Just One Thing Read Free Page B

glass and left the bar.
    It was time to walk home.

The week went by as weeks often do—one day after another. I moved from one activity to the next in order to stay busy.
    There is an art to staying busy when there’s nothing you have to do. No job to clock in at—no deadline looming. I spent a great deal of time at my loom working on a new picture in the tapestry. I did a small twelve-by-twelve-inch block. A barn, trees, and a picnic blanket to represent that first picnic at the camp. I focused on that day—that very happy day.
    I remembered to walk with Angus and to make meals. Well, meals might be a stretch. Food. I made food. But almost every waking moment that week was spent on the new section of the tapestry.
    As was my habit, I took Sunday off. Not that I went to church. But I took a long walk through the woods with Angus and tried to remember a time when we’d all been happy here. Images from that first trip were somehow easy to recall. The kids talking excitedly about the bridge they’d made across the creek by tossing rocks in a line. About the salamanders and water bugs.
    Other moments kept trying to creep in. Moments when Lee and I fought, or worse, moments when Lee and I stopped talking. Old pains kept crowding out the happier memories.
    The dog and I walked to the creek. The little stone pathway the kids had made across the water had long since washed away, but there were still large stepping-stones. I walked across them, while Angus just forded through the water, sending small fish and bugs scurrying to escape his giant paws.
    It was peaceful here. My nearest neighbor was an Amish farm half a mile down the road. There was no noise from mechanical machines or loud music. Just peace and quiet.
    After almost two hours, Angus and I went home. Connie called. She invited me to come visit her in Cleveland. I didn’t give her a firm answer. I’d gotten very good at not really answering anyone’s questions . . . except for Mondays at the bar. Maybe it was easier to talk at the bar because Sam never really asked a question. I could talk because he let me lead.
    I heard the concern in Connie’s voice. “Mom, I’m worried. We’re worried.”
    I wanted to tell her I was happy, but I wasn’t sure that was the truth, so I settled for, “Honey, I’m content here. I think I’m even healing.”
    She sighed on the phone. It was such an adult sound, which was only right since Connie had long since stopped being one of my two Cons. She’d built her own life and that was good, but I realized that, somewhere along the line, my life had stopped.
    I pondered that the rest of Sunday.
    Monday came and I walked into town. As I spotted The Corner Bar, the worry that had pestered me since I spoke to Connie faded a bit.
    I walked into the bar and even the scent of it felt right. Years of beers, cigarettes, chicken wings, and pizza intermingled and welcomed me as I went to my stool.
    Sam slid me my Killian’s. “Lexie . . .”
    I waited for him to say, one thing. I had my one-thing prepared for the week. I’d tell him about the small shop I worked at in college. It was an arts and crafts store. I’d been thinking about it a lot as I worked on my piece last week.
    The story was poised on the end of my tongue, waiting for him to say those two little words. Instead he asked, “Why do you walk?”
    That threw me. This wasn’t our normal rhythm. “You’re asking a question?”
    “Yes.”
    Just that. No explanation why he was changing the rules of our game. And I sensed the irony in his timing since I’d just been reflecting on how easy it was to talk to him because he never really asked me anything.
    I could have avoided answering tonight’s question, just as I had Connie’s. I could have just given him his one-thing, drank my beer, and gone home. Why did I walk?
    I could try to explain it in many ways.
    When I left the bar tonight, it would be dusk. Twilight. That time of night is like a soft grey blanket being