Eighty-Four

EIGHTY-FOUR

The empty Frost family kitchen.

Water dripped from a faucet. The refrigerator hummed. Danish figurines lined the top of the kitchen door architrave, collecting dust. A pair of long-bladed scissors hung from a hook by the sink.

Wes was upstairs in the bathroom. The Kinks and Waterloo Sunset lilted down the hallway from the record player. His wife loitered in the living room watching television, a magazine across her lap. Daytime soap operas mingled with the music.

There was a filing cabinet in the study full of tax reports, and Liz’s and Jed’s old school papers—Reggie held on to it all. Every drawing, every Easter card, all kept and forgotten in that tiny room.

Outside, last year’s Christmas cutouts flanked the house. Dead fairy lights in the trees swung low over Santa and his reindeer, a shepherd leading his donkey. It embarrassed Reggie that they were still up, though she couldn’t find the energy to take them down now.

The shed: thirty feet from the front door on the