Page 68 of Wall

“You’re gonna be a great mother.”

“How do you know?”

He shrugs. “I got a great one. Know one when I see one, I guess.” It’s not a platitude. He’s being serious.

He does have a great mom. Kelly Wall is a force of nature, almost six feet tall herself and always laughing.

“You don’t believe me?”

I shake my head.

“Like the shirt says, no worries. I’ll help you out. I’m gonna be an awesome dad.”

“How can you be so confident?”

John shrugs. “I got the love in my heart, you know? I figure if I stay of sound body, the rest will follow.”

“As simple as that?”

“Loving and caring for kids never looked hard in my house comin’ up.”

I flush. Another thing John and I don’t talk about. The fact that once I turned eighteen and moved out, if I didn’t call my parents, I don’t think I’d ever hear from them.

“I want to do everything different from my parents.”

“Okay.” John sets his chin on top of my head. A car whooshes by in the slush. After a long minute, John asks, “Ready?”

He takes my elbow and he leads me back to the truck. I figure we’re going home now, but instead we head south, towards where his parents live.

“You too tired, or can I show you one more thing?”

“I’m not tired.”

“It’s late. You can rest on the way. It’s about a forty-minute drive.”

As we drive, the cab grows warm and cozy. I lean my head on the cool glass of the window, and watch the countryside. The night’s grayish now, not pitch black. The stars have faded away. John turns the radio to the country station.

My eyelids drift shut, and I’m not exactly asleep, I’m sort of floating, cozy in the fur-lined coat and thick, wool socks. I feel safe. I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I rouse to the crank of John engaging the emergency brake. We’re way out in the country now. Dawn has broken, casting a weak light over snowy fields and distant woods. I recognize where we are in an instant. The Wade Arboretum outside of Pyle. John brought me here on one of our first dates.

“Here. We got to walk a little ways, and the paths ain’t shoveled.” John has opened the passenger side door, letting a gust of cold air in, and he’s holding up a pair of his construction boots.

“I can’t wear those. I’ll fall out of them.”

“I’ll carry you then.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I eye the boots. “I’ll tie them tight.” Of course, John helps me get them on, and lifts me down from the truck. They’re like clown shoes. I have to lift my feet super high with each step.

“Is it far?”

“Not very.”

The sun’s all the way up before we get where we’re going, though. We’re standing in front of a fairly small, leafless tree, shrouded in snow. There are two other trees like it a yard or so away, much bigger, with cool, gnarled trunks.

“That’s a bur oak. It’ll get anywhere from fifty to eighty feet tall.”

It’s so small.

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