Firewood

Papa hung the doe in the basement because it was too cold in the pull-through last week and the deer would have frozen solid. He took the deer apart this morning and Mama came down for the pieces. The sawdust and blood make a nice smell, and the little deer ankles are so supple and dainty we make paths in the sawdust for them to step along, visiting each other in their sawdust forts. They need forts because a witch lives in the dark part of the basement, where other people's things have been left behind, and Robin Hood and Little John must always keep watch. Now Papa's back to making the clock.

We moved here so Papa could build the ski resort, but that was done a long time ago, and then he spent a year fixing bridges and foundations after the flood. There's not so much to do anymore. Last week another tractor-trailer went off the mountain, so he had a job rescuing the stuff on it. Then he went hunting.

My knees go stiff even through the patches on my sweatpants, so I go back upstairs to get warm again by the wood stove. Mama's playing a tape and singing the alto part while she wraps the venison in butcher paper. There's one about a rose bush still growing after everybody moves away from the house and the house falls down, and another about How Long Must I Keep the Candles Burning. She knows they're sad songs but she still listens to them anyway. They hurt my ears.

She lights a match and puts a pot on the burner.

"What's that?"

"The heart."

"For supper?"

"Yes." I cannot wait to eat it, even with sad music. One time we had pork chops and the fat on pork chops is my favorite food ever, but deer heart is my favorite regular food.

Mama cuts a big piece of butcher paper for me and I fold it into a boat. The floor slopes enough I can row it downhill across the linoleum. There's stomping on the porch and at first I think it's Papa, but then I see it's Bill. He opens the storm door and knocks.

"Can you get that? My hands are a mess," says Mama. I row the boat over to the door and open it.

"Come on in," Mama calls from the sink. Bill shuts the door behind him but doesn't move from the rug.

"I don't want to get your floors all muddy like my boots," he says. His blue jumpsuit is muddy right up to his knees and he smells like sheep grease and wind. He takes his hat off and runs his sheep-grease hands through his hair. "I just wanted to let you know there's an oak down in the back pasture from that ice storm last week and y'all should get it before the snows start up again tomorrow."

"I'll let Dave know and we'll go get it this afternoon." She comes over with her clean hands. "Thank you." I'm holding her jeans and watching Bill's blue eyes. "Dave has a check coming for the salvage project but . . . he hasn't gotten paid yet," she fades off, so Bill says, "Don't hurry yourselves. You all have been keeping the place up. It's hard to find renters like you." Then he's standing for a moment rubbing his eyebrows. He's the landlord, and Mama says he has to get up at four every morning to work the machinery job so he can keep all his farms. He sees me watching him and leans down.

"Is your daddy working in his shop?" he asks.

"Yes," I say, "he's making a clock!" and then before he can look away from me, I say, "Guess what, I saw the blueprints for your new house!"

"Get your jeans on and tell Eli to get ready," Mama says.

He laughs. "Better check out that clock. Be seeing you." He nods to us and pulls...