These Silent Woods: A Novel(14)

So then it was just me and Grace Elizabeth.

Gone, just like that. How your life can go from the three of you, so happy, to—

Well. A lot of things happened in those days after Cindy died. Things I’d rather not relive, things I’m not proud of. The long and short of it is this: we needed a place to go, the baby and me, somewhere we could be safe and together, sheltered from all of the forces that were trying to keep us apart. I thought of Jake’s offer and the key he’d given me. The rutted road that was barely a road. The little cabin, so beautiful. The hundred acres of woods surrounding it and then the hundreds of thousands of acres of national forest beyond its borders. The stream where Jake and me had caught trout that glimmered and twisted in our palms. And that’s where we went.





SIX




The day after I tell Finch about Jake, I’m at the woodstove, frying eggs like usual, and Finch is reading at the table, her finger tracing the fine print, her voice full of meaning. She always reads like that, with passion, just like Cindy. The eggs hiss; the woodstove crackles and hums.

Then, footsteps: someone crossing the front porch.

Heart scuttles up to my throat, stomach drops. I slide the skillet from the heat. “Root beer,” I say, and Finch bolts from her chair and darts toward the root cellar, fast. Instinct. A thing we have trained for, dozens of times. She’s there before I even turn around.

Rap, rap, rap.

And then a face peering in through the window. Scotland. Been a long time since he’s come to the door. He presses his face against the glass and gestures to the door.

“It’s all right, Finch,” I say.

She’s already halfway down the ladder, so she climbs back up, sees him at the window. She grins and bolts toward the door, sliding the two locks. I close the root cellar and straighten out the rug.

Over the years, we’ve had snoopers. A hunter who was technically on national forest land but close. He raised a hand, I waved back. That was all. But another time, we had a forest ranger who wandered onto our property. We were outside that time, and took cover in the woods. He peered in the windows, plucked some ripe blueberries. About a year later, two hikers who were lost. We hid then, too. Dashed into the root cellar so fast I forgot to lock the front door. They knocked, opened the door, called out. Then they plopped themselves right onto the front porch and ate granola, no lie. We could hear them talking. So, not that many trespassers, but enough that it has warranted our having a game plan, should someone appear unannounced.

Finch flings open the door. “Scotland!” She throws her arms around his waist and leans her head against his chest.

“Careful, little bird. Careful.” He pats his chest. “Something special in here and it’s fragile.” He stands in the doorway.

“Might as well come in,” I tell him.

He steps in, closing the door behind him and looking around. Probably casing the joint. “Here,” he says to Finch, kneeling down to her height, pointing to his jacket. “Unzip me and you’ll see.”

Finch squeals and steps forward. Slowly, she pulls at the zipper of his coat.

“Can’t you do that yourself, Scotland?” I stab the eggs with the spatula.

A nose emerges at his chest, pink and whiskered. Then eyes, ears, paws. A white kitten.

“Oh, Scotland,” Finch whispers. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life. Can I hold it?”

“Of course.”

Finch reaches over and pulls the rest of the kitten out of Scotland’s jacket. So small it could fit in my hand, scrawny and fluffy and bright. I have to admit: it’s a cute little devil.

Finch sets it on her lap and strokes its back. “Just look at it, Coop.”

“Nice, sugar. Very nice.”

Scotland stands up and walks over to the stove, peers into the frying pan. “Smells good.”

“What’s its name?” Finch asks.

“It’s a he. And his name—well, that’s up to you. He’s yours.”

Finch gasps. “Really? For real?”

Scotland looks at me. “Well, as long as your daddy says it’s all right.”

As far as I’m concerned, it’s common courtesy to ask a parent before giving a kid a pet. But of course that’s the opposite of how Scotland operates. Because now if I say no—and, given our circumstances, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to do so—I’m the one who’s a jerk.

Finch stands up carefully with the kitten. She carries him over, tight against her chest. “Can we, Coop? Can we keep him? Please?”

I glare at Scotland. “Let me think about it, Finch.”

“But look at his face. Look at his blue eyes and long whiskers. He’ll be good, I promise. Please, please, please?” The kitten crawls up her chest, perching itself on her shoulder. Delighted, Finch begins walking around the room.

I lean toward Scotland. “You should’ve asked.”

“I figured you’d say no.”

“Exactly.”

“Listen, Cooper. The girl lost a friend yesterday. She’s grieving. Studies show that a pet can lift one’s spirits, make a person generally more at ease. Did you see Finch’s eyes light up? That kitten can be her companion. Her friend, since she has none out here, aside from you and me. He’ll be a comfort to her, he already is.” He nods toward the couch, where Finch has the kitten nuzzled against her neck.