Keeping Count The bark ground hard against his fingernails as he clawed. Nearly three minutes had passed and he was only halfway around the tree. “Thomas!” He peeled in a straight line as quickly as he could. Underneath the staggered brown flakes, only the white residue of the inner skin was visible, a Cheshire expression of complete neutrality. Wood the texture of congealed oatmeal stacked up under bitten nails. Almost done. “Thomas! Son? Don't make me count again!” The scraping was frantic, and blood seeped from the middle finger of his left hand. Just have to finish the circle. The sapling bowed under the weight of the soft breeze and looked down at its bared navel. He heard feet pounding down the back steps, and the slam of the screen door. Gasping and peeling away the last remnants of the outer layers, he grabbed a branch and yanked as hard as he could. The tree crackled and sank as the whole limb gave with the pull of its branch. Caught between summer and fall, the tender green wood was swirling and mixing with the brittle weakness of winter. The boy gave a final turn and tug and pulled the branch away from the tree with a soft release of air, like falling on an open inner tube. It was not a clean break, and the edges of the branch twisted and curled around each other, tasting air for the first time. Plenty of leaves, the boy noted with grim delight. He hadn't had time to pick carefully, but had gotten a good one. He put his head down and ran, clearing the tree line into his backyard just as his father reached the edge of the grass. “I got one daddy, I got one.” He gave his father the branch and turned around, pulling his shirt up in the process. Jake Tucker took the stick from his son, closing his mouth around whatever word was trying to escape, and nodded. He closed his eyes and held the branch tightly around the broken end. One strike, he told himself. The boy needs to learn his lesson. Don't hurt him too bad. One strike, and that'll do it. Not too hard. The sound was like the tearing of paper, and they both jumped at the contact. Jake's thick breath filled the following silence. A nearby sparrow chirped hesitantly. The branch dropped from Jake's hand, and his son dropped the shirt down to cover the rising string of welts. Jake took a deep breath and put his trembling hand on his son's shoulder. “Now son, you understand why daddy had to do that?” The boy took a deep breath, keeping all the shudders out of it. “Yes, sir.” “Why don't you tell daddy, so I know that you know.” “I–” “Why don't you turn around and look at me while you talk, son.” “Cause I–” “Look me in the eye, son. Be a man and look me in the eye and tell me what you did to make daddy have to whip you.” “I stoled some of the pennies to play with.” Jake nodded. “And what did I tell you about daddy's things?” “I'm not s'posed to touch 'em.” “That's right son. Now, you gonna do that again?” “No sir, no sir, I promise, I won't touch nuthin.” Jake reached over and palmed his son's head like a basketball, giving it a playful push. He lowered his voice and tried to find the boy's wandering eyes with his own. “You did that real good son, I'm proud of you.” The boy squirmed out of his father’s grip and ducked down, grabbing the thin switch before running off into the forest. Jake followed the bouncing white shirt as far as he could, and yelled out, “Daddy's proud of you, son!” His muscles twitched as the voice echoed back from the gravel pits beyond the property line. Jake stood there for a long while, his eyes connecting every so often with his son's pale outline. Turning back to the house, Jake looked down one last time and saw a few of the leaves that had been knocked off during the punishment. He wondered why Thomas always took the switch with him after whippings. There was a twinge of guilt like food poisoning and Jake worried that his son thought he'd get hit more often if there were a switch left lying around in the backyard. He picked up a larger branch a few feet away that had been blown in by last week's storm and hurled it as far as he could towards the gravel pits. He watched as it landed up in some of the tallest treetops, and grimaced at the dull ache that flooded his elbow. He walked back to the house with his head down, feeling the sinews pulling and biting in every joint. It was as if the warranty had run out on his body. A creeping ache caught him at every turn if he wasn't on his toes. The battered strips of paint were peeling off every corner of the house like flags flying through shrapnel. Jake squinted his eyes and scratched the back of his head, noticing the sad shape of his house. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered to himself as he reached up to pull some of the paint off the layers of plastic siding. Streaks of mud reached nearly up to his kneecaps, a sign of recent floods and nosy neighborhood dogs. The siding had been gleaming white eight years before, when he'd carried Ros over the threshold. He trailed his finger across the grime on the plastic, leaving a streak of white underneath the green and brown residue. He remembered thinking that he couldn't tell where her dress left off and the walls began. And her teeth when she laughed. When he couldn't fit her through the door. One, two, three, and through... He wiped his finger on his Wranglers and cursed the wall one last time. He'd had a ten–year warranty on that siding job, but couldn't find the contract. And Southern Siding had told him three times now, “No work without a contract.” Seemed like he could find every worthless piece of paper, but never the one he