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       ART

    Potato salad?  She asks like it was something new for her, like I made it up and sprung it on her.  She laughs in that way.

    Yeah.  What's wrong with that?  You never heard of potato salad for a picnic?  I just ask a

    Now, Art, who eats potato salad?  Anybody eat potato salad in this family?  She shakes her head and looks away, turning back to weighting down the corners of the plastic tablecloth. 

    Yeah, I follow her line of vision around the table.  I eat potato salad.  I do.  Or don't I count?

    She hands me the horseradish.  Here.  Is that any reason to make a whole batch of potato salad?  Because one person eats it?  You can't just make enough potato salad for one person, you know.  As if I didn't have enough to          If you wanted potato salad so bad, why didn't you make it?  Huh?  She laughs again, sure that that'll end it, I won't have an answer for that one.  I allow for that one.  I know it will come up because it is what she always answers when she has no answer or she doesn't want to talk about it anymore.  All of the sudden it's my fault and I can't defend why I didn't make the potato salad.  Of course, if I had tried it, that would have been the joke of the day.  Look, look, Art made the potato salad!  And then she'd laugh like it was too funny to go on and everyone would know why it was funny.

    If I answer, it's just more of a joke.  She'll laugh and it won't matter that no one else does because it is her joke, and in her world, she is always in the majority.

    He watches from the porch.  He doesn't move.  He never moves.  It's hard to tell when he's watching and when he's just there, off somewhere in his head.  He knows.  He knows what he's asking.  He has to.  I walk over to him, tossing the horseradish jar from hand to hand, and hunker down beside his lawn chair.  How ya doing?  Married for twenty-six years and I don't know what to call my father-in-law.  Call him him or the old man or my wife's father to other people and your father when I talk to Lorraine, but I've never called him anything to his face.  Twenty-eight years I've known the man and I've never called him anything.  He has no name for me; he is a pain the doctors can't diagnose.

    How ya doing?  I ask again.  I can't tell if he heard or not, if he is there.  He hasn't looked at me; his eyes stay pinned to the trees that run down the bank and across the stream.  Or maybe beyond them.  I can't tell.  Maybe he didn't hear, or maybe he's off somewhere, or better still, he's probably pouting because I told him I'd have to think about it.  Well, he can pout because I'm not just gonna say yes to make him happy.  He knows what he's asking.  Looks like it's gonna be nice after all, I tell him.  The clouds are passing us over.  It's gonna be clear soon.  His eyes are fixed on something, something I don't see.  He's waiting, waiting for me to say yes, yes I'll tear up my life and buy it and do what you want.  Well, I won't.  I told him I'd think about it and that's what I'll do, I'll think about it.  I stand up, easing the grabbing muscles in the backs of my legs and start to walk away.

    Susan here?  He asks from behind me.  He still hasn't looked at me; I can tell.

    No, I shake my head.  They'll be here soon.  It's just me and Lorraine.  I don't turn around but raise my voice because of his hearing.

    Where's Eric?

    He'll be along.

    Where is he?

    He's with Doug.  They went to get some charcoal.

    Eh?

    With Doug.  I turn around and raise my voice again.  Charcoal.  They went to get charcoal.  He's looking at me now but looks away as if he's disgusted, as if I'm lying and he knows it.

    Art?  Lorraine's voice grinds like a whetstone.  Where's the horseradish I gave you?

    He doesn't look back.  He's back in the orchard, his eyes taking him among the trees.  I hope they shoot me before I get like that.  I look down; the horseradish is still in my hand.

    Here it is.

    Oh, give it here!  Why'd you think I gave it to you?  She starts to laugh, shaking her head.

    I don't know.  Why?

    She takes the jar out of my hand and returns to the table.  I wanted you to put it on the corner so's it wouldn't blow around, she says over her shoulder.  Never mind, I'll do it myself.  I should have known better.

    Ketchup, mustard, dill spears, and now, horseradish mark the four corner of the table.  I wonder what will happen if someone decides they want to use any of these.  I know better than to ask.  She would laugh.  The other table is yet to be covered; the corners are empty.  The potato salad has been forgotten.  She begins to unfold the second tablecloth, spreading it with the aid of the breeze over the uneven boards of the picnic table.  The plastic has the faint shapes of flowers in it.  Pickle relish, Spanish olives, and an unmarked jar of pickles are all she has left; one corner flaps like a pennant.

    The house is too old.  Why would he want it made new?  Old should be left old; left alone.  There's old and there's new, and the two are different.  New'll get to old soon enough, God knows.  Why's he want to make the old something it ain't?  The north wall is sagging, wet and marked by a thousand other wettings.  It'll need tearing down; can't be fixed.  I don't think the foundation's good enough.  It'd be like starting over, like tearing up everything.  Everything.

    Art?

    Spouting's rotten, rusted clean through.  That porch's gone.  It won't last another winter.  Shouldn'ta lasted this last one.  The front porch floor is bad.  The kids almost fell through it that time and now with Jimmy and Derek

    New doors.  New railings. Maybe screen it in or some jalousies across the

    Art?

    Uh?  Yeah, what?

    The corner's flapping, and I don't have anything heavy enough to hold it.

    Yeah, what do you want me to do about it?

    She purses her lips like my mother used to do.  Oh, Art.  She gives me that sad, forlorn laugh.  What am I gonna do          Can you get me something to hold it down?  You think you can do that for me?

    I don't know what she has in mind.  I don't ask.  Going past him again doesn't appeal to me and anything I'd get from the house, she'd say needed washing off even if I'd just wiped it clean; so, I go to the car.

    I should have cut the grass.  She'll tell me about that later, when everyone's here.  I didn't think about it, but I should have told Eric. Not that he'd do it, but at least I'd have an alibi.  What crimes we all commit.  Forgetting the mowing must be one of the worst.  The grass is wet and soaks the legs of my pants.  Well, if you don't mow the lawn, you have to put up with the consequences; you have to go through the day wet to the knee.