Free Falling to Earth by Kate Southwood Page B

knows the look of most everyone in town, no matter if they’re wearing a straw hat or a muffler, and he can name folks a block away just by their gait or the way they stand. He’d learned it watching his father, who always seemed to know exactly who was coming up the long dirt road to the house when everyone else was still squinting, only certain of it being a man or a woman. Once Paul had moved to town, it became a regular feature of his days at the lumberyard, making Johnny and everyone who worked for them shake their heads and smile as he called out greetings to people before they’d gotten a foot over the threshold.
    Now Paul is of more than half a mind to silence the bell over the door, to stuff newspaper in its cheerful throat. Always before he’s greeted people as if he’s been expecting them, but now he’ll have to meet their gaze knowing already what it is they’ve come for. He decides instead to prop the door open to prevent the bell from ringing, and to let in some extra light, if nothing else. Pulling the door open, he’s startled by someone pushing on it from the other side. A man in uniform comes in, a National Guardsman, smart and clean, wishing him a good morning, saying his name is Captain Kemmel and asking who the owner is.
    â€œI am,” Paul says, taking him in. “Name’s Graves.” The Cap­tain takes hold of Paul’s hand and grips it a touch more firmly than he needs to, a touch longer. He looks hard at Paul, and Paul knows he’s being measured. He thinks he sees regret in Kemmel’s eyes, an apology of sorts for having had to begin with an assessment. They’re of a similar age, both wear a wedding band. Paul recognizes something of himself in Kemmel’s face; this man also has children, of that he’s certain. They’re of a kind, Paul thinks. He sees the beginnings of a smile around Kemmel’s eyes, that he’s also recognized himself in Paul.
    â€œI suppose you’ve been expecting me,” Kemmel says.
    â€œAfter a fashion.” Paul had thought he’d understood that absolutely everything had changed, but he still hasn’t. He realizes now how foolish, how hopeful he had been, thinking it would be his regular customers and friends coming through the door. How many of them must be dead, he wonders, if the government has sent this man to order their coffins.
    â€œHow many men do you still have?” Kemmel asks.
    â€œTwo, besides myself,” Paul says. He remembers Clarence’s son, Sam, then and adds, “One of them has a boy here, sixteen years old. He can help.”
    Paul is reasonably certain he’s answering Kemmel’s questions because he’s being asked them only once. Still, the Cap­tain’s voice is coming to him distantly, as if they’re separated somehow and not walking side by side through the office out to the yard. Two hundred coffins, Kemmel is saying. More than two hundred.
    They’re looking over the stock in the yard. They’ve been clearing debris from the yard all morning and Clarence is still at it now, making room for the pallets on which they will stack the cut lumber for coffins. Kemmel is asking how much of the stock was ruined in the storm, and before Paul can say that they haven’t gotten that far, he has to stop Irene going by with a bucket in each hand.
    â€œNot yet,” he says, holding up a hand.
    â€œBut the windows!” Irene protests.
    Paul exhales hard to keep himself from frowning. “Just one, then. And just enough to let in some light.”
    Paul hears the bell ring as Irene goes out the door to the sidewalk. He’s wondering how much longer he’s going to be answering questions, how soon he can get out there to stop her from doing too good a job on that window. Yes, he keeps answering. Yes, they’ve got enough handsaws to work with while the electricity is out. He and his men are uninjured. They’ll