Page 68 of Upstate

I take that gossamer memory and weave through details to make it stronger: The orange Formica counter on which nothing was spilled that night. How the yellow Corelle baking dish emerged sparkling clean from the sudsy sink. The miracle of a wineglass that slipped from my soapy hands but did not shatter on the vinyl floor patterned to look like brick. How my parents’ heads touched at the temples as they sat on the couch, backlit by the television screen. The two of them side by side on the quilt my grandmother made from scraps of Mom’s girlhood dresses as they tucked me in, together.

The morning after the counter is installed, I pause at the bottom of the back stairs and allow myself to be proud of the kitchen I’ve created. There’s more on my punch list—faucets and handles to choose, lights to install, cabinets to paint—but the room is undeniably beautiful. I imagine Evelyn peering over my shoulder, glad I saved her fleece-filled walls.

I’m rubbing mineral oil into soapstone when I’m startled by the beep of a car horn. Annoyed, I wipe up an errant splash. The last thing I want is an interruption to my solitude, especially now that the semester has ended and I’ve stopped attempting to make myself even minimally presentable for my virtual students.

Setting down the chamois, I go look out the living room window. Last night’s flurry has flocked pine boughs with snow as prettily as in a holiday postcard. In Manhattan, it was the displays at Macy’s that proclaimed the coming of Christmas. Upstate, the landscape sings the season as surely as an Irving Berlin song. The only thing marring the idyllic image is the brown sedan idling in my driveway.

“Shit,” I say aloud. Ever since the Homestead Festival, I’ve managed to avoid everyone I know in Schuywich. Sam, obviously, whose number remains blocked in my phone. Maeve, who dropped off the goats and drove away while I hid in the house. I’ve been taking the long way round to the village so as not to drive past Joe and Nancy’s house. When I spotted Rhonda in the cereal aisle at Price Chopper, I turned my shopping cart around and ducked behind the greeting card display. I’ve kept Lucinda from checking up on the sheep by convincing her over the phone I’ve got everything under control. She was happy to hear how the ram has become a grumpy uncle to the mischievous wethers, and impressed I managed to bring the ewes in from their pasture by following the advice David’s parents gave me and leading the little flock myself. I didn’t tell her how I shocked myself silly relocating the electric fence to an area adjacent to the barn so the sheep won’t stray far from their straw-warmed beds. Wren’s antique store has kept him so busy, I was getting away with occasional FaceTimes even before the Fergusons went into quarantine. I must have said something about him dropping by once he got out, but I wasn’t expecting him to show up today.

Wren slips on the snow coming up the brick walk. He’s dressed nicely, as usual, with an ecru turtleneck visible beneath his navy peacoat, but his silver hair has outgrown its stylish cut, his smooth forehead is furrowed, and his once plump cheeks are stubbled and sunken.

“Hello, stranger,” I say, holding open the front door.

“Hello yourself.” Wren slides unsteadily to a stop. “You could have salted at least.”

I nod at his sneakers. “You should have worn boots.”

“You sound like my mother,” he says.

“How’s she doing?”

“The woman’s driving me out of my mind with her stop-the-steal bullshit, but I have to admit, she’s been incredible with Eric. She actually quit smoking in the house for his sake, did I tell you that?”

“Is he feeling better?”

“Little by little. I’m still testing negative, by the way.” Wren pulls a mask from his pocket. “Let me get this on so I can come in where it’s warm.”

“Don’t expect the tropics.” I mask, too, then stand back to let him in. “Do you have any idea how expensive fuel oil is?”

“We have natural gas in the village.” Wren wipes his shoes on a mat in the foyer, then catches a glimpse of the living room. Wincing as if the sight hurts his eyes, he says, sarcastically, “I love what you’ve done with the place.”

I follow his gaze into the room he rendered fit for a magazine spread. Now it’s renovation central. Rosin paper covers the pine planks, protecting their patina. In the center of the room, a pair of sawhorses supports a half sheet of plywood for a makeshift workbench. The shelves that Wren artfully staged with bottles of syrup and hand-thrown ceramics are jumbled with tools. Scavenged clamps and pry bars and hammers sit alongside a brand-new battery-powered set that includes two drills, a router, and multiple saws—jig, circular, reciprocating.

“It’s too cold to be out in the workshop,” I explain.

“It’s not much warmer in here. What do you have the heat set at?”

“Sixty-two.”

“Can you even call that heat?” Wren rolls his eyes. “If I give you twenty bucks, will you turn it up while I’m here?”

“Keep your coat on,” I tease, “you’ll be fine.”

“I’m serious, Audrey. Eric starts shivering if it drops below seventy. I’m not used to this.”

Abashed, I turn the dial on the thermostat. “I’m sorry it hit him so hard.”

“You and me both.” Wren trails me into the dining room, which is a chaotic mash-up of temporary kitchen and offseason bookselling. “At least we got him home.”

When Eric decided to drive down to Virginia for Thanksgiving, Wren called me to vent his fear and frustration. Infection rates were rising, a second wave was cresting, and Eric’s son was flying in from one of those states the governor had designated as dangerous. But Eric, summoning the same selfless determination that led him to sacrifice a college scholarship in favor of supporting his pregnant prom date, was set on coming out to his family in person. It was a bit dramatic, perhaps, for him to hijack the blessing before the meal with his big announcement, but it went better than he could have hoped, a relieved Eric told Wren on the phone that night. His (unsurprised) ex-wife was supportive. His soldier son shook his hand. His daughter invited him to extend his visit through the end of the month.

On December first, Eric’s son-in-law said a strange thing about the turkey soup tasting like aluminum foil. The next day, Brianna woke up feverish. She urged her father to leave before he caught it, too. Sweating and shivering, Eric realized he’d missed his chance to avoid the virus, but he drove away believing he had time to get home to his own bed. He ended up calling Wren from the Sloatsburg rest stop along the New York State Thruway, too sick to drive any farther.

“I don’t want to end up all alone in some hospital in Nyack,” Eric moaned. “Please, baby, come get me.”

Wren told his mother what was happening, said he was going to ask me to ride with him to Sloatsburg so he could drive Eric’s car home. “Don’t bother,” Mrs. Ferguson said. For a terrible second, Wren thought she meant he ought to leave Eric where he was. Then she put on her coat and grabbed a blanket. “I’m coming with you.”

For two hours, Wren and his mother sat in silence as they sped south. There was nothing he could think to say, about Covid or the country or the state of his heart, that might not spark an argument between them. It was only after they parked next to Eric’s car at the rest stop that Mrs. Ferguson reached for her son’s hand. “That house we live in belongs to you, Warren,” she said, squeezing hard. “If you love this man, you bring him on home.”