needed. Seemed like he could control everything in the world except for the things he wanted. He stomped inside and let the screen door shut behind him. He found a certain relief in a door that slams itself. The satisfying Bang without the guilt of having shut it too hard. The same volume, no matter how hard he slammed it. Like a kid who cries the same if he scrapes his knee or breaks his arm. Ros was sitting at the table, eating a bowl of All–Bran. Brown crumbs stuck to the corners of her mouth, and there was a little puddle of milk on the table between the yellow bowl and her chest. Jake said nothing. There was a tidy stack of pennies on the table, hidden from Ros's view by the All–Bran box. Jake walked over behind his wife. His hands found her shoulders more out of habit than conscious intent, but he followed the impulse and surprised himself by kissing his wife gently on the head. He felt her swallow as she removed the spoon from her mouth and set it down in the bowl. She'd used too much milk again. She acted like he was made of money sometimes. He tightened his fingers, hearing the creak and groan of a rusted car door through his bones, and did his best to give her a short massage. A gust of wind rattled the screen door, flooding the kitchen with a mixture of a wet, newly cut grass smell and the thick scent of an impending storm. They both drew back as the cloud enveloped them, and Ros pushed her bowl away with an almost imperceptible motion. She leaned her head back towards her husband, but not quite far enough to rest it on his stomach. He leaned forward, and watched as he pushed his wife's head back to its original position without ever making contact. She glanced out towards the backyard, perhaps to check that the gust of wind hadn't disturbed the newly planted flower box that sat on the windowsill above the sink. With a fluid move that still seemed to jerk every muscle in her body, Ros stood up with her bowl in hand and went to the sink. She shut the window and busied herself with washing up. Jake stood behind the chair for a second longer, and then put the box of All–Bran in the cabinet next to the Corn Flakes and cylindrical box of Quaker's Oatmeal. He walked back to the table and slowly gathered up the stack of pennies that lay alone on the table with the milk dropped from Ros's mouth. He counted them out of habit and put the twenty–four tokens into the small fifth pocket of his jeans. He wondered which twenty–four these were. Ros looked back at him before quickly shifting her focus to the backyard. “Did you get the bread and vacuum cleaner bags?” The sound seemed to come from the sweaty strands of dirty blonde hair that played in the air currents. Nothing else in the room was moving. Jake cleared his throat. “Yeah, yeah I did.” He played with the coins in his pocket. “Oh!” They both jumped. “I got you something, honey. Hold on, let me get it.” Without waiting for a response, Jake headed to the bedroom where he'd left the gift. He'd forgotten about it when he noticed the spilt pennies that Thomas had been playing with. He pulled the bread and vacuum bags out, setting them on the chest of drawers next to his wife's matchbox collection. Ros was leaning against the sink, drying her hands on an old T–shirt when Jake returned. Her eyes had their old sparkle, but Jake had to search for it. He'd married her for her inner fire, her spirit, and was sure she'd never lose it. “Well?” she asked with her face and voice. Jake grinned a little bit, and tried to show the dimple on his left cheek, hidden now under a four–day growth of beard. Ros squinted her eyes in amusement, and Jake released into a full–blown smile. She walked towards him, throwing the T–shirt on the counter. “Well, are you just gonna stand there trying to look cute, or do I get my gift?” “Well, the reason I was late today, honey–” Ros's cheeks sagged a bit, and a few of the wrinkles drained out from the pool around her eyes. “No, no, I’m not making excuses — I just wanted, I mean...” Jake fumbled for the words as he watched his wife trail farther away from him. “Here.” He shoved the calendar into her hands. She reached out and took it from where she was. She asked the question with her eyes this time. “Well, just look inside,” he said. She took the calendar in both hands and looked at the cover. It said “Animals of the Safari,” and showed a glowing red silhouette of a wildebeest framed by the hazy semi–circle of the African sun. “Thank you honey, this is really sweet.” Her face softened and one hand worked its way down to straighten out the pleat of her purple skirt. It continued to unconsciously smooth out wrinkles as she looked at the pictures on the back of the calendar. “Is there a new animal every month?” She looked up at Jake, who hadn't moved. “We can hang it up in here.” She walked over to the wall. Jake had both hands in his pockets, and jingled the pennies with his thumb. “Open it up, honey, look inside.” His key ring kept getting caught on his wedding band, so he made a fist to keep his fingers from roaming. “I've been late a couple of days, and I was working on this — it's for 2007.” Ros looked over at him, calendar still in both hands. “Well I guessed that, honey.” She smiled at him, and he did his best to smile back. He gestured at the calendar, trying not to speak. A low rumbling like an explosive stomach sounded outside. They both looked at the gusts of leaves hurling themselves at the screen door. “Where's Thomas?” Ros asked in a low voice. The quickly gathering clouds seemed to think Ros's face was part of the sky. “He's out playing, all right? He's