I didn’t want to move. Hannah was behind me, her chin on my shoulder. Digging, but nice. Through the window I saw Amber across the creek, a short distance away.
“You don’t mind her playing over there?”
“She’s fine,” Hannah purred. “She met some kids.”
Hannah moved away to study a disassembled lawn mower. She’s an artist. Upcycler. A good one.
I watched Amber some more. Hannah’s got the mower right on the table, once used for dining, now wedged between the window and the entry. When I visit, I can barely get in.
Hannah had removed the mower’s air filter and other pieces. Anatomical. The little chambers reminded me of a heart.
The kids were running up and down the crumbling road parallel to the creek. A short bridge crossed from Hannah’s side, where she rented the second floor of an old sewing machine factory. Perfect for her. The kind of chic place you might find in a renewed part of a city.
But this is a forgotten railroad town. I know Hannah struggles. Amber runs a little wild.
The kids jostle back and forth, their dull winter clothes like unbagged trash spilling across the patchy lawns. A stout man walks out from one of the tenements, dressed in Sunday trousers, and despite the chill, just an undershirt. He reminds me of Al Capone. I tense for a second. Then the man pulls a rubber ball from his pocket, tosses it to one of the kids. The child grins and throws it back.
~ ~ ~
Hannah’s latest creation is a metal dog, a steampunk robot. Coming in the door, I clip my shin on it. A real collar is clasped around the tractor parts neck. I stroke the manifold muzzle, the rusty wheel haunch. Hannah’s wearing a tight skirt. My mind wheels to a future where she and Amber and I are together. Nuclear.
“How was Christmas?”
“Good!” says Hannah. “I sold the rooster.”
“The one made of the bicycle parts?”
“Yes! Eight hundred dollars.”
A good sale for her. I hadn’t seen them for a few weeks, having my own struggles. Guy quitting on me at the auto parts shop. I had wanted to spend more time with Hannah during December, make things a little special for Amber.
Hannah keeps circling. Studying her materials. Engine gears, pruning shears, film reels, wagon wheels. Nearly enough to make a man. Gas tank torso, chrome fender shoulders, shiny and strong.
Looking out the window, there’s Al Capone again. He’s unshaven, bloated. Too much Christmas cheer, maybe. He beckons to a couple kids. A nor’easter several days earlier left a few inches of snow. The crystalline clusters, like diamonds.
The man stoops to make a snowball and begins to roll it.
“I should get Amber outside.”
“Wake her up,” she laughs.
I move to the entryway hooks, finding her hat, jacket. Gloves. Call Amber in a voice I don’t quite recognize.
Hannah touches my elbow. “I’ll make cocoa when you guys come back.”
We look at each other hard, magnetic. Her mouth softens, opening a little.
We’re moving in quicksilver as Amber tugs my hand. The dog scrapes the floor, a little yip, when I bump my knee on his steely shoulder. Too close to the door.
“I’ll move that,” says Hannah.
