The Farmer's Son

Chapter 44 The Room of the Living

The winter sun rose slowly above the horizon, gilding the edges of the last lingering grey clouds, and piercing through to beam onto the roof of the farmhouse. Gradually the light slipped down the façade, a brilliant reflection in the glass windows before spilling down to the porch, casting it in a dewy yellow glow. It was a bright day, not too hot and not too cold—Spring was on its way.

As the first rays penetrated the upstairs hall, Noah's stepped out of his bedroom just as the door across the hall opened. Catching her brother's gaze, Marge smiled as she quietly pulled the door in behind her. Already dressed for the day, she wore a beige cable knit sweater and jeans with wedge boots, her short hair pulled into a half up style.

"You're on vacation," Noah said, meeting her in the middle of the hall. "You should sleep in."

"Old habits die hard," Marge said. "I've never been able to sleep past six. A blessing and a curse," she added, touching her head with a frown. "Tell me I'm not the only one with a pounding head."

"You're not," Noah said, the only signs of his aching head the squint of his eyes.

"You wear it well," Marge said, taking his arm as they moved towards the staircase. "I guess we can't handle everyday drinking anymore. We're getting old, No."

"I'm already there," Noah said with a sigh.

Chuckling quietly, she patted his arm sympathetically. "I wanted to go into town today," she said as they began descending the staircase. "Show the girls off to Maeve, see all the old places." With a sideways look from the corner of her eyes, she added, "Maybe even stop in at the book—"

A great crash came from downstairs, followed immediately by a slightly raised voice of concern and hacking coughing. Pausing just before the landing, the siblings looked at the unmistakable direction of the sound, then at each other.

It had come from the living room.

Two grey tarps had been hung over the arch of the doorway, hiding the room from view. Hurrying down the stairs and across the dim hallway, they both reached out and parted the two sides of the tarps. Inside, their gazes went immediately to the window, where two figures huddled on the floor, tangled in curtains and curtain rods, early morning sunlight spilling into the previously gloomy room, the cast of shadow and light like an exquisite oil painting. Disturbed dust swirled everywhere, tickling noses and throats and getting into eyes.

"Are you okay?" Marge asked, pulling the neck of her sweater up over her mouth and nose. "What happened? What are you doing?"

"We're fine," Alan said, or tried to say, but the dust would not let him.

Noah and Marge helped extricate the two boys from the pile of curtains and took them out through the tarps into the hall, where they sat side by side on the stairs, coughing and clearing their throats with a drink of water.

"It was my fault," Ray said, voice hoarse. "I pulled on the curtains too hard, snapped the rod off."

"And I tried to catch him and made it worse," Alan said.

"I meant, more what are you doing in there," Marge said, torn between laughing and concern.

"Oh," Alan said. "We're cleaning. I asked Ray to help me last night."

Marge and Noah pulled up, blinking, then turning to look at each other. "Are you sure, son?" Noah asked slowly.

Looking up at his aunt and his father, Alan smiled. "I'm sure," he said. "I realized that wasn't preserving her memory, it was running away from it. But I'm ready to remember her now."

Marge started, and her gaze flicked to Ray, but he was too busy guzzling the last of his water to notice that Alan had said exactly what he'd predicted the first day she'd arrived.