Migration
Doug Ramspeck One of Ethan’s early memories is of standing before a house like a big white cake and holding a clipboard in his arms. It must be summer because the sun is a bright lozenge in the sky, and he is pretty sure it is still Ohio, and it is a fancy neighborhood with big houses and even bigger lawns. Even the doorbell sounds fancy when he rings it. And when the door swings inward, there is a woman with a cigarette in the corner of her mouth and smoke curling past her eyes and making her squint as she glances over him toward his dad’s car at the curb, and he remembers the words she says, Can I help you? Leukemia, Ethan says, knowing he isn’t supposed to start with that but can’t remember the rest of it. What? the woman asks. We’re selling cookies, Ethan says. You might know her. Taylor Haggerty. She goes to my school. It’s a bake sale. For the family. Oh dear, the woman says. My mom bakes the cookies, he says. He knows he is mangling things but adds, Chocolate chip or peanut butter. I think there was another one too. It goes for the doctors. Did I say her name yet? The woman says, My Deidre is in fourth grade. What grade are you in? Ethan’s face feels like he’s leaning too close to a fire. He says, We can’t take checks. Oh, the woman says.