The Fading Read Free

manner that convinced her he had made a deep personal connection to the object, and
     so she had caved in and bought the frog.
    She felt safe here. Her life was gentle and she had no aspirations toward career, volunteerism or social status. They were
     becoming more of a family every day, their solidarity strengthening with the comfort of routine, her and John’s unspoken but
     deepening appreciation of their lot.
    That John worked no fewer than seventy and sometimes as many as ninety hours per week moving the store from its current eleven
     thousand square foot space on Arapahoe to the new forty thousand super footprint in the Village Shopping Centre was not a
     source of stress, but a comfort to her. He had his role and she had hers.
    With the mountains so close, Boulderites could not get enough ski poles, fishing rods, climbing rope,running shoes, metal canoes and cycling gear. Richardson Bros Sporting Goods was family owned and took good care of its managers.
     With his overtime, John was making engineer money. He walked the floor, helped customers, was head buyer for new product,
     handled human resources. He was the sixth employee in a store that would soon have a hundred. People drove in from Wyoming
     and Nebraska to buy Finnish skis and let their sons and daughters choose from more than sixty baseball mitts. He had promised
     that when he got his bonus for helping make the grand opening on schedule, they would take a five-day vacation to Yellowstone.
     Becky wanted to sleep in a tent with her son and husband. John wanted to have a campfire and teach Noel to fish. Noel wanted
     to feed the bears donuts.
    ‘Mommy, guess what!’ he cried from the table.
    ‘What’s what?’ She knew what was coming and smiled despite herself.
    ‘But guess what!’ He liked to warm up to it, never said it on the first try.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Chicken butt!’
    ‘You’re very funny today, aren’t you?’ She adjusted the water from hot to warm (to keep her cuticles from splitting) and added
     more detergent to the swamp of plates and forks and Noel’s favorite tractor, which had gotten dirty yesterday. He liked it
     shiny red and wheels polished before each play session.
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘Are you going to tell jokes like that next year at preschool?’ She turned and raised one of her dark eyebrows at him. The
     boy could look so serious for a two-and-a-half-year-old. Was he contemplating the question, or the prospect of pre-school?
    ‘I prolly will, Mom,’ he said, nodding thoughtfully.
    Becky burst out laughing. He stared, admiring her, she thought, or maybe admiring his ability to make her happy. His plate
     was as empty as it was going to get. Becky walked over, soap bubbles dripping from her left hand, and ate the last bite of
     his blueberry Eggo. She flipped a drop of foam onto his nose and he covered his face, scolding her. She took his plate and
     the rubber fork to the sink.
    He giggled again, differently, as if gripped by a fine surprise.
    She heard the chair legs squeak along the vinyl flooring and then felt Noel’s little hands dragging across the backs of her
     legs as the sound of his sneakers pattered out of the kitchen. She hoped he was going to try the potty again on his own, but
     his determination to go like a big boy seemed to alternate weeks, so she never knew.
    ‘Where you off to, Noeller Coaster?’
    ‘Closet!’ his voice came back from the hall.
    Becky gazed into the backyard, rinsing the last of the plates, pulling the plug. A robin danced in the grass, bobbing for
     worms. Closet could be for clothes, but he was already dressed and wearing his shoes. Probably he had stashed a toy in there.
     Or was inviting her to playhide and seek. The gray water made a sucking sound down into the drain, the mounds of suds dissolving to reveal his tractor.
     She ran a sponge around the chunky tires and white metal rims, rinsed it and set it on the dish rack to dry.
    How many seconds or minutes of silence will pass