Eduardo's Arc

Chapter 13 of 60

Eduardo drove home in the dusk and sat on the top step of his porch. The siding was still cracked. One window frame still held boards instead of glass. The reader's words sat in his chest like a stone he could not spit out. A door shut twice is a wall. He turned the sentence until it stopped stinging and started teaching. He tried to picture the fortune teller's meaning as a scene he could walk into. Not knocking. Not driving to her gate. Not sending a letter. What did the right road look like if she ever came to look? He set the picture in front of him like a map. He saw the house first. Roof patched. Siding cut and nailed. Glass in every frame. The porch level enough to hold a chair without rocking. That part was on him and only him. He wrote the list in his head. Siding. Windows. Steps. Rail. Paint last. He saw himself next. No cards. No bottle. No debts owed to men who smiled while they counted. His word good again at more than one feed store. Work he could name out loud without flinching. That part was on him too. Then he tried to picture her walking up the road. He kept the picture honest. She would not come because he called. She would come because someone she trusted said his name without a warning attached. That was the only door left, and he did not get to open it. Other people would open it, over years, if he earned it. He pictured what he would do if she came. He would not step off the porch. He would not reach. He would say hello and mean only hello. He would let her look at the house and leave if she wanted. He would not ask her to stay. He would not ask her anything. The visit would be hers, not his. His chest tightened at that. He wanted to ask. He always wanted to ask. He sat with the wanting until it thinned out. Fortune had told him the house was the point. He understood now what that meant. The house was the proof. The proof was for him first. If she ever saw it, that was extra. He stood up. The light was almost gone. He walked inside and found a pencil and the back of an envelope. He wrote three lines. Fix the siding. Cut the glass. Keep the word. He pinned the envelope to the wall beside the door. He did not write her name on it. He did not need to. The list was his now, and the picture behind it was clear. He would work the list. He would not send it. He would not carry it to her gate. If she ever came to look, the house would be standing. If she never came, it would still be standing. He blew out the lamp and slept.