Fires. Essays, Poems, Stories

with the opinions. Yet the man had a toughness and woods-sawy about him that the boy liked and admired.
    The boy hung up the telephone and went downstairs to tell the girl. She watched while he laid out his things. Hunting coat, shell bag, boots, socks, hunting cap, long underwear, pump gun.
    What time will you be back? the girl asked.
    Probably around noon, he said. But maybe not until after five or six o'clock. Is that too late?
    It's fine, she said. We'll get along just fine. You go and have some fun. You deserve it. Maybe tomorrow evening we'll dress Catherine up and go visit Sally.
    Sure, that sounds like a good idea, he said. Let's plan on that.
    Sally was the girl's sister. She was ten years older. The boy was a little in love with her, just as he was a little in love with Betsy, who was another sister the girl had. He'd said to the girl, If we weren't married I could go for Sally.
    What about Betsy? the girl had said. I hate to admit it but I truly feel she's better looking than Sally or me. What about her?
    Betsy too, the boy said and laughed. But not in the same way I could go for Sally. There's something about Sally you could fall for. No, I believe I'd prefer Sally over Betsy, if I had to make a choice.
    But who do you really love? the girl asked. Who do you love most in all the world? Who's your wife?
    You're my wife, the boy said.
    And will we always love each other? the girl asked, enormously enjoying this conversation he could tell.
    Always, the boy said. And we'll always be together. We're like the Canada geese, he said, taking the first comparison that came to mind, for they were often on his mind in those days. They only marry once. They choose a mate early in life, and they stay together always. If one of them dies or something, the other one will never remarry. It will live off by itself somewhere, or even continue to live with the flock, but it will stay single and alone amongst all the other geese.
    That's sad, the girl said. It's sadder for it to live that way, I think, alone but with all the others, than just to live off by itself somewhere.
    It is sad, the boy said. But it's Nature.
    Have you ever killed one of those marriages? she asked. You know what I mean.
    He nodded. He said, Two or three times I've shot a goose, then a minute or two later I'd see another goose turn back from the rest and begin to circle and call over the goose that lay on the ground
    Did you shoot it too? she asked with concern.
    If I could, he answered. Sometimes I missed.
    And it didn't bother you? she said.
    Never, he said. You can't think about it when you're doing it. You see, I love everything there is about geese. I love to just watch them even when I'm not hunting them. But there are all kinds of contradictions in life. You can't think about the contradictions.
    After dinner he turned up the furnace and helped her bathe the baby. He marveled again at the infant who had half his features, the eyes and mouth, and half the girl's, the chin and the nose. He powdered the tiny body and then powdered in between the fingers and toes. He watched the girl put the baby into its diaper and pajamas.
    He emptied the bath into the shower basin and then he went upstairs. It was cold and overcast outside. His breath streamed in the air. The grass, what there was of it, looked like canvas, stiff and gray under the street light. Snow lay in piles beside the walk. A car went by and he heard sand grinding under the tires. He let himself imagine what it might be like tomorrow, geese milling in the air over his head, the gun plunging against his shoulder.
    Then he locked the door and went downstairs.
    In bed they tried to read but both of them fell asleep, she first, letting the magazine sink to the quilt. His eyes closed, but he roused himself, checked the alarm, and turned off the lamp.
    He woke to the baby's cries. The light was on out in the living room. He could see the girl standing beside the crib rocking the baby in her arms. In a minute she put the baby down, turned out the light and came back to bed.
    It was two o'clock in the morning and the boy fell asleep once more.
    The baby's cries woke him again. This time the girl continued to sleep. The baby cried fitfully for a few minutes and stopped. The boy listened, then began to doze.
    He opened his eyes. The living room light was burning. He sat up and turned on the lamp.
    I don't know what's wrong, the girl said, walking back and forth with the baby. I've changed her and