a section of a piece

“I’m just going to say it one more time,” Bastion instructed without looking at her, “but I’d really prefer it if you went away.”

But apparently it didn’t matter what Bastion preferred. She didn’t hop down, and as he looked back over his shoulder, he could see the top of her head as she sunk further down against the back of his seat. He sighed. Probably she would die on his watch; likely it was always scripted in the stars, maybe the Catfish constellation, or maybe the one he had recently named the Gangrenous Clubfoot. Its lower right star, there twinkling and grinning at him, him grinning back as he tentatively puffed the cigar Will had given him. That star, that very one: thou shalt be doomed to be at fault when thy sister dies. But also it will be due to her sheer perverse stubbornness, and your unwillingness to do anything but sigh and press on, he also told himself, irritated with his own passivity as he tentatively reached out his hand and pulled the lever back into gear again. First gear though. What with Merlot sitting behind him, primed and ready to fall out under a enormous wheel, and the deep and sloppy mud that had been showing up from under the thin billowing grass that the tractor trundled over: probably best to stay in first.

The machine grunted forward as Bastion put a little pressure on the pedal, and then jerked to a stop when Bastion gasped at the suddenness of the movement and stomped his foot back on the brake. Same as a car, same as a car, he chanted to himself, and it was almost true except that nobody had taught him how to drive a stick shift, and also the gas pedal on the tractor appeared to have forward and reverse built into it, depending on which way you rocked the pedal. Stupid system, he thought, and tried to press his heel down instead to get the tractor into a better position to rocket through the two small alder he was trying to squeeze between. Behind him Merlot snickered.

“Are you planning on going anywhere? Or just sit here belching all day?”

“You just shut up, or I’ll push you off myself,” he responded. “I didn’t ask you to come along.” As a matter of fact, Bastion had thought he had certainly gotten up early enough to make sure she didn’t tag along, but just as Bastion maneuvered the machine out of Will’s garage and down the driveway to the hedge, she had darted so quickly in front of him that he had nearly screamed in fright. Indeed it was fortunate that the damn machine was so slow, because otherwise he would have already fulfilled his destiny and mushed her quite to a pulp.

“Ho!” she had shouted as she scrambled up the back of the wheel-cover and clambered around trying to find an appropriate nook, “Trying to sneak off without me?”

“Merlot,” he had said, panicking with the thought of her commentary more than the possiblity of mushing her (he tried not to enjoy the cartoonish image of her being pressed into the mud and then stuck, nearly flat, as the tractor rolled right on through), “I’m not going more than thirty feet, and it’s going to be boring.”

“Don’t mind,” she responded with a sweep of the hand. “Don’t see too much else happening around these parts.” This was, if anything, an understatement in a place that pretty much only had the turning of leaves going for it, thought Bastion. Still he liked it, and liked it quiet if possible without all the girls constantly crawling all over him. You going to put it over there? Why are you doing that? Is that enough room? Are you sure? Always with their questions, and what did he do but take care of them, really. What did he ever do besides that? And for that matter, how could he even be thinking about turning down the job offer? Yes, he would be leaving them for long periods of time, but he would also be providing for them, wouldn’t he? He’d be contributing financially, and they didn’t really need him there all the time, did they? Maybe they’d find ways to be happy if he weren’t always there, making things happen for them. Maybe they’d be better without his constant help. That doesn’t make sense, he told himself, with a sigh.

“Let’s get going then,” he said finally when Merlot tossed a dirt-clod at a tree directly behind them. Reversing the tractor slowly, he enjoyed putting his hand on the bucket lever. Not that he needed it yet. Wished he could have been digging a big hole. How much fun that would be, maybe he could find an excuse later to do that… like a pond for the family or something. With koi, or maybe just goldfish. He pushed the lever up and down a little, jiggling the tractor as it started its slow, relentless march across their yard. No reason to move it, but no reason to not move it, right? He wondered if he put the bucket all the way down against the ground and then kept pushing the lever, whether it would lift the tractor right up. If Merlot weren’t there, he might have tried it. He sighed again. He should take the job. It was so perfect, him and the water and the boat and the other guys. No mother and sisters and sisters. Quiet. Maybe he could finish stacking all the wood today and then they would be set for the winter, so it wouldn’t really matter if he went away. Plus, maybe Will would look in on them, make sure they were okay.

He just wished they were okay more frequently. But no, they were never okay, he had to admit to himself. His mom was probably clinical. Probable no doubt. Hadn’t they always known it? He and his sisters scrambling for the ends, jumping to the corners of the trailer back when they had one, always ready to move and then move again, hustle out of her way, hustle back when she called. Crawl in her lap and smell that even red smell of her skin, like pepper or something. And then the others, Swallow so bad she had to leave; without her, the tight constraint of Naomi’s shoulders, the sharp slap way she had of talking to the others. Like they had nothing in common anymore, not even the pleased smirk they had always shared. Lord knows they couldn’t have looked more differently than each other: Bastion couldn’t even have qualified as a looker if he began wearing paper bags with lookers painted on their surface, but Naomi nearly made people shine just to look at her… well, since she had grown up. So no, they hadn’t had much in common but hadn’t they always had that smile, they glint of humor sparking between them without even having to face each other? That at least, the sign of their twinship, but now it was like she was gone too except maybe her bitterness.

The tractor reached the pile of wood and so Bastion stopped and remembered to push the brake extra hard and pull the knob that locked it into place. He rubbed the bucket lever again, felt the hard black smoothness of it, resting in the center of his palm, and then lifted it gently with his index finger, felt the tractor jolt with the heaviness of its own parts. He felt a fondness for it, mentally thanked Will again for letting him use it for the weekend if he looked after Rodney. He’d give Rodney an extra treat this afternoon. Bastion looked over, but couldn’t see if the great beast was watching through the kitchen window, so turned his attention back to the levers. After positioning the bucket where he wanted it, he pulled the second level until it had flattened out—its opening almost directly facing the sky but slightly tilted towards the woodpile. The whole thing had become such a burden, he thought as he climbed slowly out of the tractor, hampered by his incredible bulk—his thick ankles nearly caught in between the bucket cogs and the wheel cover.

On the ground, he stood up straight, caught the crick in his back, and stretched. Despite his obesity, he was not only strong but also surprisingly flexible, surprisingly fit. He stood up taller and looked at the woodpile, which he was going to slowly transfer into the bucket and then cart over to the woodshed for stacking. Maybe this was all it was going to take to keep them warm. Maybe that was the first step, he thought; maybe then things would be okay. He started over to the pile and began tossing pieces into the bucket.

Up in the tractor cockpit, Merlot had lifted out of her corner and slid into his seat. She placed her hands on the wheel, and then one hand on the levers. “Hey, Bastion,” she asked, “Can I drive it over to the woodshed?”

Bastion pitched a few more pieces of wood, and then straightened to see her resting her arms and head on top of the wheel, looking down at him. She tilted her head to the side and thrust her lips out beseechingly. Bastion smiled, and bent back down to the wood.

“Not unless you climb on down and help me do the actual work,” he said, and waited to see if she would climb down. But she didn’t, and instead watched him from under her sweatshirt hood, no doubt sulking and mentally berating him. Bastion wondered again if it would always have to be him, and unconsciously doubled the pace of his wood tossing while thinking of the way the water splits into foaming halves when a fast escaping boat goes through it.