It was raining, but Isaac Walsh wasn\u2019t surprised. It was always raining. They\u2019d had rain continuously for years, without relief. Remarkable, wasn\u2019t it? He\u2019d said so to Anne just this morning, but she\u2019d only laughed in that careless way of hers, like wasn\u2019t he an odd duck, thinking such things.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Anyway, the rain wasn\u2019t so bad, though it made his joints ache\u2014as a young man, he\u2019d thought that was a myth. It was still nice to sit by the front window with a book in his lap and watch the puddles down on the sidewalk spread and ebb, spilling over. Kids skipping through them, dogs sniffing at bloated worms. The occasional cardinal at the birdfeeder. The book in his lap was beside the point. Isaac had been reading the same one for years, too. For at least as long as it had been raining. Something by Wendell Berry, with trees on the cover. Pretty ones, across a yellow field.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He turned the page experimentally, the paper making that shivery sound. It was grainy under his fingers and the sentence at the top of the next page was an interesting one. Oh yes. Interesting. Outside the window, a bedraggled sparrow hopped onto the perch of the red birdfeeder. Anne filled it with seed every day. The sparrow cocked its head at Isaac, like it had asked him a question, but if it had, he hadn\u2019t been able to hear it through the pane.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was the sort of observation that made Anne laugh. An odd duck. He tried turning the page again. Interesting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Somewhere, a hammer hit nails. Or was it thunder? No, of course not, someone at the door. Over the sound of the rain, it had taken him a while to realize. He pulled himself to his feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cComing! Just a minute.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
God, his back ached, and his voice felt like scratchy wool. Through the window, the sodden sparrow took flight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The lock took him a minute, getting it turned right. When the door opened, there was a young man on the porch, wearing a blue raincoat and big glasses. A paper bag cradled in his arms had turned soggy and torn in several spots. With the hood of the raincoat up, it was hard to tell, but he looked like\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMorning, Mr. Walsh. Got your groceries. You all right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hearing the voice did it. Toady, that was the boy\u2019s name. Toby, rather. A good one, if a bit odd himself. Laughed at strange things. Birds of a feather, they said, didn\u2019t they. He remembered the sparrow and felt suddenly and unaccountably sad. But Toby looked worried now, so he must have been expecting something. An answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes, yes.\u201d Isaac stifled a cough. God, it was cold out here, the dampness getting in his bones. \u201cFine, thanks. Bring \u2019em in.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The door shut too hard behind them, making Toby jump. Anne was always doing that, too. Something about the set of the hinges. Isaac\u2019s chuckle turned into another deep cough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAre you sure you feel all right, Mr. Walsh?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A good one, that was for sure. Better than some of the kids they\u2019d sent at any rate. \u201cDon\u2019t you plan on getting old, Toby?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The boy smiled sheepishly, setting the bag on the kitchen counter. A can of soup escaped one of the tears and almost rolled off the edge before he caught it. Good reflexes. \u201cIt\u2019s Tony, Mr. Walsh. Did you remember about your appointment?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnne can take me.\u201d His calendar was on the fridge. He peered closer at it. Lots of empty squares. It was probably one of the damned doctors, trying to kill him, though they\u2019d not succeeded yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ll just clean up a bit, then we can go,\u201d Toby said. \u201cYou can sit down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That sounded fair enough. Isaac made his way back to the chair by the front window, as the boy set to scrubbing and clattering around the kitchen. Putting everything in the wrong places, no doubt. Anne would have a fit when she got back. There was always an order to things, for her, but good luck figuring it out. Once she\u2019d thrown a bowl across the room, when he\u2019d left it in one cabinet instead of on another shelf for the umpteenth time. Or had it been the other way around? Didn\u2019t matter, anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\u2019d hardly sat down when the front door opened and shut behind him. Then someone in a blue raincoat was out in the yard, right by the window. Big bag of birdseed against their feet, scooping it up into the feeder. It was hard to tell through the rain-smeared glass, with his eyes all fuzzy now, but it didn\u2019t look like Anne. Where had his glasses gone? Anyway, he didn\u2019t think she had a blue coat like that. Isaac almost called out to the trespasser, just so they\u2019d know he was watching, so as not to do any funny business. But they were filling the birdfeeder, weren\u2019t they? Couldn\u2019t be all bad then. The raincoat turned and smiled, waved. Young, glasses, curly brown hair. Looked just like, just like\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But then he was gone. The front door opened, shut too hard. It was always doing that, something about the hinges.