These Silent Woods: A Novel(15)

“Another mouth to feed, when we’re already in a pinch and you know it.”

Scotland shakes his head. “A feline is a competent and merciless predator, Cooper. People tend to forget that. They feed their cats, let them lie around the house all day and play with fluffy little toys. It’s a disgrace, really. To the cats and to us humans. Sure, give the cat scraps here and there to keep him around. Let him know he’s wanted. But don’t feed him. Trust me, I’ve got a whole gang of cats in my barn, and I don’t feed them a thing. They’re robust and efficient, just as God intended them to be.”

“If he’s trouble, I’m getting rid of him.”

Scotland frowns. “I don’t like the way you say that, Cooper, with a sinister tone. And just so you’re aware, felines are sensitive creatures. He will sense your distrust, your malice, and he won’t like it. The two of you won’t be friends.” He leans against the cracked edge of the counter. “But fine, if he’s trouble, I’ll take him back. How’s that sound?”

Finch looks at me from the couch. “I’ll take care of him myself. You won’t even know he’s here. He’ll be no trouble at all. I promise.” The kitten licks her chin. “Please, Coop?”

I scrape the eggs onto two plates. “Guess I don’t have much choice in the matter.”

Finch carries the kitten over to the table and sits down. “Thanks for my kitten,” Finch says, leaning against Scotland. “It’s the best thing anyone ever gave me.”

He rests his hand on her shoulder, runs his finger over the kitten’s snout. “Glad you like him, little bird. I knew you would.” He turns to me. “Listen,” he says. “You gonna try a supply run?”

I set my plate of eggs on the table, the steam pouring off. I pick up the saltshaker, pat it on my palm. It’s empty, I know, but there’s something about the gesture of it, the habit. “I don’t see a way around it.”

“You can’t go anywhere in town,” Scotland says. “Not with a big order like you’re planning. You know that. People will notice. They’ll talk. There’s a Walmart about fifty miles south, down in Somersville. Right off 93. Can’t miss it.”

I’ve already accounted for this and mapped a route to Somersville, but I nod.

“You want me to come down and look after Finch?”

My mind gutters back to the last time Finch was here alone, when I came home to an unlocked door and her sitting on the porch with Scotland. But also to the more recent discovery of footprints by our hunting blind. The idea of someone in our woods, close. “She’ll ride along.”

“Risky, the two of you out together.”

“We’ll be all right.”

“Well,” he says, moving toward the door, “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“I’m sure you will.”





SEVEN




I’ve never minded it before, the onset of winter, because Finch and me make the most of it, the cold nights and short days. We play long rounds of Rummikub and checkers, we read and memorize poems and cook our more elaborate meals. There’s a part of me that sort of enjoys it, a slower time of year after we’ve spent the rest of it toiling hard. I like the safety of it, too: knowing that for the majority of time, the forest roads are closed and we don’t need to worry about trespassers.

But of course this year is different. After breakfast I open the cupboards and take everything out. Chicken noodle soup, baked beans. A very small amount of sugar, maybe a quarter cup. I lift the door to the root cellar and climb down the steps, the wood creaking beneath my feet. There, I count up what’s left of our fall crops. Apples. Three butternut squash, fourteen carrots, seven potatoes. After eight years, I’ve learned to do a good job of rationing our supplies so that we’re just running short in November. It takes some planning, and we have to be careful, but we eat well, Finch and me, balanced, wholesome meals. As I divvy up the remaining food into portions, it becomes clear: we will be out of food by Christmas.

Me, I can make do. I’m a grown man and if I don’t eat great for a few months, no big deal, I’ll survive. But Finch. All this time I’ve taken care of her, made sure she had protein and grains and vegetables and even fruit. I’ve given her the best life I could, and I’ve been able to justify keeping us both out here, because she has never been in need or want. She’s always had clothes that fit and a warm place to sleep. She has never gone hungry, not once, thanks to Jake. But yesterday, I caught her stuffing an apple in her pocket, stealthy-like, and trying to slip out the door before I could see. I didn’t say anything about it. I couldn’t. The thought of her feeling like she had to steal and sneak.

I will not let her starve.

One trip. There’s the Walmart Scotland referred to, fifty miles away, and a gas station about twelve miles out the road, and I’ll go to Walmart and then stop and get fuel on the way home. A simple excursion, the kind most people do every day of their lives, groceries and gas, only I will be buying everything in bulk.

The list.

Produce: oranges, lemons, bananas.

Dried items: Prunes, raisins, cherries, apricots. Various types of beans. Oatmeal, rice. Nuts.

Canned goods: peas, mushrooms, corn, green beans, peaches, pears, soups.