A place Mason had entered like a mourner became, in the presence of children, a living machine of questions and motion. June wanted to know why fog sat in valleys. Joy wanted to know whether birds got cold. They followed him to the porch, the garden, the pantry, the sink. They argued in whispers over which mug was prettier. They took stones from the path and arranged them on the porch rail in strict mysterious patterns.
By noon the silence Mason had cherished for years felt less like peace than absence.
Late that afternoon, while he was cutting strawberries at the kitchen counter, Joy climbed onto a stool and watched him.
“You sad?” she asked.
The knife paused in his hand.
He looked down at her. “Why do you think that?”
She considered him with unbearable seriousness. “You look at nothing for long time.”
He set the knife down.
That was Beatrice’s phrase. Not the exact words, maybe, but the same idea. Looking at nothing. Looking through things. Looking beyond the room at what used to be there.
“Yes,” Mason said at last. “Sometimes I’m sad.”
Joy nodded as if this answer made sense.
“I’m sad too,” she said. “When I miss Mama.”
The kitchen went very quiet.
Mason leaned both palms on the counter to steady himself. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Joy studied him for another second, then laid her small hand over his.
“But it goes away some,” she said, “when we’re together.”
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