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou ready, Mr. Walsh? Anything you want me to bring for you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hearing the voice, he knew, though the name still eluded him. Slippery things, names. Like birds. He turned in his chair and nearly tipped it, before Toby was there, balancing it and helping him up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was it: Toby, of course. The odd duck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI got your keys,\u201d the boy said. \u201cAnd your papers. Let\u2019s go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIs it still raining?\u201d Isaac asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s right, Mr. Walsh.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No surprise. It had been raining for years. He coughed. \u201cRemarkable, isn\u2019t it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Toby walked with him to the door and helped him into his boots, his old brown coat. It still smelled like cigarettes, though he hadn\u2019t smoked in what, twenty years? More. It was warm, though, and the pockets were full of memories. He\u2019d worn it on the last trip he and Anne had taken, a cruise around Norway. At night, the stars were so close and numerous you could almost touch them. It was cold, like today, though the air there was breathless and dry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He clung to the railing to get down the porch steps, but on the sidewalk it was easier. Little worms and fallen leaves clung to the pavement. The puddles looked bottomless as wells, but when he stepped in them they only splashed and sputtered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cStay dry, please, Mr. Walsh,\u201d said Toby, laughing. His car was on the street right ahead, a little blue thing, looked like it would blow away in a storm. Same color as the boy\u2019s raincoat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhere are we going?\u201d Isaac asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDr. Gomez, remember? Just a check up. You\u2019ve been taking your pills, right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He got into the car, his knees practically against his chest. Everything was plastic inside. \u201cDon\u2019t make cars anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d Toby laughed again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCoffins,\u201d Isaac muttered. That was what they made, these days. Cheap plastic coffins.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They pulled into the road. Houses rolled by, white and gray and brick-red walls, leafless trees, flashes of cloud. The whole brilliant world. When he was young, he\u2019d never stopped to look at it, really. Too busy living. Loving.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou in love, Toby?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The boy seemed taken aback. \u201cSure. Maybe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou know, we\u2019ve only been together a little while. Taking it slow.\u201d He steered casually, one hand on the wheel. It made Isaac nervous so he looked out the window instead. A woman rode on a bicycle, careless of the rain. A dog howled behind a chain-link fence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSlow,\u201d he said. \u201cThat\u2019s good. What\u2019s her name?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnne,\u201d the boy said, which confused Isaac. Maybe it was a joke. He repeated the name, as a question.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo.\u201d Toby spoke a little louder. \u201cRyan. I said Ryan, Mr. Walsh.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Funny, the way he said it, like a challenge. A little defiant, but also wary. Though Isaac had never been one to care about queers doing what they pleased, and who the hell was it hurting, anyway. Anne had grown up Evangelical. Still didn\u2019t find such things acceptable, although she\u2019d stopped talking about it nowadays. Everyone was a product of their life, weren\u2019t they. Oh yes. You just had to get by.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cRyan,\u201d Isaac repeated. \u201cGood name.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThanks,\u201d Toby said. They got to a stop light, sparkling red on the wet street. A vulture squated on the metal limb of the light, dark and motionless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDamn reaper,\u201d Isaac muttered, but Toby didn\u2019t seem to hear. He coughed. \u201cHow\u2019d you meet him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOn an app. Just, you know, online. How about you? You were married, right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The vulture seemed to be watching. Lonely black eyes, but kind. Then they were moving and it was gone. What was it Ryan had asked him? No, Toby. He\u2019d asked about marriage, hadn\u2019t he?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes,\u201d Isaac said. \u201cWe met in college. June, uh, junior year. She was in accounting. Family didn\u2019t want her to go. She fought the whole way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMust have been a tough lady.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh yes.