they had been waiting for him, his mom set down two oven dishes of baked deviled eggs. Craig sat nodding at the food, smiling at her when she got glasses for milk. He’d bought the smoked glass table a week earlier at Walmart. After shopping for groceries, Lyle and Craig had separated to look for her. Lyle found her in the garden department sliding her hand across the glass table, wet-eyed over its beauty, whispering as if to the birds etched into the top of it, frozen in flight.
In her teddy bear nightgown she carried a glass of milk full to the rim. Craig accepted it with two hands, sipping. She didn’t used to take short steps and speak quietly. Before the girl’s passing, she wore western shirts and moved with a mountain swagger. For newcomers she exaggerated her country accent. Barb Rettew. Born here and raised up ranch-style, fourth generation—who the hell are you?
The kitchen air hung thick with the smell of eggs. The three of them joined hands, Craig squinting shut his eyes. When he spoke the words table, and bread, and family, a strange whimper slipped from his throat. It scalded Lyle that his brother was choked up, when it was he who forbade mention of Lila’s name. Lyle leaked air through his teeth, knowing it sounded nasty, and laughed. Craig raised his prayer voice but otherwise ignored him.
The back of his mom’s chair touched the sliding glass door that led to the deck. When rain tapped the glass, she swerved anxious eyes over her shoulder. From her countertop radio a gospel song issued. Her face hardened while she ate. She whispered a few unintelligible complaints before her eyes rested on Lyle.
“You wearing that Halloween costume tomorrow, too?” she asked him. “You look like you’re trying out for the devil contest.”
“There’s no devil contest.”
“There certainly is.”
“Well, I don’t know anything about it.”
Before him on the table a rosy-cheeked porcelain dairymaid offered a basket of toothpicks. He turned his last egg facedown onto its yellow and stuck toothpicks along the white center like a spine.
“Half the people in this town look like devils,” his mom said. She lifted her glass shakily and put it down without drinking any. For a moment she made a crying face, but there were no tears. Craig cut her egg with her fork, stabbed a piece of it, and she took the bite. His feeding seemed to calm her.
“Good people everywhere,” Craig said. “Even some of these hippies are nice folks, once you have a conversation with them.”
She brightened. “Listen to me complaining. I’m sorry.”
“You’re fine. You’re doing great. Isn’t she, Lyle?”
“Sure.”
“They gave her two more shifts at work. Isn’t that nice?”
Lyle nodded.
“Well, say so. Come on, participate in the conversation here. Isn’t it nice?”
“Yeah, it’s nice, Mom. Good job.”
Craig worked in quality control at a vegetable processing plant—after casting resumes all over the Northwest. He got their mom a job, too. Her first day was tomorrow.
“We’ll like the mountains all the more for being gone a year,” Craig said. “Save up some money, keep busy … we’ll get back there.”
She stroked her glass tenderly. When Craig saw that his brother had gotten no milk he poured him a glass.
“I don’t see why we came here,” Lyle said, “if we didn’t plan to stay. I sort of like Eugene.”
“That’s enough talk, buddy. Finish your eggs.”
“Had four already.”
“Eat the last one, and drink your milk.” He snapped his fingers. “Don’t make faces. Lift that glass. Drink it up.”
“What else about home, honey?” she said.
Craig soothed her with plans they had gone over before. He would build a house on the Salmon River near White Bird Hill, where her great-grandfather had homesteaded, down canyon from Marshal but close enough to attend River Baptist, once they were accepted back into the fold. The brothers would each grab hold of a church gal and have a mess of Rettews.
Lyle’s milk went down wrong and he spluttered. His brother poured himself another glass and took his chair. He had a few glasses a day and thought everybody should. At fifteen, Lila had quit milk to spite him. “Fuck milk,” she had said quietly at the table once, in front of their mom. Rattled after hearing the F-word, Craig tried to force the milk into her, most of it spilling down her faded Christian Rock Rules T-shirt. Half of Craig and Lila’s fights had begun with milk.
Lyle was coughing hard now. His hacking rang on the walls.
“Boy can’t even drink his milk,” his mom said.
When his chest settled, he touched a finger to the spine of his egg, tapping the sharp toothpick points as he spoke.
“There’s some people who don’t like milk,” he said. “You have to make them drink it. It’s funny, everybody likes ice cream, but how come some people don’t like milk?”
She drew her hand into a tight fist over her mouth.
“That’s plenty out of you,” Craig told him.
“What did I say?”
“Keep quiet. What’s got into you?”
“I won’t ever mention ice cream again. Tricky subject around here.”
“You done fussing?” Craig pulled his tired eyes off of him.
Their mom unfolded her paper napkin and covered the uneaten food on her plate. On the radio a choir was singing. When the music ended, she brushed roughly at her lap as if the voices had settled there. Lyle hadn’t wanted to cause trouble, but they were so touchy about what a person could say.
Craig set their plates in the sink and found her sedatives in the cupboard, she took the pill with her milk, and he got his brother’s pills and offered him one. Lyle didn’t cup his hand to receive it, so Craig placed it on the table so that it rested in one of the birds’ heads in the glass.
“I only take one pill anymore,” Lyle said. “Took it this morning.”
“Now you’re taking two.”
“No, just one now. I didn’t say anything wrong.”
Craig showed him two fingers in the air.
“Dad never would have taken any medication,” Lyle said.
“Maybe he should have.”
“I’ll take it if I can see one of the photo albums.”
“Nope. Told you already.”
“Can I see some pictures of Dad?”
His brother didn’t speak, but Lyle figured he knew what the answer would be. Most of the photographs of his dad had Lila in them, so they were off limits too. But his brother and mom had never wanted to talk about his dad, either. Maybe anyone dead was off limits.
“I can’t see any pictures, then,” Lyle said. “Not one.”
“Quit talking, and take your pill.”
“I didn’t say her name.”
Craig’s mouth twitched. “I said I heard all the talk I want to hear. Take the pill, right now.”
Lyle tucked the pill beneath the spiny egg on his plate. His brother flipped the egg over, with the pill stuck in its yolk—a sick, downward-looking eye—removed the plate, and dropped the pill on the cloth placemat printed in tiny runaway stagecoaches.
Lyle set the pill on his tongue and sipped milk. In the living room, he fell back on the couch, spat the pill into his hand, and dropped it between two cushions. Then he