people say about you, Cork? It’s not as if you’re still the golden boy.”
“I don’t care what people say.” He knelt and fished around under the bed for his boots. “It’s not me I’m worried about.” He found them and sat on the bed.
“Your wife?” she asked innocently.
Cork exhaled and shot her a cold look through the cloud of smoke.
“You know what I mean,” she said.
Molly took the Lucky Strike from his fingers and tapped the ash into a little tray shaped like a pair of red lips on the nightstand. She left the cigarette there while Cork concentrated on lacing his boots. She reached out and let her hand drift down the knobby ridge of his backbone. “What is it that you think we do here, you and me? I’ll tell you what I think it is. This is grace, Cork. This is one of those things that God, when He created it, said, ‘That’s good.’ ”
Cork kept lacing his boots as if he didn’t hear, or if he heard, as if it didn’t matter.
“Can I tell you something, Sheriff?”
“I’m not the sheriff anymore,” he reminded her.
“Can I tell you something,” she went on, “without you getting cold and stomping out?”
“Do I get cold and stomp out?”
“You get quiet and make excuses to leave.”
“I won’t get quiet,” he promised.
“Cork, I think you miss your family.”
“I see my family all the time.”
“This is different. This is Christmas. I really think you miss them more than you want to admit.”
“Bullshit,” he said, standing up.
“See, I’ve made you mad. You’re leaving.”
“I’m not mad. I just finished tying my boots. And you know I have to leave.”
“Why? What difference would it make if you stayed and people found out about us? It’s not as if you’re being unfaithful to a loving wife.”
“It’s a small town and I’m not divorced. People would kick us around in their talk like a couple of soccer balls. I don’t want my kids having to listen to that.”
“Fine.” She slid down and pulled the covers tight around her. “Have it your way.”
He picked up his cigarette, took a last drag, and ground out the ember on the red lips of the ashtray. He slipped the pack of Lucky Strikes into his shirt pocket. “Going to see me out?” he asked.
“You know the way.”
“Now who’s cold?”
“Go screw yourself,” she said.
“The world would be a dreary place, Molly, if that’s the way things worked.” He leaned down and gently kissed the top of her head.
“Go on,” she said, pushing him away softly. But she smiled in spite of herself. “I’ll be right down.”
He walked along the hallway of the old log house, over Molly’s braided rugs, creaked his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. Molly had fed him. Some sort of light brown sprout bread and lentil soup. Yogurt and strawberries for dessert. She drank Evian springwater, but she’d given Cork a Grain Belt. A few swallows were left in the bottle and he drank that down. The beer was still cool but had gone flat. He lifted his parka from the peg beside the back door and put it on, then settled his black watch cap over his ears. As he worked his gloves onto his hands, he glanced at a small plaque that hung on the wall. It was homemade, woodburned by Molly’s father long ago. It contained an old Finnish saying her father had roughly translated into English:
Cold, thou son of Wind,
Do not freeze my fingernails,
Do not freeze my hands.
Freeze though the water willows.
Go chill the birch chunks.
Like most magic charms of the people of Molly’s heritage, it suggested to the evil of the world—from hiccups to death—that it visit instead other things, such as the loom or the needle or the thicket or, in a pinch, one of the neighbors. When Cork turned around, he found Molly watching him from the doorway. She’d thrown on a red chenille bathrobe and pulled bright red wool socks on over her feet.
“Will I see you at the Pinewood Broiler?”
“I don’t care what people say.” He knelt and fished around under the bed for his boots. “It’s not me I’m worried about.” He found them and sat on the bed.
“Your wife?” she asked innocently.
Cork exhaled and shot her a cold look through the cloud of smoke.
“You know what I mean,” she said.
Molly took the Lucky Strike from his fingers and tapped the ash into a little tray shaped like a pair of red lips on the nightstand. She left the cigarette there while Cork concentrated on lacing his boots. She reached out and let her hand drift down the knobby ridge of his backbone. “What is it that you think we do here, you and me? I’ll tell you what I think it is. This is grace, Cork. This is one of those things that God, when He created it, said, ‘That’s good.’ ”
Cork kept lacing his boots as if he didn’t hear, or if he heard, as if it didn’t matter.
“Can I tell you something, Sheriff?”
“I’m not the sheriff anymore,” he reminded her.
“Can I tell you something,” she went on, “without you getting cold and stomping out?”
“Do I get cold and stomp out?”
“You get quiet and make excuses to leave.”
“I won’t get quiet,” he promised.
“Cork, I think you miss your family.”
“I see my family all the time.”
“This is different. This is Christmas. I really think you miss them more than you want to admit.”
“Bullshit,” he said, standing up.
“See, I’ve made you mad. You’re leaving.”
“I’m not mad. I just finished tying my boots. And you know I have to leave.”
“Why? What difference would it make if you stayed and people found out about us? It’s not as if you’re being unfaithful to a loving wife.”
“It’s a small town and I’m not divorced. People would kick us around in their talk like a couple of soccer balls. I don’t want my kids having to listen to that.”
“Fine.” She slid down and pulled the covers tight around her. “Have it your way.”
He picked up his cigarette, took a last drag, and ground out the ember on the red lips of the ashtray. He slipped the pack of Lucky Strikes into his shirt pocket. “Going to see me out?” he asked.
“You know the way.”
“Now who’s cold?”
“Go screw yourself,” she said.
“The world would be a dreary place, Molly, if that’s the way things worked.” He leaned down and gently kissed the top of her head.
“Go on,” she said, pushing him away softly. But she smiled in spite of herself. “I’ll be right down.”
He walked along the hallway of the old log house, over Molly’s braided rugs, creaked his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. Molly had fed him. Some sort of light brown sprout bread and lentil soup. Yogurt and strawberries for dessert. She drank Evian springwater, but she’d given Cork a Grain Belt. A few swallows were left in the bottle and he drank that down. The beer was still cool but had gone flat. He lifted his parka from the peg beside the back door and put it on, then settled his black watch cap over his ears. As he worked his gloves onto his hands, he glanced at a small plaque that hung on the wall. It was homemade, woodburned by Molly’s father long ago. It contained an old Finnish saying her father had roughly translated into English:
Cold, thou son of Wind,
Do not freeze my fingernails,
Do not freeze my hands.
Freeze though the water willows.
Go chill the birch chunks.
Like most magic charms of the people of Molly’s heritage, it suggested to the evil of the world—from hiccups to death—that it visit instead other things, such as the loom or the needle or the thicket or, in a pinch, one of the neighbors. When Cork turned around, he found Molly watching him from the doorway. She’d thrown on a red chenille bathrobe and pulled bright red wool socks on over her feet.
“Will I see you at the Pinewood Broiler?”