These Silent Woods: A Novel(22)

Finch giggles, bites the sheet. Walt Whitman purrs on her lap.

“I asked your mother, you want me to get rid of that cat? She told me of course not. Like I said, she had a soft spot for animals, even mean ones.”

Finch interrupts. “She wouldn’t have approved of what you did with Susanna. My mother.”

“No, I reckon not. Anyhow. One day Kitty dragged a dead squirrel, well, half-dead, up onto the porch where your mother was sitting with a glass of lemonade and a book. She was pregnant with you at the time. The squirrel was writhing and twitching, and Kitty was batting at it, playing. Which that’s what cats do, that’s how they’re wired: they toy with something before they finish it off. Your mother shooed her off the porch, and Kitty hissed, ears back, eyes aglow, but then took off. There she went, right to the big oak tree in the front yard, clawing her way up the bark. Your mother was absorbed in her book—she was like you, reading all the time, and getting so wrapped up in the story that sometimes it was like the world around her disappeared. Next thing she knew, Kitty was dragging a baby squirrel out of the tree, thing was in her jaws, and she brought it right up onto the porch and put it beside the mother squirrel, who for the record was not yet dead.”

“What did my mother do?”

“Well, she hopped up then, picked up the broom and swiped that cat off the porch before old Kitty knew what hit her.”

Finch bursts into laughter here, squealing, kicking beneath the sheets.

“Kitty was fine—we saw her later that day, and trust me, she was just as surly as ever, and none the worse for the wear—but at this point, your mother came to get me. I was in the barn, clearing out junk. Made me climb up in that tree and gather the rest of the squirrels. Which, just to be clear, if it weren’t for her being pregnant, she would’ve climbed up there herself. She was wiry and strong, like you. Very fit, as I’ve told you before. Not one to ask for help unless she really needed it. So, up I went. Tucked those baby squirrels into my shirt like a marsupial and then shimmied back down, real careful. There were three of them. We put them in the box your mother had made up for Kitty, and moved them into the house where she couldn’t get them. Your mother made me go to the store and buy some eyedroppers and whole milk, and we fed them, multiple times a day. Nursed them right back to health.”

“And then what?”

“Well, after a while we didn’t need to feed them from the droppers. We gave them other food. Birdseed.”

“They love birdseed!”

Here, squirrels are always climbing up and stealing seed from the bird feeder, which is attached to a post right outside the cabin. We chase them off, holler out the door, stomp on the porch. Like everything else, the birdseed is limited, and a squirrel can put a hurting on it. We can’t run out of food for the birds in the thick of winter when they’re counting on it.

“Exactly. And sometimes your mother would spread peanut butter on crackers. Boy, they loved that, let me tell you.”

“What about Kitty?”

“Well, once we adopted the squirrels, I knew Kitty would be a problem. So I took her down the road and dropped her off at a neighbor’s farm. I suspect she did just fine. She knew how to fend for herself. She might still be around, scaring nice people and robbing squirrel nests. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if that were the case.” I tousle Finch’s hair.

“The squirrels, were they cute?”

“Oh yes, cute indeed. Especially if you’re keen on little critters.”

“And my mother fed each one with the dropper?”

“Yes, ma’am. She had a mother’s touch, even before she was a mother.”

“I wish I could’ve known her.”

A twinge of sadness flickers upward, catching in my throat. “I know.” I lean in and kiss Finch on the forehead. “Time for bed now, sugar. Good night.”

“Night, Cooper.”

I head out to the kitchen and lean against the counter and look out, the clouds simmering across the sky. That story about the squirrels, it happened, but I change the ending. What really happened was we rescued the squirrels, and we nursed them with the little droppers for two days but then, one by one, they faded, not lifting their heads, refusing to drink, and by the third day all three of them were dead in the little cardboard box. Cindy was heartbroken. She cried and cried, and I think maybe everything felt a little worse on account of her being pregnant but I’m not sure. Whereas I blamed the cat, the course of nature, she blamed herself.

Truth is, I like the version I made up. Cindy and me and three pet squirrels, scuttling around the house, a happy sort of mayhem. Finch likes it, too, and even though it’s not fully true, parts of it are, the important parts, the ones that help her understand the type of person Cindy was. That’s what really matters. Besides, nobody needs another sad story, least of all me.

I step outside, listen. Such stillness here this time of year, with the peepers and crickets of summer quiet now. Tonight, clouds hide the skinny moon, so the yard is dark and shapeless. I slide into my boots and walk off the porch. Check the chicken coop for any sign of disturbance, shine the headlamp slowly from left to right, looking over the yard. Nothing. I head back inside, slide the locks on the door, and prop the shovel against the handle.

If there’s a time of day that’s hard, it’s the evenings. Not sure why, but maybe it’s this idea that after Finch is asleep and I’m alone, my mind pulls toward Cindy. Maybe when all the chores are done and there’s some downtime, I’m more aware of her absence. More aware that I’m alone. During the short window of happiness in my life, when Cindy was pregnant and the two of us lived at Aunt Lincoln’s farm, we’d sit together after supper and talk. Sometimes on the front porch, sometimes at the river, sometimes up by the pond. Didn’t matter where: that was our thing, talking in the evenings. What we’d done at work, who we’d seen. That was all good and well, but there was more. We’d talk about what we wanted out of life. We’d talk about the future. Updates we might make to the farm. Places we wanted to take our children. How we wanted to be.