He lurched down and rattled through the dresser and found Dad’s hunting knife and unfolded the blade and got on the chair and hacked at the leather. Slash the strap, find a notch, and saw. Dammit. Oh, dammit damndamn. When the leather broke he caught her by the waist, but she fell sideways out of his arms and thumped to the floor. The chair tipped and sent him sprawling. He dropped the knife.

He crawled to her and turned her over. She lay there in the dull gooseflesh light with her face blank and little specks of blood in her open eyes. Her hair fallen over. A lump of bone knobs on the green shag carpet. One slipper on her foot and dried drool on her chin.

Such quiet.

He stood and hit the wall with his fist. There wasn’t any force in the first hit, but the second time he scraped his knuckles on the drywall so they bled. Noise shook him, broken sounds of hurt and shuddering breath.

He sat by her on the floor.

He touched her hand and held it.

He just sat by her.

When the window darkened and the cold crept through the walls, he straightened and gathered her up. She couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds, but she was heavy. He got her to the bed and laid her there and then just stood looking at her. Shadows pooling violet on her skin. Her yellow hair. He closed her eyes and straightened her nightgown down around her legs. He folded her arms. He found her other slipper on the carpet and put it on her foot and sat by her on the bed.

He sat there a long time.

He locked the bedroom door and washed his face and then he went downstairs and got a fire going in the stove. The cold kept coming, and now the night too. He threw the pill bottle in the garbage and opened the cupboard by the sink and got out the yellow Tupperware bowl. He pulled off the lid and counted the money inside. Fifteen dollars and thirty-six cents. He counted it again.

Yup. Right the first time.

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and opened the pantry door. Half-full sack of potatoes. A couple jars, beans and peaches. Canister of sugar: almost empty. The potatoes were good Idaho russets from Mrs. Browning. He took three and washed them and cut them up. In a fry pan he melted a pat of shortening and then dropped the potato pieces in. His heart stitched pain in his chest and he ignored it.