The morning of the day before the funeral, after he and his father and father-in-law cut the carcass down and heap it on top of a pile of dry brush they've collected, and light it, they watch the pyre spiral the smoke of burning meat and singeing hide - the smell of offering that reminds David of the Sunday school stories Mrs. Gerbrandt read of killing and burning animals for atonement. Then, as now, he could only remember the smell of burning hair.
He leaves the fathers and heads into the workshop. Picks up the knife from the bench where it's been lying unsheathed for three days. In the basement bathroom he runs the hot water and holds it under the stream. The dried blood - he can't think any further when he looks at it - takes some time, is it seconds? minutes? to wash off. Satisfied, without drying the blade, he walks out into the November sun, shakes the water off of it outside, and gets into his truck.
He drives into town with it lying on the seat beside him. As if they know it's there, no one waves to him as he drives by. He wonders if he's taken a wrong turn into a different town. That this is not the place he lives and works. No heads nod. No fingers rise off the wheel to greet him. He drives on, invisible.
Though he can't sort it out, he drives until he finds he's parked at the Thrift store, picked up the sheathed knife, and walked into the store. At the counter he stops, waiting for the old women volunteers there to see. He wants to know that he exists. When he looks up and sees that they know him, he places the knife on the arborite in front of them, still covering it with his hand. As they catch his eye, they turn away.
He keeps looking at them, at their gray heads, because he wants someone to meet his eyes, but he gets no offers. So he pulls his hand away from it and says, quiet first, then louder, "I found this knife in this store, in the kitchen section, and I paid for it. But I don't need it anymore. Please take it back."
He repeats these sentences three times before he turns and walks out.
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