Breathless

money from poetry anymore. Jim and his wife, Nora, worked their six acres as a truck farm during the growing season, selling vegetables from a booth at the county farmer’s market.
    Attached to the barn were a large coop and fenced chicken yard. A formidable flock shared the yard in good weather, kept to the well-insulated coop in winter, producing eggs that Jim and Nora also sold.
    She was a quilter of such talent that her designs were regarded as art. Her quilts sold in galleries, and Henry supposed she produced the larger part of their income, though they were by no means rich.
    Henry knew all of that from reading his brother’s poems. Hard work and farm life provided the subjects of the verses. Jim was the latest in a long tradition of American literary rustics.
    Following the dirt track between the house and the barn, Henry saw his brother splitting cordwood with an axe. A wheelbarrow full of split wood stood nearby. He parked and got out of the Land Rover.
    Jim sunk the axe blade in the stump that he used as a chopping block, and left it wedged there. Stripping off his worn leather work gloves, he said, “My God—Henry?”
    His look of incredulity was less than the delight for which Henry had hoped. But then he broke into a smile as he approached.
    Reaching out to shake hands, Henry was surprised and pleased when Jim hugged him instead.
    Although Henry worked out with weights and on a treadmill, Jim was better muscled, solid. His face was more weathered than Henry’s, too, and still tanned from summer.
    Nora came out of the house, onto the porch, to see what was happening. “Good Lord, Jim,” she said, “you’ve cloned yourself.”
    She looked good, with corn-silk hair and eyes a darker blue than the sky, her smile lovely, her voice musical.
    Five years younger than Jim, she had married him only twelve years ago, according to the author’s bio on the poetry books. Henry had never met her or seen a photograph of her.
    She called him Claude, but he quickly corrected her. He never used his first name, but instead answered to his middle.
    When she kissed his cheek, her breath smelled cinnamony. She said she’d been nibbling a sweetroll when she heard the Land Rover.
    Inside, on the kitchen table, beside the sweetroll plate were what Henry assumed to be five utility knives, useful for farm tasks.
    As Nora poured coffee, she said nothing about the knives. Neither did Jim as he moved them—and two slotted sharpening stones—from the table to a nearby counter.
    Nora insisted that Henry stay with them, though she warned him that a sofa bed was all they had by way of accommodations, in the claustrophobic room that Jim called an office.
    “Haven’t had a houseguest in nine years,” Jim said, and itseemed to Henry that a knowing look passed between husband and wife.
    The three of them fell into easy conversation around the kitchen table, over homemade cinnamon rolls and coffee.
    Nora proved charming, and her laugh was infectious. Her hands were strong and rough from work, yet feminine and beautifully shaped.
    She had nothing in common with the sharky women who cruised in Henry’s circle in the city. He was happy for his brother.
    Even as he marveled at how warmly they welcomed him, at how they made him feel at home and among
family
, as he had never felt with Jim before, Henry was not entirely at ease.
    His vague disquiet arose in part from his perception that Jim and Nora were in a private conversation, one conducted without words, with furtive looks, nuanced gestures, and subtle body language.
    Jim expressed surprise that someone had drawn Henry’s attention to his poetry. “Why would they think we were related?”
    They didn’t share the name Rouvroy. Following their parents’ divorce, Jim had legally taken his mother’s maiden name, Carlyle.
    “Well,” Henry said drily, “maybe it was your photo on the book.”
    Jim laughed at his thickheadedness, and although he seemed to be embarrassed by his brother’s praise, they talked about his poems. Henry’s favorite, “The Barn,” described the humble interior of that structure with such rich images and feeling that it sounded no less beautiful than a cathedral.
    “The greatest beauty always
is
in everyday things,” Jim said. “Would you like to see the barn?”
    “Yes, I would.” Henry admired his brother’s poetry more than hehad yet been able to say. Jim’s verses had an ineffable quality so haunting it was not easy to discuss. “I’d