On Monday his father went back to work at the university. He was teaching summer school but said he didn’t mind, that he liked to stay busy and they could use the extra money.

Kenneth got up with him and when they were eating their cereal-because that’s what you had for breakfast in Laramie -he asked his father to make a list of chores. Rodney just laughed at first, reminding him he was on vacation, and then Kenneth brought him the pad and pen by the phone. Rodney’s list said:

Play basketball in the driveway.

Sweep the driveway with the broom in the garage if you feel like it.

Take a nap after lunch.

Read a book.

There’s a shelf of DVDs, but don’t watch the ones rated R.

Enjoy yourself.

After his father left, and before Claire and the little kids got up, he swept the driveway. He thought about calling McEban to see how he was, but he had no idea what a long-distance phone call cost. Besides, he’d almost cried when Claire hugged him, so he wasn’t sure what hearing McEban’s voice would make him do.

He took his wallet from his back pocket and slipped out the credit-card-size calendar he’d gotten at the feed store in Ishawooa, counting out how many days were left. Eighteen. He counted twice to make sure, then put his wallet back.

He left a note on the counter for Claire and walked a couple of blocks down Baker, stopping where it dead-ended into Ninth. He could see a park across the street with a lake in the middle. He waited for a break in the traffic and sprinted across, walking around the lake twice before sitting on the curb watching for license plates from different states. There weren’t as many as he’d hoped, and then Claire was coming down Baker. She had Corley up against her hip, Kurt by the hand, and his little brother was sucking the thumb of his other hand. He crossed back to where she stood waiting for him.

“I left a note,” he said.

“That’s how I knew where you were. And I saw the list your father made.” She set the little girl down, holding the back of her collar so she couldn’t go anywhere. Kurt stood gripping the crotch of his pants. “Do you have to go to the bathroom?”

He shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

Kurt shook his head again.

“Can you swim in that lake?” Kenneth asked.

“I wouldn’t,” she said, and then, “You’re used to a good deal more, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “McEban and I, and my Uncle Paul, we don’t sit around a lot.”

“What do you do all day when you’re home? I mean in Ishawooa.”

They both acted as if she hadn’t said “home” like that.

“I’ve got a horse,” he told her. He thought about all the chores during a day, from start to finish, and couldn’t decide where to begin. “A ranch doesn’t run itself,” he said. It was something he’d heard McEban say.

Corley began to cry, and Kurt said, “I can ride a horse better than anyone. Better than you. Or, better than anybody.”

“Well, you can help me today.” She spun around toward the house. “That’ll be something to do.”

They all drove to the store together. His job was to keep his brother from touching anything, which wasn’t especially hard after Claire let the kids pick out their candy. She asked him what his favorite was and he said a box of brownie mix. That made her laugh, so he was glad that’s what he’d chosen. He’d also been thinking about a bag of Skittles. The small one.

When they got home and unloaded the groceries, she pointed out what cupboards and drawers he should look in for the things he needed to mix his brownies. His brother and sister painted on tablets of paper laid out on the kitchen floor, and they ate lunch while the oven was heating.

“Did your mother teach you to cook?” she asked.

“McEban did.”

She wiped Corley’s mouth, the little girl fighting away from her. “I hear your mother’s writing a book.”

He set the pan in the oven, squaring it in the middle of the top rack. It made him uneasy to talk about his mother’s talents, because he knew how much she relied on the advice of ghosts. Ghosts made him nervous. “It’s about how to live a spiritual life.” He sat back down at the table. “She says everybody needs to heal their relationship with the world.” He was proud of his memory. “She says we have to break free from our trances of unworthiness and fear.”

“Really?”

Kurt said, “Spiritual life, spiritual life, spiritual life,” like he was a parrot showing off. Then he lowered his voice, repeating the same phrase again, pretending to be a frog.

“She hasn’t let me read it yet. She says it’s a work in progress and if anybody reads it before it’s done it might break her confidence.” He carried his plate to the sink, then the other plates. “She teaches too.” He didn’t want Claire to think his mother wasn’t a hard worker.

“I’m going back to teaching when the kids are older.” She was drinking out of Kurt’s glass and the rim was all slimy with his spit, but she acted like she didn’t notice. “That’s where I met your father. At the university here. Do you like school?”

He knew the next question would be about which class was his favorite. “Science is my best subject,” he said, picturing Rodney in a classroom with a chalkboard behind.

“Are any of your teachers mean?”

“Mrs. Kazepa smiles a lot but she’s not ever happy.”

“It seems like there’s always one.”

“My mom teaches all over the place. In different towns, and in every one somebody likes her so much they ask her to stay with them. So she never has to get a room in a motel.” He thought about his mother’s brochures. “She’s real good at showing people how to live in their bodies.” It sounded important, worthwhile, when he said it out loud.

“I think your father told me something about that.” She drank from the slimy glass again, and he thought he might puke if she kept it up. “Does Mr. McEban just make desserts?”

“He makes everything.”

“Kurtie, look at me,” she said. “We aren’t going to have an accident today, are we?”

The little boy shook his head.

Kenneth opened the oven, stabbing at the brownies with a tooth pick, and they were almost done. He helped her gather the art supplies, stacking the tablets and crayons and colored markers in the pantry, then slipped on the oven mitts and set the pan up on the stove. He was trying to remember what McEban had said about his mother’s teaching when his brother dragged a chair to the stove.

“They’re too hot, honey,” Claire said. “We’ll all have some of Kenneth’s treat after our naps.”

Kurt climbed up onto the chair, staring down into the pan. “I only like the swirly ones.” His voice was choked with horror, his brows knitting, his eyes filled with tears. “These ones are just brown. I hate them. I hate the brown ones.”

He stomped his foot and she lifted him out of the chair, standing him on the floor by the table. She knelt in front of him, holding his head between her hands so he couldn’t look anyplace else. He was starting to sob.

“Boys who whine don’t get treats.” She spoke evenly, calmly. “They don’t get anything at all.”

He was sucking at the air like a fish wishing she’d drop him back in the water.

Kenneth finally remembered the exact phrase. “McEban thinks we fit in our bodies just fine.”

She looked at him, smiling, and then back at her son: “You get what you get, and you don’t have a fit. Do you understand?”

He nodded, tears dripping from his chin. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he said.

After the kids had taken their naps and eaten a square of brownie, she led him into the laundry room and started explaining how to operate the washer and dryer, but when he said he knew about darks and whites and water temperature she let him do it himself.

And then there wasn’t anything else she could think of, so he went out in the driveway and shot baskets for an hour until she called him back in.