One Came Home by Amy Timberlake Read Free Book Online

would
not
call Billy McCabe a man.)
    The one verifiable
man
I had seen in a union suit—Grandfather Bolte—had a body like steel on hinges: strong, functional, but rather mechanical. I don’t mean any disrespect, but my grandfather’s body was about as interesting as a printing press, a butter churn, or a clothes-washing wringer. And while machinery might incite curiosity, it rarely fascinates.
    But Billy? Through the threadbare cloth of that union suit, I read Billy’s movements in a cursive of muscles andtendons that contracted and stretched across his back. You could not read my sister’s body like that, nor mine—our muscles weren’t so well elucidated. Moreover, Grandfather Bolte’s body steamed through the world, bending habitually on worn creases. But with Billy’s body I got the sense that anything could happen—he could twist, leap, spin every which way without thought. When Billy put his foot right near my face (of course) to shove a saddle into place, I watched the muscles above his ankle undulate like underwater plants. Billy’s body was
all
ease.
    As much as the body before me was a revelation, I noticed something mundane too: the patch job on that union suit. The stitches were neat—many times tidier than mine. Who’d done that stitching?
    It came to me: Billy had done it. Whereas my family overflowed with women, Billy’s family was devoid of them. As the oldest, Billy had taken on many tasks himself, including patching and sewing. I’d watched him mop a brother’s chin more than once.
    I’d heard Billy tell the story of the birth of the youngest McCabe boy. Billy had been eight years old. He’d sat on the front porch waiting while his ma travailed. He heard every bit of his ma’s labor because it was a hot summer night and the windows of the house were thrown open to keep his parents’ bedroom as cool as possible.
    Finally, his ma’s cries went quiet. He heard a whack. A tiny voice pierced the night. The sound brought Billy to hisfeet in pure wonder. He heard his pa’s quick footsteps coming down the stairs. The front door opened. Billy turned grinning.
    But when his pa appeared on the porch, he was not smiling. In fact, his pa saw Billy only to hand him a tiny wrapped infant (his fourth brother). Then his pa ran back inside, taking the stairs two at a time. Twenty minutes later, the midwife came out. She gathered the boys together for what she called “sorrowful news.”
    Billy said then that he did not need to listen to the midwife’s words. He’d heard his pa crying. When the infant in his arms joined in the crying, Billy went into the kitchen to warm some milk.
    In the lean-to, Billy sprawled out with his head on a saddle and fell asleep. He took up most of the available shelter. He smelled of horse. I suppose I smelled of mule. But horse smells worse. After all, a mule is only
half
horse. Even so, when Billy shifted and his back touched mine, I let it rest there.
    Before you think anything, know that it was a cool night and Billy exuded heat. But it was a mistake to let his back touch mine, because without warning, I felt a howling ache. Agatha and I often slept back to back.
    I could not sleep now. That’s when I noticed a strong smell of rotting pigeon in the air. I thought of what I knew of pigeons and remembered a particular day in February.

Trying to guess the plans of wild pigeons is folly. The direction they go is their own business. Likewise, it’s near impossible to know where they’ll roost for the night, let alone build a nesting. Their movements defy theorizing and deducing (though fools persist). Pigeons come and go as they please.
    The way they’ll come upon you will catch you unawares too: Sometimes the pigeons are like a towering thunderhead in front of you in all boldness and in numbers too great to count. Sometimes they’re as inconsequential as a litter of leaves rolling in the distance, and they pass in and out of the periphery of your vision without