Misty licked his face, but he nudged her away, listening.
Only the quiet of the cabin surrounded him. He laid down and slept.
The morning arrived crisp and sunny. Misty bounced around the cabin like a dog half her age. Mack fed her a can of dog food before giving in to her persistent pawing at the door and letting her out. She bounded into the wet grass that sparkled in the early sun.
He brewed coffee and sipped it black at the little kitchen table by the window. He watched Misty crouch and spring and run wildly in circles. He wished he could tell her to slow down; her ticker wasn’t built for a decade of racing, but even if she understood, her instincts would override his good sense.
He thought briefly of Tina eating her grapefruit and nursing her hangover with a glass of seltzer water. And then he thought, as he inevitably did, of Diane.
Diane had moved out on a Tuesday, taking the cracked leather bag that had belonged to her father stuffed with a week’s worth of clothes and toiletries. It hadn’t been the first time she’d left, and Mack had ignored her, scraping the burn off his frying pan and pretending not to watch as she climbed into her Buick and sped away.
Afterward, he’d sat at the table, drank his coffee, and insisted she’d be back just like every other time. Later, he realized she wasn’t coming back, not for good, not even for a night this time. She did come back a week later with her brother’s pickup truck. They loaded her stuff, and she handed Mack her house key with tears streaking a trail down her pale cheeks.
Mack had drawn her close and whispered in her ear.
“Don’t go, Diane. I swear, I’ll never buy another bottle. I mean it this time. I’m done.”
She’d let out a sob, buried her head in his chest, and then, without a word, she ran to her brother’s truck and climbed in.
Diane’s brother Dennis had offered Mack a wave and a sympathetic smile. Mack liked Dennis. They’d shared an easy friendship over the years.
But Dennis knew the stories of Mack’s drinking. Late nights stumbling in half-cocked, sometimes angry.
He never hit Diane, never had and never would. But he broke the little glass swan her father had bought her when she was eighteen. It was a cherished gift from a beloved, and dead, father. An irreplaceable gift, and it had been the last straw.
He’d broken plenty of other things before that: plates, coffee mugs. He’d even kicked a hole in the wall once. The morning after his drunken outbursts, he’d wake ashamed and swear to Diane he would join AA; he’d never take another drink.
Sober, Mack wouldn’t even paddle his dog for pissing on the floor; but drunk, a dormant anger rose up and lashed out at anyone willing to get close enough to see it.
Diane wasn’t perfect. She was a stubborn beast who dug in her feet about the most preposterous things, like replacing the leaky faucet in the kitchen. She preferred to let the old faucet run a steady drip into a grimy bowl beneath the sink because the faucet had character and belonged in their old farmhouse.
Her brother once described Diane as a saint with the common sense of a turkey who’ll drown in the damn rain trying to get a drink of water when there’s a perfectly good stream behind her.
Mack had laughed and forever after called Diane his little turkey, which some days she found endearing and other days ignited a rage that sent her flying out the door, spitting at him like an alley cat.
But for all their ups and downs, Mack had never wanted to lose Diane. He wanted to be a better man for her. He tried too, but the drink had been his home since childhood.
He remembered his first taste of beer, a taste his old man had forced on him. Any desire for booze should have died that day as Mack’s father clutched his eight-year-old son’s arm in a vice grip until he swallowed the entire can of beer. Mack had stumbled behind the shed and thrown up.
His dad laughed, called him a girlie-boy, and continued pounding beers until he fell over drunk next to his lawn chair. Mack’s mother sometimes threw a blanket over him and left him to sleep it off in the yard, but she never said a word against him, partially because she still had a fresh bruise from the last time she spoke up. Though she didn’t have to say a word to get the back of her husband’s hand. A look would suffice.
Mack rubbed his jaw and drained his coffee. As he refilled it, he looked for Misty outside. She no longer pranced around the yard, but stood obediently at the door.
Mack walked out, grabbed an armful of wood, and piled it next to the wood-burning stove. The temperatures would rise throughout the day, but the chill of night lingered, and he wanted wood for the coming cold.
In an hour, the sun would thaw the cold ground. Mack could take Misty for a walk and maybe take his fishing pole to the lake.
He yawned and glanced at the coffee table where the leather satchel lay. He’d never handed it over to the police. He’d forgotten all about it until the evening before, when he spotted it while frying up a couple of hot dogs for him and Misty.
He sat on the couch and picked the pouch up. Misty looked up from her water bowl and let out a low growl.
“Don’t like this thing, do ya?” he asked.
He poured the stones into his hand. The stones were mostly white, rubbed smooth, and each contained a hole in its center. The holes were not large, too small for Mack to slide a pinkie through. He cupped the rocks, examining each one before returning them to the satchel.
Misty continued to growl and glare at the bag.
Mack looked at her thoughtfully.
“Okay, you win,” he said. He took the bag to the kitchen and closed it in a drawer. “Better?” he asked her.
She gazed at him, shifted her eyes to the drawer, and then back to him. Apparently satisfied, she padded to the wood burner and lay on the rug, resting her head on her paws and watching him.
Mack cooked sausage and eggs, sharing with Misty, who never begged, but waited patiently at his feet for her portion.
Afterward, they walked the woods in the opposite direction of the corpse. They wandered the forest, Mack knocking over dead trees while Misty chased squirrels and birds.
As he walked, he mulled over how best to end things with Tina. He didn’t want the tears or the mean words. A note seemed like the easiest choice. The coward’s way out, Diane would have told him.
When the sun was high, a rumble started in Mack’s belly.
“Lunch time,” he said aloud.
Misty stood at the base of a birch tree, barking up at a squirrel who’d outsmarted her.
She dutifully followed Mack as he turned back toward the cabin.
They walked a good mile, and Mack had yet to spot the gnarled beech tree that lay at the edge of his property. When he gazed at the forest around him, he couldn’t place their location.
“Did we get turned around?” he asked Misty.
She barked and licked his hand.
He glanced at the sun, confirming what he already knew. “We’re heading west,” he insisted.
They walked for ten minutes and still no beech tree.
Dark clouds accumulated, blotting the sun. A light rain began to fall, pattering the leaves.
After several minutes, Mack’s heavy coat and pants grew sodden. A wet sheen covered Misty, and she seemed to realize they were lost as she ran ahead and circled back, only to head off in a different direction and repeat the process.
Mack stopped searching for the sun and followed his dog. He’d lost his bearings completely.
As the rain fell, a fog formed low to the ground, and they walked in obscurity. The trees reached stark and skeleton-like out of the white mist.