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House Call A stranger opened his bag by my feet. In the doorway, my mother rustled like a curtain. The doctor looked younger than my father, who was playing dart ball in a church basement because it was Monday and nothing he could do would make a difference. I was learning I wouldn’t grow out of this, that the house was full of threats: dust, down pillows, books beside my bed. My father, the baker, breathed flour and never coughed, but I was joining the sissies who were treated for flaws. The doctor who never called again sat on the bed and heard the secrets in my chest. When he said “heart murmur,” my mother closed the door so the house couldn’t hear. “Bronchial tubes,” he said. “Lungs. Throat.” He mentioned mouth breathing as if it would fill my body with unknowable, lethal parts. I was learning a man could calmly explain himself. I was learning the melody of a steady voice. My mother listened and listened. Her ears were so near to this song she held her breath through every note. 17 P 1FINCKE_pages.qxd 5/21/08 9:31 AM Page 17 ...

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