In the kitchen, the empty spaces where the furniture had been looked even larger in the moonlight.
I set Emma in the wooden high chair that Mara had left behind, its tray dusty from the draft. The linoleum felt cold through my socks, and the kitchen looked twice as large without the oak dining table that used to sit near the window.
The copper pipes rattled behind the drywall, a familiar, hollow sound that seemed to fill the quiet house.
I washed the blue plastic baby bottle with warm water and dish soap, rinsing the rubber nipple three times to make sure it was clean.
The powdered formula was in a small tin on the counter. I measured out three level scoops, my hands steady despite the cold air coming from the window frame.
I filled the bottle to the six-ounce line with warm tap water.
I shook the bottle until the powder dissolved completely, then held it to my inner wrist to test the temperature against my skin.
I carried the bottle back upstairs, the clicking of my leg the only sound in the house.
I sat in the rocking chair with Emma, holding the blue plastic baby bottle to her lips. She took it immediately, her tiny fingers wrapping around my thumb.
My mother sat on the edge of the twin bed, her eyes fixed on the floor.
“How are we going to pay for the next batch?” she asked softly.
“I will find a way,” I said.
“The doctor said you cannot stand for more than two hours at a time, Caleb.”
“The doctor does not have two hungry babies to feed,” I said.
I looked down at Emma’s face, her long eyelashes dark against her pale skin. She looked so much like her mother, but there was a quietness in her that Mara never had.
“I promise you,” I whispered to her. “I will never leave you behind.”
My mother wiped her eyes with her apron, her shoulders shaking slightly.
“We only have forty-two dollars left in the drawer downstairs,” she said.
“It will have to be enough for now,” I replied.
I kept the bottle tilted until Emma finished the last drop, then lifted her onto my shoulder to burp her. Her warm breath was soft against my neck.
I stood up, my left leg stiffening as I transferred my weight. I carried Emma back to the crib and laid her down next to Lily.
The yellow paper still lay on the dresser, its bright color sharp against the dark wood.
I walked over and picked it up again, my thumb tracing the rough edges.
The ink was dark, the signatures clear at the bottom.
Caleb looked at the yellow paper in his shaking hand, realizing his best friend was gone too.
I folded the paper and slid it into my shirt pocket, right against my ribs.
The kitchen window rattled as the morning wind came off the creek, carrying the scent of dry leaves and cold Ohio mud.
My mother, Ruth, stood by the sink, her shoulders curved under her gray wool sweater.
She reached for a blue plastic baby bottle on the counter, but her knuckles were swollen and white, and she had to use both hands to lift the collar.
“I had to look, Caleb,” she said, her voice thin in the morning quiet.
“I know,” I said.
“Mara stopped answering her phone on Tuesday morning,” she said. “I called three times, then four. By yesterday afternoon, my chest felt tight, and I knew I had to come over.”
She wiped her reading glasses on the edge of her cotton apron, her fingers moving slowly over the glass.
“Thirty-six hours,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “They were in their cribs. The house was cold because the furnace had clicked off.”
I looked at the bare floor where the dining table had been.
“Did she take the cribs?” I asked.
“No,” my mother said. “Just the living room furniture, the dresser from your bedroom, and the kitchen chairs.”
“And the bank account?” I asked.
“Every penny,” she said. “The clerk at the branch told me she came in with Mark on Monday morning before the doors were fully open.”
I pulled the small wooden drawer by the telephone open.
Inside lay a ball of twine, three rubber bands, and the remaining house money.
I pulled the bills out and counted them on the laminate counter.
Two twenties and two ones.
Forty-two dollars.
“We have enough formula for three days, Caleb, and then the cupboard is bare,” she said.
“I will go to the store after the girls wake up,” I said.
My mother leaned against the counter, her breath coming in a short, shallow sigh.
She looked at her hands, then at the empty spot where our kitchen table used to sit.
“My knees are not what they were,” she said. “I can watch them for an hour, but carrying them up those stairs is more than I can manage.”
I looked at the floorboards, where the gray light of the Ohio morning was beginning to show the dust.
“I will handle the stairs,” I said.
“You have to work, Caleb. You cannot carry two babies and run a shop with that leg.”
“I will find a way,” I said.
She did not answer, but she turned back to the sink, her shoulders tight.
I had to walk past the diner, where the morning regulars were already parked.
The high-set windows of the place were fogged with grease and heat, but I could see the outlines of heads turning as I passed.
They knew my father’s truck was sold, and they knew about the yellow moving van that had backed up to my house.
I kept my eyes on the slushy path, focusing on the rhythmic sound of my left heel hitting the gravel.
It was a dull, hollow thwack that did not sound like a real foot, but it got me down the road.
Inside the store, the air smelled of floor wax and old cabbage.
I found the baby aisle at the back, next to the pet food.
The shelf held only four cans of the powdered formula we used, their blue labels dusty under the fluorescent bulbs.
I took three of them, stacking them in my arm like firewood.
They felt cold against my chest, and the tin rims dug into my shirt.
At the register, the clerk, a woman named Clara who had known my father, stopped running the scanner.
She looked at the three cans, then at the worn hem of my trousers.
“Your mother was in here yesterday,” she said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
“Yes,” I said.
“People are talking, Caleb,” she said. “About how you are going to manage out there on Elm Street. A man alone, with what you brought back from overseas.”
“Forty-two dollars,” I said, sliding two twenties onto the counter.
“The county has services,” she said, her eyes staying on my face. “They have foster homes over in Ravenna. Nice families with two parents.”
“Thirty-four dollars and twelve cents,” she said, pointing to the register screen.
“We all want what is best for the girls, Caleb,” she said, her fingers pausing on the keys. “But you have that leg to think of.”
“I can think of both,” I said.
“You cannot carry a baby and a toolbox at the same time,” she said.
She clicked her tongue and rang the total.
“I am just saying what people are thinking,” she said.
She slid the change across the black mat, her fingers lingering on the coins.
“They are my daughters,” I said.
I took the bag and walked toward the glass doors, my boot clicking against the tile.
Behind the house, the old wooden shed sat under the shadow of a dying oak tree.
