The garage door was open.
Country music.
Pine.
Gene was at his workbench, sanding something small.
A step stool, about eight inches high, with a rail.
“Emma,” he said. “For the sink. She wants to wash dishes.”
“Nance, I was thinking.”
“The pecans come in around October.”
“I know when the pecans come in, Gene.”
“That’s about six weeks.”
“I can count.”
He went back to sanding.
I went up the ramp.
Both rails.
Knees popping.
At the top, I turned around and looked at him down there in the sawdust with his reading glasses on their cord, building something for a six-year-old who isn’t his.
And I thought about Ray, who’d have liked him.
And I thought about Margaret, who’d kept this kitchen yellow for thirty years and never once got to see it buttercup.
And I thought, well.
A man can lie with his mouth.
He can’t lie with a ramp.
