necessary facts to explain and which would probably pass without affecting me. But by the time I’d returned from the work, construction was well underway. It was Hart Tugwell, Nery Guerra, John Barrow, Sr., and Cora and Manny Urbaez. They’d bound the boards in fours with rope so that they formed makeshift columns and were driving them into the ground. They were building it right through the Barrows’ backyard toward Hart Tugwell’s. I stood outside and smoked and watched them. Hart was shirtless, his skin the color and texture of potato skin. His chest and back were covered in hair as wispy as the smoke of a snuffed-out wick. Cora Urbaez wore brown work boots with metal eyelets that glinted in the sun. She would occasionally lean on Manny’s shoulder and lift her knee to expose the underside of the boot so that she could tap the dirt loose with a shovel. Nery’s overloaded work belt dragged the seat of his jeans halfway down his rear. The Barrow boys ran back and forth from the house with cold drinks. As far as I could tell, none of them spoke, except to consult Nery, who seemed to be directing the project. Across the street, Peter Lind watched with his arms crossed, and various Patels stepped outside to check construction progress. I theorized that I was watching the results of some strange group breakdown. Across the street, a sign that read, “As a boy, Neil Cotter shot rabbits and stuffed their anuses with bottle rockets and set them off on doorsteps” was taped to a chair on the Cotter’s porch. Later, I ate a dinner of canned black beans and toast and reread my daughter’s latest letter. They had been to an amusement park, and Emma hadn’t gone on any roller coasters. Rosie didn’t see why it was a big deal when it was clear that roller coasters were machines put together by mechanics who knew what they were doing, and had been tested, and tested again. Why, she wanted to know, were adults so scared of everything? I was startled by a knock at the door and flung black beans onto the letter, obscuring, among other things, the salutation, so that it read only, “Dad.” The knock came again as I was brushing at the letter, and I clumsily ground one of the beans into the page. Later, after I’d done my best to clean it up, it still retained the kind of dark smudging a never-before used eraser makes. At the bottom of my stoop stood Hart Tugwell, his hands behind his back, bent slightly at the waist. He’d put on a white t-shirt that bore the logo of a
well-known light beer. His face and arms were covered with dirt that’d run with his sweat, and his hair was arranged in small, jagged clumps, like hills in a child’s drawing. His neck, which was a wrinkled pile of skin, quivered. “Hart,” I said. “Good evening, Daniel,” he said. “Can I help you?” “I think maybe you can. A couple of questions, if you’ve got a minute?” “I do.” “Great, great. You’ve noticed, probably, that we’ve begun working on a palisade.” “A palisade?” “Right. It’s a wall, when all’s said and done. A defensive structure.” “I see. You think we could be raided?” Hart cracked his knuckles. “My first question is if you’d mind if we took it through your backyard?” “I see.” “We could take it around the back of that little hedge. I can’t say you wouldn’t notice it, but it wouldn’t tear up the grass much.” “I see.” “Would that be alright, Daniel?” I waited, in case of late-arriving feelings of outrage. “Daniel?” “That would be fine,” I said. “When will you be doing this?” “Oh, tonight, maybe. If we can get a few more volunteers. Tomorrow if we can’t. That was my other question. We wanted to invite you to join us.” “I see.” I could see he was about to explain. “Maybe not,” I offered. “Right. Okay then.” He turned to go, but looked back before I’d closed the door. “Daniel?” “Yes?” “It’d mean a lot to everyone.” “I’m not really a builder.”. He nodded as though I’d confirmed something. I called after him, “I’d just slow you down!” He limped around the back of his house. Someone—Harvey Naylor, I thought, although it was difficult to see in the dim light—approached him. They spoke for a few seconds and then shook hands. I closed the door and returned to Rosie’s letter. I could hear their hammering long into the night, even when I’d stuffed my head under my pillow and pulled the
O R A N G E QUA RT E R LY 23