    The men end by talking about the things they cannot believe.
They’re saying it was worse than a battlefield
, one man ventures, hoping for confirmation, although he is ashamed that he has spoken so baldly.
Well, I was over in France
, another man quietly answers, pausing.
I never saw anything over there to match it.
The men are aghast, but grateful for the veteran’s authority in resolving the question. If they’d had exemptions in the war, well, that was all right. They can say now they’ve seen worse and survived.
    The men are emboldened; some of them look at each other now and not into the fire, embarking on the one topic too incendiary to be decent.
    Is it true what they’re saying about Paul Graves?
    All true.
    What’s that?
    Didn’t get hit.
    You mean his place? His house didn’t get hit?
    That’s right.
    Not just his place. The lumberyard, too. Neither one got touched.
    I heard his Ford got hit.
    Moved. It got itself moved, not hit.
    His kids weren’t even in school that day. Home sick, all of ’em, and down cellar.
    One man whistles in spiteful amazement.
That’s luck for you.
    Another man looks from face to face and says,
Well, that can’t be. There can’t be just one.
The others look back knowingly, in gentle derision of his disbelief.
    That’s what everyone’s saying. What Graves says himself.
    The unbelieving man frowns into the fire, shaking his head slowly, laboriously. To accept this news as true is to magnify his own anguish, to bitterly underscore the randomness of the storm. The other men in the circle know this already, and they watch as understanding settles on the last man among them to hear the news.
    That just can’t be,
he says
. He can’t be the only one.
    Â 

10
    T hree-footers and six-footers, that’s all he’s got measurements for, all he’s ever made. Paul is leaning on the counter, papers spread out between his hands. Lon is looking on next to him, worrying the eraser on a short pencil with his thumbnail.
    â€œSeems like we need a couple more sizes,” he says. He glances up at Paul who nods but keeps frowning. “Three foot’s too big for a baby and too small for a ten-year-old.”
    â€œGo ahead,” Paul says, “Figure out two more and we’ll get cutting. But make them simple. We don’t have time for toe-pinchers.”
    Lon pauses. As soon as he steps away, work will begin in earnest. This is what they will be doing, all they will be doing, and the Lord only knows how long they will be doing it. Paul looks at him and asks, “Anything else?”
    â€œAre we building them or just cutting the lumber?”
    â€œBoth,” Paul says. “I figure we’ll do both until someone tells us different.”
    They look at the door and the windows on either side of it. They can hear occasional foot traffic outside, but it’s impossible to see any people who might be passing, the windows are so muddied. It has always been Paul’s habit to look up each time the light in the windows changed, to see who was passing on the sidewalk, who might already be turning to open the door. Paul has always looked up quickly, so quickly that he’s known who was coming in before the bell has even had a chance to ring. He