"Tucker, why do we cling so to life?"
"Guess we ain't done yet."
Margery looked at him for a long moment, and they exchanged what could be exchanged in small smiles. Tucker went inside the house and returned with a heavy cardboard box. "While I'm at it," he said and began taking out carvings and putting them on the table—more horses, deer, squirrels, birds of all kinds, a woodchuck. Charlie held up a fox and looked at it from different angles. Its tail was full, straight out behind him, level with his back. His ears were sharply pointed, his head tilted slightly, all senses alert. Charlie was sure it was a he; the fox was elegant and challenging, superior.
"Damn near alive," Charlie said. "You could make money with these."
Tucker shook his head negatively. "Only do one a year. In the winter, not much going on." He looked into the back yard. "Try to get it done on February 15th."
"Mother's birthday."
"We used to talk about them a lot—animals and birds. Walk in the woods, talk."
"Tucker, does she know about these?"
"Nope."
"But she should see them!"