Bury This by Andrea Portes

snow in piles off the sidewalk, little crest of dirt ridges near the tops, a buildup of snow since November, pebbles in the snow, snow-flecked pebbles, snow dirt, dirt in snow, old snow slush, snow turned into ice and then back again.
    Detective Samuel Barnett did not want to make this visit. Earlier this morning, in bed there next to his wife, she’d dragged her fingers through his hair, reassuring.
    â€œIt’ll be fine. They’ll understand.”
    Not wanting to leave, wanting to stay there next to his warm-skinned, quilt-wrapped wife, home, tucked in safe.
    â€œThey know you, Samuel. They’ll understand.”
    And now, standing here at the end of this walkway, wanting nothing more than to get back in his black-and-white, made-in-America Crown Vic, drive home, climb up the stairs and backunder the covers. She’ll be there reading, now, probably, bundled up under the covers.
    Step by step down the walkway. It’s not too late to go back. You could just go back now, they’d never know you were here. Quick. Hurry. Go back. Now’s the time. Just forget it.
    Knocking on the door, he had the sensation of somebody else knocking. That must be somebody else’s wrist, somebody else’s hand, knuckles, making those sounds. Tap tap tap .
    What if he left now? He could still get away. Maybe they wouldn’t even hear it. He didn’t knock that loud. He could just go. Go. And it’d be done. That’s that. Just drop the whole thing.
    There’s a press on the door, from the other side, a moment, and then, presto, door open. Door is now open and, on the other side, in an apron with an apple on the front, apples on the side, up to the bow, Dorothy Krause.
    â€œOh. Hello. Detective.”
    A moment of too many words to say. How to say it? What does it mean that you’re here? Can’t be good. Can’t be good that you’re here, Detective, right? We both know it. Too old to hide it, too. Too old for cover-ups.
    â€œMrs. Krause. I’m sorry to bother you. Um. I hope I didn’t come at a bad time.”
    Cop speak. Yes, it’s cop speak, but what else is there? He can’t just blurt it out.
    Dotsy, standing there, wiping the flour off her hands with a dish towel.
    â€œNo, no. That’s fine. Come in, you must be freezing.”
    Trying to make it nice.
    â€œMaybe you can try my new recipe. Blueberry crumble muffins. It’s new. I just don’t know if I got it right. This old oven.”
    Walking though the frost-blue house, no more Christmas decorations, just taken down.
    â€œWe should probably replace it but, you know, such a hassle.”
    At the table sits the Lt. Colonel, reading the newspaper, in front of him a cup of coffee, toast, and a slice of braunschweiger.
    â€œLt. Colonel. Hello there. Sorry to bother you.”
    And the Lt. Colonel, military haircut, stands and says nothing. The detective here, no, no that can’t be good. Something soon to upset. Something soon to rattle. Brace yourself.
    â€œPlease, let’s . . . Do you mind if we sit?”
    Detective Samuel Barnett trying to find the words. Oh God. Why can’t I be home under the quilt? Why do I have to do this today? And what if I’m wrong. Jesus. What then?
    â€œDetective, how about some coffee? I bet you could use some coffee and maybe a muffin? Sit down, take off your coat. Honey, more coffee?”
    The Lt. Colonel shakes his head no and now they are sitting there at the dining room table. Next to the dining table, a picture window and, outside, a scene fit for a still life. The black tree branches, snow-covered, the snow-covered yard, the bird feeder dressed in snow, a sliver oval of ice float water and next to it, now, a robin.
    â€œAmerican robin. Fairly common.”
    The Lt. Colonel assures the detective.
    â€œYesterday we had a cardinal. Beautiful thing.”
    â€œThat’s right, next to the snow, bright red, I tried to get my camera but . .