\u201d A chuckle snuck up on him, making him shake. He could still see her as she\u2019d been that first day, lonely on the fringe of a party. They\u2019d hardly spoken, but he\u2019d recognized her a couple of days later, after classes, and they\u2019d fallen into a conversation that lasted most of the night. Philosophy, which they were both taking as an elective. Religion. Art. Family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes, that\u2019s Anne,\u201d he said. \u201cTough. Your Ryan, what\u2019s he\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe\u2019s a teacher. Math, over at Cherry Hill, the high school. It\u2019s hard work.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cKids,\u201d Isaac agreed. \u201cLittle devils, aren\u2019t they.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Toby laughed again. \u201cYeah. The stories he tells, man. It\u2019s like a battle.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes. You do love him, don\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was a long silence between them, only the hum and rattle of the car.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI guess so, Mr. Walsh. I think so.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A song was playing in the corner of his mind: It makes the world go round, love and only\u2014<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou think so? What, you don\u2019t know how you feel about it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2014and only love, it can\u2019t be denied.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n He was an odd one, Toby. Odd duck. Funny sense of humor, and now he was laughing again. Out the window, the suburbs opened into a bare field, dark trees, like on the cover of that book he\u2019d been reading. Farther back, an old brick farmhouse. He\u2019d driven by here a million times and always wondered who lived there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n No matter what you think about it\u2014<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou all right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Toby must have asked him something, and now his back hurt from the sitting. He cleared his throat. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI asked how you knew, when you met your wife. Must have been something special.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2014you just won\u2019t be able to do without it. <\/em>Who was that? Neil Young? No. Dylan, that was it, he was almost certain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSpecial,\u201d he repeated. \u201cI don\u2019t know the words. We were so different back then, but it didn\u2019t matter if we agreed on this or that, you know. It was just right. Like in the song.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat song?\u201d Toby said, but Isaac couldn\u2019t remember the name. He\u2019d ask Anne when he got home, she always knew those things. They fit that way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n God, he missed her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Into the silence, the man sang: Take a tip from one who\u2019s tried<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They passed a powerline, a whole flock of sparrows balanced along the wires. It had stopped raining for the moment, hadn\u2019t it? Finally, after all this time. He tried to count the birds as they went by but it was hopeless. Each one was only a thin scratch along the sky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBeautiful,\u201d he said, knowing it might sound odd.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat is?\u201d Toby asked. No surprise there. The young were always distracted, always hurrying past the truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At least Anne understood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n END<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" It was raining, but Isaac Walsh wasn\u2019t surprised. It was always raining. They\u2019d had rain continuously for years, without relief. Remarkable, wasn\u2019t it? He\u2019d said so to Anne just this morning, but she\u2019d only laughed in that careless way of hers, like wasn\u2019t he an odd duck, thinking such things. Anyway, the rain wasn\u2019t so […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":39,"featured_media":5521,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_editorskit_title_hidden":false,"_editorskit_reading_time":0,"_editorskit_is_block_options_detached":false,"_editorskit_block_options_position":"{}","_themeisle_gutenberg_block_has_review":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"art_contributors":[415],"literary_contributors":[422],"class_list":["post-5563","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","art_contributors-coyne-rachel","literary_contributors-faris-davin"],"acf":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-content\/uploads\/IMG_3925-scaled.jpg","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5563","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/39"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5563"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5563\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5641,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5563\/revisions\/5641"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/5521"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5563"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5563"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5563"},{"taxonomy":"art_contributors","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/art_contributors?post=5563"},{"taxonomy":"literary_contributors","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/literary_contributors?post=5563"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}