WILL AND NANA

She’s solid. No wonder she made a prized dust-bowl bride, tall and strong, skin powder soft, smooth along her broad, white back. She’s muscled like a horse, strong and broad, rippling.

The bath runs and she keeps her robe on. It’s tough for her to bend down to touch the water. She leans against Will and pressed together like this he lowers her, spreading his knees wide so she has space to bend. Stretching fingertips toward the water, she moans, can’t extend so low, need to wait.

‘C’mon Nana. You can do it.’

It’s more difficult to keep her still and wait for the water to rise to her fingertips than it would be to lift her and lower her again. A catcher’s squat cramp creeps over Will.

He knows how slim this temperature range is, has to be exactly right. She’s not picky. She’s sensitive. She’s old. He’d hate a bath not hot enough. He’d hate a bath that’s too hot. The least he can do is get this right. But he doesn’t want to wait.

He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, okay? He feels sick. He feels like he’s drunk too much coffee and he knows he doesn’t want her to think it’s her body makes him sick and he knows however hard this is for him it’s worse for her and he knows he has to be cool, no big deal, get it done. Okay, he knows.

But he insists, ‘no, come on Nana. Let me know if it’s okay.’ A degree too hot or a degree too cold and she’ll flip. He’ll have to start over.

She won’t flip. She’ll be really sweet about it, ‘oh honey,’ always drawing any one syllable out into two. ‘That’s just too hot. I can’t do it.’