Settling
Conner Evans He wakes up still on the right side of the bed. His cats stir, and they know the man will feed them before he feeds himself. He likes that they still keep the left side of the bed warm. It’s still dark out as he creaks downstairs. He pours a cup of dry food into the black cat’s bowl on the kitchen counter. “Now, don’t eat your sister’s food, alright! Stay there.” He corrals the silver tabby into the laundry room, where dirty clothes remain on the floor and folded clothes still sit upon the dryer. He pours her food and scratches her favorite spot. “You’re OK. Don’t let your brother beat you up.” She’s skittish around people who aren’t the man who feeds her. She plays with cheap toys, whether a hairtie left behind or a pingpong ball from the table that’s now put away in the closet. Before Cooper, the man had a tabby named Silver. Cooper still eats out of her bowl. The dog whines from the basement, sensing it’s his turn now. Rocky is a black dog, wearing the red collar of the man’s previous black dog. At four weeks old, the shelter told the man that Rocky was a Labrador retriever, but Rocky grew into a German shepherd. “You’ve gotta be nicer to the kitties if you’re gonna go upstairs, bud.” Rocky has clawed at the top of the carpeted stairs, revealing the worn wood underneath. Already next to his bowl, Rocky chases his tail until he can bite it and become a closed circle. The man grunts back upstairs, so that he may tend to himself before work. He showers and blowdries what’s left of his hair. He plucks an inchlong white hair from between his eyes and pulls up his pleated pants. He leaves in his new SUV. It replaced a car that he ran until it saw 300,000 miles over 18 years. He misses the old leather seats and the 6-CD stereo filled with discs that his son made for him.
He prays to God on the way to work. He has memorized the names of children who haven’t been found yet by the police or by their families. He prays for them; he prays for his family; and then he prays for his enemies. He gets to work before he can pray about anything else. He gets there and leaves early to avoid the traffic, and he repeats his personal rite on the way back to the neighborhood. 57
