matted and clumped, not in dreads at all, the only style being neglect. “A positive result,” she said. “A positive result.” She was the girl from the grocery store checkout line again, lost in that coat, suspicious, that huge, smelly coat. “Fucking freezing,” she said, pulling it around her. She used the table to help her stand, pushing it toward him roughly, displacing the puzzle, one of the flower piles landing in his lap.
“I’m not drunk,” she said. He noticed pine needles on her neck. And a phrase came to him, as if in a headline: YOUNG WOMAN ABANDONED
.
He struggled to his feet, too, followed her to the stove. She shed the coat, put it on its nail. Her skinny jeans, Eric noted, weren’t skinny enough to keep up with her anymore, hung off her hips (and would have fallen right down except for the heavily studded leather belt, which was like something from a tractor supply, or more like torture chamber), a pocket worn to threads by a cell phone that was no longer present, the seat worn by a full fanny gone missing. He’d like to feed her. He’d make her huge meals. He’d like to take her shopping, or let her take him. The smokestack shuddered, the cabin groaned, the wind spoke from every corner, these long gusts that only grew.
She turned on him angrily: “Like I’m something you brought home from the shelter. ‘A positive result.’ You think I’m a
rescue.
” And before he could protest she collected the oil lamp, lurched to the ladder, climbed unsteadily. “Dick!” she said. “Lawyer! Phone addict! Loser! You can stay down there and ponder the legalities.” She shuffled and clanked and thumped up there a long time as Eric built up the fire. Then she threw down a blanket, next a pillow, finally pulled the ladder up behind her, blew out the light.
Fifteen
ERIC WIPED HIS teeth with a piece of paper towel, carefully getting to all the corners and swishing with boiled river water, taste of the very slime on the rocks, like summer. He picked up his bedding, what she’d thrown down, a lumpy pillow with no case, but a nice thick wool blanket, army green. The mission-oak couch was too short to lie on, so he tossed its hard cushions on the floor between the puzzle and a growing snowdrift blown in through merest crack, beautiful, depressing, a long, scalloped sculpture. In faint firelight he added the cushions from the chairs, made himself a little pad on the small carpet and lay down in his clothes, covered himself. Field bed. Too cold. He got back up, folded the blanket into a kind of sleeping bag or taco shell and climbed back in, much better. The pillow smelled of smoke and Ben-Gay and cough drops and mildew: the stench of isolation. His shoulder was very sore, now that he thought about it. He was the one who should have been taking Advil.
He woke abruptly in the night—the wine like a rat in his head—minutes or hours later, he couldn’t tell. He was freezing, though, that was sure. He pulled the blanket tight as he could, hopeless. The temperature outside had plummeted as the guy on
News 5
had predicted, and so had the temperature inside. He turned this way, turned that way. The horsehair cushions crackled under him. He had to piss like a race car (as his father used to say). His head began to ache. His mouth was dry as hemlock twigs. He got up, thought to go outside, remembered the snow chest-high and who knew what drifts, crazy, the door entirely blocked. The wind had picked up again. Alison hated it when he farted. He peed in a pail he found with the pots and pans, emptied it quickly at the drain board, put it back. He’d have to swab it out with snow in the morning. Somewhere outside, of course, after he’d dug them an escape route. He built up the fire—maybe it had been hours—then moved his whole sleeping arrangement close to it, but on the floor it didn’t matter: perfectly fucking freezing. The wind was howling again, raging, suddenly shrieking through all the boards of
“I’m not drunk,” she said. He noticed pine needles on her neck. And a phrase came to him, as if in a headline: YOUNG WOMAN ABANDONED
.
He struggled to his feet, too, followed her to the stove. She shed the coat, put it on its nail. Her skinny jeans, Eric noted, weren’t skinny enough to keep up with her anymore, hung off her hips (and would have fallen right down except for the heavily studded leather belt, which was like something from a tractor supply, or more like torture chamber), a pocket worn to threads by a cell phone that was no longer present, the seat worn by a full fanny gone missing. He’d like to feed her. He’d make her huge meals. He’d like to take her shopping, or let her take him. The smokestack shuddered, the cabin groaned, the wind spoke from every corner, these long gusts that only grew.
She turned on him angrily: “Like I’m something you brought home from the shelter. ‘A positive result.’ You think I’m a
rescue.
” And before he could protest she collected the oil lamp, lurched to the ladder, climbed unsteadily. “Dick!” she said. “Lawyer! Phone addict! Loser! You can stay down there and ponder the legalities.” She shuffled and clanked and thumped up there a long time as Eric built up the fire. Then she threw down a blanket, next a pillow, finally pulled the ladder up behind her, blew out the light.
Fifteen
ERIC WIPED HIS teeth with a piece of paper towel, carefully getting to all the corners and swishing with boiled river water, taste of the very slime on the rocks, like summer. He picked up his bedding, what she’d thrown down, a lumpy pillow with no case, but a nice thick wool blanket, army green. The mission-oak couch was too short to lie on, so he tossed its hard cushions on the floor between the puzzle and a growing snowdrift blown in through merest crack, beautiful, depressing, a long, scalloped sculpture. In faint firelight he added the cushions from the chairs, made himself a little pad on the small carpet and lay down in his clothes, covered himself. Field bed. Too cold. He got back up, folded the blanket into a kind of sleeping bag or taco shell and climbed back in, much better. The pillow smelled of smoke and Ben-Gay and cough drops and mildew: the stench of isolation. His shoulder was very sore, now that he thought about it. He was the one who should have been taking Advil.
He woke abruptly in the night—the wine like a rat in his head—minutes or hours later, he couldn’t tell. He was freezing, though, that was sure. He pulled the blanket tight as he could, hopeless. The temperature outside had plummeted as the guy on
News 5
had predicted, and so had the temperature inside. He turned this way, turned that way. The horsehair cushions crackled under him. He had to piss like a race car (as his father used to say). His head began to ache. His mouth was dry as hemlock twigs. He got up, thought to go outside, remembered the snow chest-high and who knew what drifts, crazy, the door entirely blocked. The wind had picked up again. Alison hated it when he farted. He peed in a pail he found with the pots and pans, emptied it quickly at the drain board, put it back. He’d have to swab it out with snow in the morning. Somewhere outside, of course, after he’d dug them an escape route. He built up the fire—maybe it had been hours—then moved his whole sleeping arrangement close to it, but on the floor it didn’t matter: perfectly fucking freezing. The wind was howling again, raging, suddenly shrieking through all the boards of
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