Macomber feels eyes upon him.

            You’d think he’d be used to it by now, having been gawked at since birth; even by his own kin, paused in the act of some mundane task like knotting a tie or buttering a slice of toast to stare in befuddlement: Well, now, would you look at that!

            He maintains a cordial, though distant relationship with his few neighbors. Ready to provide help when needed, as rural dwellers do, he declines invitations to dinner, anxious of the need to reciprocate. Those who live in town have grown used to the sight of him on the street, in the hardware store or grocery or post office. The occasional heckling tourist he ignores outright or disarms with deftly wielded humor. He can handle himself for the most part. He’s had to.

            But this feeling of being watched brings with it a visceral and instantaneous response, nerves firing like horsehide twitching beneath a fly’s gossamer thread. Town is one thing, but this is his home. His sanctuary, if one wants to extend the resemblance to Quasimodo that far, clinging in defiance to his bell tower.

            Contorted spine hunched where he stands, his feet planted among the old wall’s tumbled stones, Macomber straightens by degrees, as much as his body will allow. Then he casually shifts two feet to the left, putting the sun behind him. Pushing aside a sweaty forelock of grizzled hair (he cuts his own and it shows), he searches for the intruder but sees nothing within the fringe of woodland that borders his property, nor out front, closer to the road. Still, the sense of scrutiny remains.

            Maintaining an air of ignorance, nothing more than a working man taking a break, he creeps his gaze along the length of wall that runs from tree line to road between his property and the next; lichened rock once piled by optimistic farmers plowing their fields, now heaved and fallen by more than two centuries of Vermont winters. Footing stones, through stones, face stones, pinning stones, hearting stones, and coping stones. Who knew they had so many names and uses?

            His skill is largely self-taught with the help of books and videos, and an elderly dry stonewaller up the mountain who imparted some advice when Macomber first showed up unannounced on the man’s doorstep ten years prior. Any talent he’s developed in reading, shaping, and placing stones comes from a decade’s arduous experience; an exacting process made worse than slow for obvious physical reasons, leaving much yet to be done. His hands show abuse despite the gloves he sometimes wears. A white lattice of scars like a swordsman. Flattened and blackened nails from ill-placed hammer strokes or unexpectedly shifting rocks. Hard callous across both palms. Still, he’s proud of what he’s accomplished so far and expects the work will sustain him until he’s carried away toes up.

            All the time he’s been thinking this, his eyes have been searching. Now, there; a furtive stirring within a dense and tangled overgrown hedge of lilacs on the property next door. This morning while washing the breakfast dishes, he’d watched a moving van back into the driveway and remembered hearing something at the post office about new owners now that Mrs. Lacey had died. The old lady had been nice, respectful of his privacy. He shudders inside to wonder how these new folks will play out.

            A hint of something struggles forward through the snarl of limbs and blossoms, releasing a heavy perfume into the air. Every muscle in Macomber’s misshapen body tightens. Hands curl into loose fists and his stance broadens, seeking strength from the Vermont granite beneath him.

            “Who’s there?” The forward motion stills. He can hear breathing, open-mouthed and shallow, anxious. “Look, I know you’re there, so you may as well come out.”

            A pause, followed by rustling. Macomber is primed for whatever nastiness may appear and is broadsided when a boy emerges from the brushy tangle, deep violet petals caught in downy curls, owl-eyed behind thick-lensed spectacles. He might be ten, could be fifteen, maybe older. Macomber’s never been good at guessing ages and this stripling has both the innocent expression of a much younger child and an adolescent’s broadening shoulders.

            They blink at each other, the grown man who thought he’d seen everything and the young newcomer who has never seen anyone like this. The boy knows what it means to be different, peculiar. There are many things he doesn’t understand, but some he does. He knows the term “Trisomy 21” without comprehending all it signifies, and he knows The Word—Retard—that Mom says is worse than Shit, Damn, or even Fuck, the last of which he sometimes utters by mistake, and sometimes not.

            As is often the case, he finds it difficult to read the man’s expression. It isn’t blank (the boy knows blank,) but neither is there judgement in that gaze, nor ridicule, nor disgust. The man is simply looking, simply seeing, and this is something rare. He’s itching to ask questions but worries it might not be the best place to start. He’s smarter than most people think and remembers everything he’s taught, so he begins the way Mom has instructed.

