Light on Snow by Anita Shreve Page A

away from the counter as fast as I can. I think of my father waiting in the car, about the way the snow must be covering the windshield already.
    I know where the feminine products are kept, and I move in that direction. The box of Kotex seems larger than I imagined it would be. I take it down from the shelf and return to the counter.
    Marion sets her knitting on her lap. “Oh, my,” she says, looking at the Kotex.
    Foolishly, recklessly, I blurt, “It’s not for me.”
    Marion tilts her head and smiles a maternal smile. It’s clear she doesn’t believe me.
    I take the ten-dollar bill from my pocket. The Kotex pulses and sings a tune on the scuffed Formica. Marion punches prices into the register. “You feeling okay?” she asks.
    “I’m just fine,” I say.
    “You know, if you have any questions about anything, anything at all, you can always ask me.”
    I nod. My face is hot.
    “You not having, you know, your mother around,” she says lightly.
    I bite my lip. I just want to leave.
    “Not too many people in today,” Marion says. “But yesterday you should have seen the rush for milk and canned goods. Stocking up. It’s supposed to be a big storm. Biggest of the season, they’re saying, but they’re always wrong.”
    I put the money on the counter.
    “Have you seen the baby since that night?” Marion asks, making my change.
    “No.”
    Marion looks up quickly, and behind me there’s a voice. “Nicky, isn’t it?”
    A blue overcoat and a red muffler slide beside me. I didn’t hear the bell announcing Detective Warren’s arrival. Well, maybe there wasn’t a bell, I realize; maybe he was already in the store, in another aisle.
    “How are you?” he asks.
    “Fine,” I say through tight lips.
    Marion slips the Kotex into a paper bag, but not before Warren has surely seen my purchase. Sweat blossoms inside my parka. I stand as though I’m not really there—head slightly bent, back hunched. Warren puts his magazines and a package of gum on the counter.
    “I’m going now,” I say.
    “Camels,” Warren says.
    “Have a good Christmas,” Marion calls to me. “And tell your dad I think he’s a hero, too.”
    “Yes, you and your dad have a good holiday,” Warren says.
    I walk as fast as I dare to the door. All I can think about is what will happen if my father sees the detective.
    The bell rings as I open it. I slip and skid off the top step and take the rest on my butt. I pick myself up and run to the truck.
    I slam the door and throw my head back against the seat. There’s snow in the paper bag. “Let’s go quick,” I say. “I have to pee.”

T he ride back to the house is tense and long. At times my father has trouble finding the road. Again and again I feel the sway of the rear tires skidding out or jumping a rut. We see only a couple of other vehicles on the roads—few willing, it seems, to venture out in the storm.
    We pass the small white cottage with its evidence of boys. I rub the condensation from the truck window and strain to see inside. The house has candles in the windows. I can see a lit tree in a living room. The mother is in the kitchen near a counter. She has her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Fragments of Christmas memories float across my vision:
    She puts the baby ornament on the tree.
    The ribbon on the package is bright red, curled with a rip from the scissors.
    He is on his knees, his head beneath the branches, looking for the socket.
    I am thinking about Christmas trees and ornaments when I have a sudden realization: Did I really tell Marion the Kotex wasn’t for me? Did the detective, lurking in the aisles, hear that?
    Stupid, stupid, stupid.
    My father parks in his usual spot at the far side of the barn. I look at the woman’s blue car as I open the door and head for the house. I find her sitting on the bench in the back hallway. She has on her white shirt and the bottoms of my flannel pajamas. They barely fit—the thighs tight with pink and blue animals, the