Mink River: A Novel by Brian Doyle Page A

hatched.
    That was scary, May. To not be able to draw a breath. Wow.
    She feels his neck and wrist for the throb of his pulse.
    Your pulse feels raggedy.
    What say we have a glass of wine, you lovely creature?
    Let’s get you to the doctor, love.
    There are wine glasses in the shop, you know.
    She has to smile and suddenly she’s exhausted.
    You are so … you , she says.
    I’ll take that as a compliment.
    You almost died.
    But I didn’t die and you’re with me and I smell fresh bread.
    You almost died alone.
    Never alone, May. Never.
    She closes her eyes and he folds her in his long arms like wings and for a long moment they sit there together wordlessly in the dark the wooden man half made in the dark above them.
    I’m scared to be old, she says into his chest.
    Mm.
    Are you scared too?
    Yes.
    I’m afraid we’ll lose each other.
    Never.
    We’re always on the lip of lost, Billy.
    Now he cups her face in his hands huge as oars.
    No matter what happens, May, no matter what, we will always have each other. We’ll always be in each other. I don’t know how but I know we will. Some bright morning everything will change. I see it sometimes in a dream. In my dream the morning is bright and silent. The colors are white and blue. Everything has a shining edge like it was cut from the most amazing ice. In my dream we go on journeys. I go one way and you go another. But we never come apart. We never lose each other. I can’t explain it. We are always braided together. I can’t explain it. That’s just how we are. That’s just how it is.
    Pause.
    You are a very strange and fascinating man.
    I’ll take that as a compliment.
    I love you very much.
    Then I am the envy of all men absolutely.
    She opens her eyes and smiles.
    What say we open that wine and talk it over? he says.
    And they do, on the floor, in the dark, without a word.
    6.
    The instant after Grace’s eyes open in the murky green dark of the trailer she is out of bed furious and silent and within seconds she is outside struggling into her jeans and sweater. Can’t find her shirt. She stuffs her boots in her gear bag and spits twice furiously on the trailer and swings her bag to her shoulder and pads away barefoot. Just past dawn. She trips over a little fake knee-high picket fence and realizes she’s in the trailer park near the highway. Spits furiously on the fence. Her mouth is sour and dry. When she is out of sight of the trailers she slips into a thicket of alder and pees and pulls her boots on and considers. Sunlight hits the tips of the trees. She brushes her hair what’s left of it what was I thinking stupid me. Listens: robins, a thrush, a woodpecker, an ouzel, the silver plink plink of a hammer on metal. Stretches. Swings her bag to her shoulder, walks through the trees, and there in an opening in the woods through a bright yellow window in the warming morning she sees Owen Cooney hammering away at something in his shop. He’s shirtless and sweating and looks like a painting of the ancient god Vulcan in his forge. Mom read that book to me a thousand times, gods and heroes and warrior queens. Vulcan’s hard muscles and jet-black hair and relentless hammer. A book in the morning and a story at night. Thor and Hercules and Cú Chulainn of the three-colored hair red black brown. A book to wake and a story to sleep. The warrior queen Meadhbh the intoxicating one who started battles. Mom’s hands turning the pages. The warrior queen Grace the brave one who slept with the hawsers of her ships tied to her bed. Mom’s tiny hands the color of nutmeg and cinnamon. The princess Caer the wise one who could turn into a swan. Mom murmuring stories in the dark. The warrior queen Aife who fought Cú Chulainn and then slept with him. Mom wetting her forefinger with her tongue quick as a cat before turning the page. The princess Deidre of the gray eyes desired by all men but her heart open to only the one. Mom’s fingers tracing Vulcan’s rippled back as she told