fine. I talked to him. Would you open the goddamn calendar, please?” She raised her voice to match his. “I don’t think he should be out there in weather like this.” The glossy coating of the calendar wrinkled in her tight grasp. Jake caught himself, and tried to relax his own clenched hands. “You're right honey, I'm sorry. I'll go and see if I can get him. I just — I hope you like the calendar. That's all.” He brushed past her towards the screen door and headed out into the increasing winds. A gust caught the screen door and settled it back to its resting place in near silence. “I thought it would be nice to get you a present,” she heard him mumble as he walked across the lawn. The wind betrayed his attempts at secrecy and sulking, carrying every last syllable to the starkly furnished kitchen. Ros let out the breath she was holding and sat back down at the table, releasing her vise grip on the African safari. She watched her husband disappear into the darkening undergrowth, and heard him call, “Thomas!” in his tenor voice. The echo bounced back off the empty pits. They had only begun to echo the previous year when all the equipment had moved out. The quarry had been a steady source of income for the two of them. Every perfect rock, another dollar in the bank. They built their lives rock by rock, until they had sold off the last of them and the pits closed down. The echo was a daily reminder of what had been there. An echo of security lost. And sometimes, a mocking echo of the voice Ros was sure she used to speak with. In different days. Her hands turned up the calendar and she noticed there was writing in every box for the month of January. A quick flip revealed similar markings in every month. She looked closer at the writing. Jake had the writing skills to be a doctor. The front door slammed open and Thomas raced into the kitchen. His hands were covered in mud. “Mom! It's bout to storm real bad!” Ros didn't look up from the table. “Thomas, please leave me alone right now — go play in the back.” Thomas stopped at the entrance to the hallway. “You okay, momma?” “Yes, just go play for a little while.” Thomas looked down to make sure that he wasn't tracking mud in or anything like that. His mom was a statue at the table. He started to say something, but changed his mind and walked towards the back of the house. He washed his hands really loudly so she would hear him. Without quite knowing where he was going, Thomas let his feet carry him to his parents' bedroom. They stopped on the threshold and Thomas gazed in at the rumpled bed and white plush carpeting. When he was younger, he loved to crawl and walk in this room because it was like a foot massage with every step. He wasn't invited in nearly as much anymore. Thomas glanced over at the bedside table, where the glass vase full of pennies sat. Body and curiosity are stronger than will and before he knew it, Thomas was kneeling on the floor in front of the forbidden collection. He thought back as his hands reached up, taking the clear container off of its perch. A looming monster, some deadly slimy monster with twenty arms and a gaping mouth, surrounded by razor sharp teeth. The sound of drums in the background. A tentacle, a slime–crusted snake of an arm reached around him and around him and around him until he couldn't move or breathe or think. The mouth opened, and he fought to pull away from the teeth he was about to be dashed against like a car hitting a brick wall. Thomas sat up with a start, shaking and sweating. His racecar bed was wet with fear. He swallowed hard and brushed a wet lock of hair off of his forehead, trying to find his feet beneath him so he could stand up. “Mom?” he called in his timid mouse voice reserved for occasions when he thought he might be in trouble but wasn't quite sure. He heard squeaks and muffled thumps from down the hall, and his breath caught in his throat. What if the dream wasn't over? What if the monster had followed him like in the Nightmare on Elm Street movies? What if he couldn't escape it? Thomas put both feet on the carpet and churned his legs as fast as they would go to his parents' door. It was open a crack, and Thomas heard the sounds coming louder and louder. The squeaks were coming from their room, and they were growing. He heard his dad make his log–cutting noise — a sharp grunt and exhalation of air. His mom was trying to catch her breath like she did when she was crying. Thomas looked in and could see that his mom was not crying at all. He gasped, and put his back to the wall like James Bond in a spy movie. All his fear was forgotten for the moment. His parents were making a baby. Ms. Middleton had showed his class a video of how to make babies, but he didn't know that his parents still wanted more. Thomas wondered for a second if maybe he wasn't being good enough, and resolved to clean up his room more and help out around the house. When he was sure he hadn't been heard, Thomas put his eye back to the door, and watched as his dad rolled over from his mom. The squeaks weren't coming anymore, and Thomas watched to see what would happen. His dad opened the bedside drawer with a yawn, and pulled something out of it. He tossed it without looking into the glass jar that sat on top of the bedside table. It clinked, and Thomas realized that it was another penny. His mom stretched like she did in the morning when she made her coffee, and said, “How many is that, anyway?” “You wanna add em up?” asked his dad. They both laughed and curled against each other where Thomas couldn’t see. He slowly creeped back to bed, wondering how long