Chapter 3
I didn't understand rope then. I understood hug and I understood stuck.
The smoke had dropped low enough that I could see his whole shape against the post. He wasn't standing free. The thick natural fiber rope was coiled around his torso two, three times, biting into the white dress shirt where it had torn at the shoulder. The shirt had fallen open at his chest and I could see the dark edge of his tattoo there, shining with sweat. Soot was smeared across his skin. His arms were pinned close to his sides, and every time he tried to shift, the rope creaked against the wood behind him.
I took a step closer. The wet concrete was cold under my bare foot and my sock made a soft squelch. My rabbit hung heavy in my left arm, his long ears dragging. My right hand still held the red hose with the brass nozzle. I remember the brass was cool and the hose was limp.
"You're stuck," I said. I had said it before, but this time I was looking at the rope itself.
He coughed and then tried to make his voice steady for me. "I know, baby."
I reached out with my free hand and touched the rope. It was rough, thicker than my wrist, and it smelled like the garage and like old grass. It wasn't like string or yarn. It had stiff little hairs that pricked my palm. I followed it with my fingers to where it crossed his chest, to the place where the knot sat against the post behind him.
He saw what I was doing and sucked in a breath. "Macy, careful. Don't touch near the flames, okay?"
The flames were still along the floor edge behind him, low and orange, and the smoke made my eyes water. I didn't go near them. I stayed on the rope.
"How you stuck?" I asked. My voice was small and the soot on my cheek itched.
He looked down at me, his dark wavy hair damp and stuck to his forehead. "I was trying to fix the shed, honey. Had the rope to tie down lumber. Got tangled and then—" He tugged against it sharply to show me and the rope didn't give at all. It just pulled the torn shirt tighter. "Got tangled good."
I thought fixing meant he could unfix it. Daddy fixed things. He fixed my rabbit's ear once with thread.
I set my rabbit down for a second on the wet floor — I didn't let go of his ear — and put both hands on the rope. The brass nozzle clanked against the concrete. I found the part that went around his middle and I pulled. I pulled with my whole body, leaning back, my one sock slipping a little. My fingers were too small to get under the coils. The fiber burned my palms. I grunted and pulled again, thinking if I pulled hard enough the way I pulled blankets off my bed, it would come loose.
It didn't move.
He made a soft sound. "Hey, hey. It's okay. That's not for little hands."
I kept trying. I found the knot behind his side and picked at it. My nails were short and the knot was tight and swollen from his weight. It was hard and round like a rock. I pushed and pried and my hands slid with sweat.
"Don't hurt yourself," he said quickly. "Macy, stop, sweetheart. You'll burn your hands on the rope."
I stopped because my hands stung and my eyes were filling again. The rabbit was getting damp where he sat in the thin water pooling around us. I picked him up and held him back against my chest, and I held the hose again too. I felt the failure in my arms, heavy and clear. I couldn't make the rope looser. I couldn't make it anything.
He was still breathing hard, watching my face. The sweat cut lines through the soot on his skin.
I looked up at him. The tattoo on his chest moved when he breathed. The rope held him exactly as tight as before. I understood then, in the way a three-year-old understands a locked cabinet, that I was not strong enough.
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I didn't leave, though. I stepped closer until my pink dress brushed his leg, and I stood there with my hose and my rabbit, right next to the post, so he wouldn't be alone with the rope.
The fire popped louder behind him, and he leaned his head back against the wood and closed his eyes for a second, still bound, still waiting.
