Lamb

The cabin was a single large room—a tiny kitchen sink and square foot of countertop, a fold-out couch, a cot, a propane heater and a propane stove. It smelled like dust and vaguely of urine and natural gas. Mouse shit seeded the floor.

“If I come back here to stay,” Lamb told the girl, who held her hand over her nose, “there’ll be some cleaning.”

There was a tiny bathroom: sink and toilet. The water in the toilet was rust-orange, the bowl was lined with rust rings.

“Can you flush it?” She made a face.

“Wait’ll I get the water turned on.”

“I could clean.”

“That would take years.”

She shrugged. “I don’t care. Are we sleeping in the bunk beds?”

“Unless you want a cot. Or a couch.”

“Bunk beds duh.”

For the most part the place was empty of the inventory of daily life. Some tin plates and cups and plastic dishes in the single kitchen cabinet. A split yellow sheet of paper taped to the inside door: handwritten instructions for turning on the water. Lamb tried the light switch behind the tiny porcelain sink. “Think we need electricity? We could leave the lights off.”

“The whole time?”

“Look, Tom. I’ll be frank with you, right? I’m always going to be frank with you.” He took her by the shoulders and stooped, so they were facing each other. “Here’s the thing. I feel a little funny about the possibility of that old man peeking in the windows and seeing us, and well, getting ideas.”

“Like he’ll know you’re not my uncle.”

“Exactly.”

“But you act like an uncle. Even like a dad.”

“Well, my dear, that’s tremendously kind of you to say, but excuse me for saying I’m not exactly sure either one of us knows what a dad ought to act like.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And when all the lights in a house are on and a man is outside in the dark, he can see in. Have you ever tried that?”

“Yeah.”

“So.”

“We’ll use candles. Like the olden days.”

“Whatever you want, piggy. But we’re going to have to take care of some business before nightfall.”

“Like lunch.”

“And dinner. And ice. And a cooler. Because this guy is thirsty for a cold beer. And of course your candles. And whatever else we need. Like warmer clothes for you.” He held open the cabin door and they stepped outside. “Think you can stand another hour twenty in the car? See some of the local color?” He shut the door and tried it. Locked.

“I have to get dressed.”

“Yes, you do. Hey,” he called into the shop after her, “don’t put your shoes and socks on yet.”

When she came back out barefoot and dressed in her dirty T-shirt, Lamb swooped her up and she shrieked and twisted. “Careful,” he said. “You don’t want to black my other eye.” She let herself go like a rag doll. “Damn, kid. You’re a heavy sack. What’ve you been eating?”

“Goose livers.”

“Ah, well. Goose livers.” He carried her around to the back of the Ford and opened the hatch and set her down. “Don’t move.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

She crossed her chest and kissed her forefinger.

“You’re sweet.”

She heard him go back in the shop and clanking metal and rushing water, and when he came back it was with a towel over his shoulder and a carton of powdered soap and a full plastic bucket.

The girl pulled her legs up. “No way,” she said. She scooted back into the Ford. “Too cold.”

“Oh, stop it.” He got on his knees. “Give me your feet.”

She shook her head.

He opened and closed his hand, beckoning. “Come on,” he said. “Nothing comes next till you let me.” She watched him. “Come on. I got a towel. Your feet are filthy. You got to wash them before you put them in your socks. What if we can’t find any kid socks in town? These’ll be the only ones you have all week.”

She inched forward.

“Good girl.” He opened the tub of soap. “We’ll say that in this story you’re the princess, right? And I’m just the grizzly old guy who lives in the barn and cleans your feet.”

She looked out over his head while he scrubbed her feet and ankles and calves, pushing his fingers between her toes and admiring her arches. He put his fingers to her heel and lifted her foot. “It’s the perfect foot,” he said. “You have the perfect foot. If I were a sculptor,” he said very gravely, “I could not have a conceived of a more perfect foot, Tommie.”