Sam Winter Moon chambered a round. He lifted his hand in a sign for Cork to wait, then began to circle the huge pile of debris. In a moment he was lost among the tall thistle and sumac. Cork’s heart beat so hard and fast it shook his whole body. The sound of it got louder and louder, so that Cork was sure the noise would startle the bear. He tried to breathe out the fear. He wanted to call to Sam, call him back from the danger, but Sam Winter Moon was already gone, already lost to him.
Then the pile began to stir. The jagged stumps and timber rose up, forming themselves into the great bear standing on its hind legs. It rose above Cork and splayed its claws, long and sharp and white, against the red of the sky. The bear lifted its black muzzle and a deafening roar exploded from its maw. As Cork watched terrified, it came for him.
He gripped the bow in his hands, a bow that had not been there before, and he reached toward his back, toward the quiver that hung where the pack had been. His hands trembled as he drew out an arrow and tried to think where best to shoot for a kill. He glanced at the bowstring and quickly fitted the arrow. When he looked up, the bear had changed. It wasn’t the great black animal anymore, but a huge ogre, the Windigo, man-shaped with its skin bloodied and its teeth stained from feeding. Cork raised the bow and sighted on the creature’s chest where the heart would be if the Windigo had a heart. But the bow was no longer a bow. It was a. 38 Police Special. And as he pulled the trigger, the Windigo was no longer an ogre but was little Arnold Stanley with wet hair and a hopeless look on his face as his chest exploded with splashes of red.
“Cork, are you all right?” It was Jo in the doorway. “You cried out.”
Cork sat up in bed, his heart still racing.
“Yes,” he said. He breathed deeply, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Just a dream.”
He pulled off the covers and swung his feet off the bed. He reached to the nightstand for a cigarette. A bit of light came through his window, the reflection of the streetlamp off the snow outside, but his room was mostly dark.
Jo came in, not far. She wore a flannel night-gown and held her arms across her chest as if she were cold. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.” He struck a match, lit his cigarette, sighed out a cloud of smoke. “It was just a dream and it’s over.”
He could smell her, the scent of the Oil of Olay she used at night to soften her skin.
“Putting up the tree today was nice,” he said after a while.
“Yes,” she answered.
“I’m amazed the blue bulbs have lasted this long,” he said.
“We’ve been careful. About the bulbs at least.” She might have smiled. It was hard to see her face clearly. “I’m going back to bed.”
“You’re cold?” he asked to keep her there.
“Freezing.”
“You were always too cold and I was always too warm. You used to pull the blankets off me, remember?”
Her heard her take a deep breath. “Good night, Cork.” She turned and left.
He finished his cigarette. And then he tried to sleep.
19
The next morning, after Jo and Rose had taken the children to church, Cork drove to Molly’s place. She didn’t answer his knock. He checked the shed where she kept her old Saab and found the car still there. He glanced at the sauna by the lake. No smoke from the stovepipe. Ski tracks headed down to the lake, but he couldn’t tell how recently they’d been made. He went back to the house and let himself in with the key she hung on a nail under the back steps. She usually kept her skis on a rack on the back porch, but the rack was empty. Cork stepped into the kitchen, took off his hat and gloves and coat, and began to make himself coffee from the can of Hills Brothers Molly kept on hand just for him.
He loved Molly’s kitchen. There was always a certain disorder to it that made it feel comfortable. She wasn’t slovenly, but she often left a book open on the table, a few dishes sitting by the sink, or her knitting bag sagged on the floor next to a chair. Molly lived in her kitchen and her spirit filled it, so that just standing there, Cork breathed her in.
If he’d believed in prayer, he would have prayed at that moment for a way around what was ahead.
He bent over the sink, feeling weak and sick to his stomach, shaking as if he had a fever.
At least he hadn’t told Molly he loved her. Maybe that was a small blessing, something spared them both. The only woman he’d ever been sure he loved and had told so was Jo, and that hadn’t exactly turned out well. Was it always that way with love?
He poured himself a cup of coffee, and as he took his first sip, Molly came off the lake and removed her skis. He watched her disappear into the sauna. Smoke began to rise from the stovepipe. She reappeared with a long metal bar with a chiseled end, an ice spud, went ten feet out onto the ice, and began vigorously thrusting the bar downward. It looked as if the heavy metal was going right through the thick ice. But Cork knew there was a hole there Molly would use to plunge into after her sauna. She was simply clearing the thin layer of surface ice that had formed since she’d last taken a dip. When she and Cork did the sauna together, she usually consented to a brief roll in the snow or to just standing in the cold for a time while the icy air cooled them. She did this for Cork, who thought a plunge into the lake in the middle of winter was taking an experience a step too far. She put the ice spud away, took her skis and poles in hand, and started toward the house. When she saw Cork’s Bronco, a big smile spread across her pretty face.
“There is a God,” she said, sweeping into the kitchen, her cheeks flushed, her clothes carrying the cold that Cork could feel across the room. She pulled off her down jacket and hung it on a wall peg next to Cork’s coat. She wore a red sweater that she also pulled off, and under it a white thermal top that hugged her breasts and her flat belly. Her cheeks were deep pink and her eyes full of excitement. “I was out on that gorgeous lake thinking what a treat it would be to come back and sauna with you.” She crossed to him exuberantly and kissed him. She stepped back. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not true.” She studied him so carefully that Cork had to look away.
He cupped his coffee tightly with both hands. “We’ve got to talk.”
“You never talk. It must be bad.”
“Let’s sit down.”
“I’m okay.” She stared at him, and a cold, knowing look seemed to come into her eyes.
“Molly, I’ve been doing a lot a thinking. About us.”
“What about us?”
Cork looked at his coffee. He could see his eyes reflected on the dark surface. They looked worried.
“You’ve been wonderful, Molly. You’ve been better than I deserved.”
“Don’t feed me a lot of crap, Cork. What is it? What’s going on?”
“I want to try to put my marriage back together.”
“So that’s it.” She turned away and went to the stove. She took the tea kettle, filled it with water, set it on a burner, and turned on the gas flame. “She asked you back?”
“Not exactly.”
“This is your idea, then?”
He stepped nearer. “Molly, it’s not about you. You’ve been wonderful.”
“Right.”
“The truth is, it’s the children. I don’t want my kids to hurt anymore. Can you understand? I have a history in that house on Gooseberry Lane. Maybe it’s already too late, but I don’t want to let go if there’s a chance of saving it.”
She touched her forehead a moment, as if thinking deeply. “So you’ll be moving back in?”
“I already have in a way. I’m staying there now while my furnace gets fixed.”
She faced him, and all the freshness that had colored her face when she first came in was gone. “Next you’ll tell me you’re sleeping with her.”