            “Hello. My name is Owen.” He’s too far away to offer a handshake and that’s just as well. Most people don’t want to touch him.

            A pause, during which the boy waits patiently. Macomber finally relents and grudgingly offers his name in return.

            “What are you doing, Mister Macomber?”

            “No mister. It’s just Macomber.” What is he doing? Isn’t it obvious? Well, perhaps not to this half-man who will always be something of a child. “I’m building a wall.”

            “To keep me out?”

            The question causes Macomber’s heart to ache like a phantom limb. “No. This wall is very old. The stones have fallen and so it need to be rebuilt.” He gestures at the portion already completed. “See? Like that.”

            “Oh.” For all the wonder in that simple word, Macomber might be the world’s greatest magician. “Is it hard to do?”

            “Can be.”

            Owen nods, then studies the length of the wall from where neatly reseated stones meet the road and all the way back to the ancient jumble overgrown with oak, black cherry, raspberries, and poison ivy. “That’s a lot of work,” he says.

            “Yes.” And Macomber wants to get back to it. He glances beyond the boy, searching the next yard. Isn’t there someone keeping an eye on the kid? He needs to return to his labor, feel the sun on his back and in his eyes, search for that next perfect stone, and feel the satisfaction as it slots into place. Will Owen take the hint and go away if he just resumes working? Somehow, he doubts it. Perhaps a little verbal incentive, chosen with care. Words can be bullets; a fact he believes the boy already knows.

            He clears his throat. “Well, I’d better—”

            “Can I help? I’m strong.”

            Macomber stares, perplexed for the second time that day. Before he can say no, Owen adds, “I’m good at putting puzzles together.”

            “Are you?” He eyes the young oxen shoulders pressing against the seams of a faded Captain America tee shirt and for the life of him can’t figure a way out of this that won’t cause hurt where he doesn’t intend. “Don’t you have things to do?” He juts his chin toward the house, the van. “Moving in and all.”

            “Mom said I can unpack later when it’s dark. She said—,” Owen pauses, considering, wanting to get the words precisely as they were uttered, “to explore, but not go far.” A worry line creases the fine skin between his eyebrows. “Is this far?”

            Macomber allows a tiny smile. “Not much.” What has come over him? His first response to the offer of help should have been no, it’s always been no.

            “Owen!”

            The call brings a rush of relief. A woman—Thirty? Thirty-five? Again, Macomber’s lousy at guessing age—hurries down the front steps of the house next door. She takes Owen’s hand in a firm, but affectionate grip. The two are nearly the same height, the resemblance striking. She bobs her head, brows creased with that same worry line. “Sorry if he bothered you.”

            “He’s no bother.” He watches her watching him, and wonders what she sees. Her gaze is direct, not shocked or repulsed by his appearance, just seeing him, waiting to see if he’ll show her who he is. “He’s a nice kid.”

            “Thank you. I think so.” She leans across the wall, offers her hand. “I’m Teresa, Owen’s mom.”

            “Macomber.” He declines to shake, holds up his dirt-encrusted hands in explanation.

            “Not mister,” Owen provides. “Just Macomber. He said.”

            “Really?” Teresa smiles. “Sounds like you guys are getting acquainted.”

            “I’m going to help him build his wall.”

            Her smile fades, gaze moving between her son and their new neighbor, trying to read the situation. “Oh, I don’t think so, honey. This is difficult work and—”

            Macomber is surprised to hear himself interrupt, more surprised by what he says. “Actually, I could use some help, if that’s all right with you.” He looks straight at Owen. “If you can follow directions. That’s very important or we could both get hurt.”

            A serious nod. “I follow directions.”

            Teresa finds herself nodding. “He is good about that.” Again, that crease between the eyes. “Are you sure?”

            “Not remotely,” Macomber replies. “But we’ll give it a try.”

            He offers a dirty hand across the stone, fitting the boy’s palm to his, man to man, horned callous rough against smooth skin, and thinks the boy will need gloves, and helps him over the wall. There’s a jug of tea cooling in the creek. He wonders if, after all this time, he has a second clean glass and decides a jelly jar will do.

 

 

*after the poem by Robert Frost