to the crib and laid it on its back next to the pillow, so that it would be there for her the next time Melinda was put in her crib. Then he straightened out the blanket, carefully tucking it in so that the bear was nestled under the covers, only its furry head poking out, its shiny eyes looking up at him.
The neatness of the crib—the simple orderliness of it—somehow made him feel better. Without really thinking about it, he started picking up the rest of Melinda’s scattered toys.
Her alphabet blocks seemed to be everywhere. As he gathered them up he arranged them precisely on the brick-and-board shelves that served as not only his bookshelves, but her toy box as well. He put them carefully in order, leaving gaps for the letters he hadn’t yet found. When he was done, they were all there except for the C and the N. The C turned up under the bed, and he finally found the N stuffed down into the toe of one of his own slippers. The blocks arranged, he began picking up the large pieces of a simple jigsaw puzzle, putting them back in their cardboard frame and setting it up so it leaned against a wall. He moved on to the picture books and crayons that seemed to be strewn everywhere.
Finally finished with his little sister’s belongings, he began on his own, a haphazard heap of possessions that littered his side of the room.
Methodically, he started over, sorting through the various junk he’d collected, putting every item back exactly where it belonged.
As he picked a dirty shirt up off the table by his bed, his gaze fell on the hunting knife his father had sent him for his birthday last year.
No, not last year.
The year before.
Last year there hadn’t even been a card.
He picked the knife up, staring at the blade. He wondered where his father was right then, and what he was doing.
Did he even remember that he had a son named Josh? Or did he have another son now, another boy, whom he played baseball with, and took camping, and did all the things that fathers do with their boys?
The things that Josh had never done with his father at all, since he couldn’t even remember his dad all that well.
A thought flitted through his mind, but he quickly discarded it, putting the knife down and continuing with the task of storing his things away.
But as he worked, the thought kept cropping up in his mind. When he had put the last of his dirty clothes in the hamper, and hung the last of the not-dirty-enough-to-need-washing shirts in the closet, he sat down on the bed and looked around the room.
Now that it was straightened up, it was surprising how little there was in it.
Even the bookshelves seemed to have a lot more of Melinda’s stuff on them than his own.
And in a little while, when she got too big for her crib, she would need a bed.
The room wasn’t really big enough for two beds.
And the closet, and the dresser, were already full.
His eyes went once more to the hunting knife that still lay on the table next to his bed.
He picked it up, turning it so that the blade glinted in the sunlight that poured in through the window.
His finger touched the edge. He’d spent hours honing the steel to the point where it would shave the fine hair right off his arm without leaving so much as a scratch.
He moved the blade over the skin of his wrist now, watching the hair fall away. If he twisted the knife just a little, then jerked hard on it—
An image of blood filled his mind, blood spurting from his opened arteries.
Why not?
He asked himself the question silently, letting his thoughts drift over the answer.
Who would care if he was gone?
Not Melinda—she hardly knew him.
And his father sure wouldn’t—his father had forgotten about him a long time ago.
Nor were there any friends who would miss him.
His mother?
He thought about his mother for a long time. Finally he decided that she might miss him at first, but the more he considered it, the more certain he was that if he weren’t there, her life would be
Justine Dare Justine Davis