his dad had been putting pennies in the jar and if he did it every single time they tried to make a baby. Jake stumbled through the tangled underbrush, smelling the approaching storm. “Thomas!” “Thomas!” Jake stopped still to wait for a human response, but none came. The sparrow had been joined by friends and they twittered and chirped, gossiping or warning about the upcoming danger. Jake pushed forward, wondering if Ros had opened his gift. He'd spent a lot of time on it, and hoped to make up for everything in a single, thoughtful move. It wasn't his fault that the house was sinking a quarter inch every eighteen months; it wasn't his fault that the quarry wasn't as limitless as they'd first thought; and it certainly wasn't his fault that the earth had decided to open the floodgates on western Kansas that year. But he was the man, and he knew that made it his duty to either fix the problem or apologize if it was beyond his control. And there had been a lot of apologizing during the last few months. He felt like his life had become a cardboard cutout, a shadowbox of his greatest fears. All his hopes, his dreams of breaking out of his family's bad–luck streak, his nightmares, his work, his play — they all swirled up in his head like butter melting in a bowl of grits. There was a piece of information missing somewhere. There was a way to maintain control when everything around you was spiraling. He'd been taught how to drive a combine, how to quarry rocks, the year the Declaration of Independence was signed, what a red light means, to open a door for a lady, to pay taxes, to pull over when he heard sirens and to feel guilty when his family was unhappy. But there was still something he recognized was missing — some vital piece of information. Everyone around it seemed to know what the secret was. Roger Billings knew it. Paul Derkin knew it. Doug Rathman knew it. Jake just couldn’t bring himself to ask anyone what to do with his growing realization. That being a man gave you the responsibilities that come as a result of great power, but somehow he got the effect without the cause. His birthright was the bills, not the paycheck. He imagined that it must feel this way to be bungee jumping, and have only the rope to hold onto — a rope that's falling just as fast as you are. Eyes peeled for the white flit of his son, Jake pushed past tree after tree, finally coming to a broken grove in the middle of the woods. The sky split and spilled its load onto Jake's property. The wind chased its own tail in spiraled frenzies. There was a small notation in the corner of every day on the calendar. Starting on January 1st with “3124,” the carefully written numbers climbed by one every day. Ros flipped through the calendar month by month, staring with a blank face at the elephant, the lion, the wildebeest — turning the pages one by one until December 31st and 3,489 where there was another inscription. It said, “And another year married to you — I love you.” There was a heart drawn around this phrase, and the ink ran a bit where Jake had pressed too hard with the fountain pen. Ros dropped the calendar down into the spilled milk on the table and stared at the wall, wondering what was wrong with her. Cupid's arrows seemed a bit too sharp, the barbs a bit too big. She had what she wanted, but still couldn't help feeling like the only real person in a canned laughter studio audience. The reactions were clear and all around her, yet she couldn't make herself feel them anymore. Like a beautiful sunset caused by pollution, she thought, staring at the blues, reds and oranges of the African horizon. That's what she was. The calendar didn't fit right in her hands, and she rubbed them together to erase the creases in her palms where the cardboard had been. Two tears raced down her face, and she began to rip the safari into small, vibrant pieces. The pennies were spread out on the floor, and Thomas ran his hands through them again and again, listening to the soft patter of metallic coincidence and trying his best to touch every single one. He knew that if he felt The Penny, he would recognize it immediately. It had to be a special penny; he would feel something different when he touched it. He wanted to know which one stood for him. It was worth another whipping if he could find it. He wanted that penny for himself. He knew it would change things. Jake stood surrounded by twenty–two dead trees, their withered leaves falling off in huge clumps under the barrage of rain. All in different stages of decomposition, they stood guard to some quiet danger like broken sentinels. There was a single ring of bark missing from every tree in the clearing, preventing food from reaching the roots. Stark, leafless branches scraped the pouring sky. The whole area smelled like death, a thick, watery scent that plugged up the nostrils like cotton. Directly in front of each tree, a single branch was planted like a thin tombstone. The planted sticks stuck in the dirt like fragile mockeries of the trees they had been ripped from. They did not try to grow. They did not try to flourish. They struggled only to maintain the position given to them in the thick, choking earth. The rain plastered his hair against his face, and he watched as the dirt turned to muddy rivers, slithering downhill towards the empty gravel pits. The sticks stood erect, and the trees loomed black against the graying sky as tiny drops strafed the ground. Everything seemed in danger of sliding away into the gaping pits where he had mined his life, rock by rock. Jake stared and silently counted the trees one last time.