These Silent Woods: A Novel(38)

“I go by Cooper now,” I add.

“Oh.” She frowns. “Jake didn’t tell me.”

“Is he all right? Jake.”

She shakes her head, the light of the headlamp flickering in the dark. Her face falls, and that look—I know it, all too well.

Jake’s dead.

“Six weeks ago.” She wipes her jacket sleeve across her eyes.

I turn away because I want to let it all spill—sadness, anger, loss—but I know I can’t. Not here, not now. Not with Marie and a car full of supplies and Finch hiding behind the house and dark pressing in and a thousand things to figure out. Jake, my only friend. Jake, who kept us alive all these years. I’d known, I guess, based on our agreement, and then him not showing. Well, I’d known something had happened. Something was wrong. But still. Suspecting something is different from having someone tell you for sure that it’s true. Now the news pushes down on me, a heavy, dragging thing that pulls and yanks. My knees threaten to give so I let them. I lean against the hood of the car.

Marie clears her throat. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. And please understand: I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I should get the car unloaded and be on my way.”

“No, you can’t do that, just turn around and drive home. How many hours you been on the road to get here?”

“Nine.”

I shake my head, my senses blurry but returning. “Naw, Jake wouldn’t have that. It’s not safe. You need to rest up a bit. We’ve got supper on inside.” I slide the gun into my back pocket. “Sorry about the gun. Sorry for scaring you. It’s just—nobody ever comes. I didn’t know who you were. Have to be careful out here.”

“Yes,” she says, looking at me. “One does have to be careful.”

Well, I guess I can see how that might’ve sounded a little off to her. Me with the gun, me towering over her and scaring her as she exited the outhouse. Meanwhile it’s fully dark now and here she is, out in the woods with a complete stranger. She wrings her skirt. She walks to the car, opens the trunk, grabs a reusable blue bag packed with groceries, and heads up the hill to the cabin.

Finch darts out from behind the cabin, her cat a flash of white, bouncing in her arms.

“My daughter,” I say, grabbing two grocery bags. “Finch. This is Jake’s sister, sugar. Marie.”

She extends her hand to Finch, who stares at it, then holds her cat up for Marie to look at.

“This is Walt Whitman.”

“A fine name for a fine cat. May I take a closer look inside?”

“Sure.” Finch leaps onto the porch and opens the door. “This is our cabin,” she says, and the truth is, I cringe a little when she says that, because it’s not our cabin. Not really. It’s ours but not ours, and Marie’s presence makes me aware of that, in a way that Jake’s never did: how the ground on which we’ve built this life is borrowed.

Inside, Marie and me fumble around the small kitchen, bumping elbows and grazing hips, and finally I just tell her maybe it’d be best to let me put everything away since I know where things go. I try to say it nicely. She’s just brought us supplies, after all. Finch offers her a tour of the place, and Marie trails behind, Walt Whitman cradled across her chest. The various skulls, some of which she has found herself and some of which are from Scotland, all piled in a wooden crate in the corner. On the windowsills, shards of mussel shells from the river, the black insides of which glimmer in the sun. Also fossils. An old metal spoon she found once, in the middle of the woods. Pressed inside the pages of books we rarely read, red and yellow leaves from the fall. Queen Anne’s lace from summer, violets from spring. Dried lavender tied together with twine, hanging from the ceiling.

Finch begins a barrage of questions. Where do you live? (Jake’s house, for now, in Michigan.) What does the house look like? (Tan brick with a front porch.) Do you have a job? (Librarian.) What’s your favorite food? (Chocolate.) Do you have children? (No.) Do you own a bicycle? (Yes, a red one.) What’s your favorite book? (Too many to list.) Do you have friends? (A few.)

“I have a new friend,” Finch says, reaching out and rubbing Walt Whitman behind the ears. “She has long red hair and lives in our woods.”

“Supper,” I say, giving Finch a look. I ladle the stew into bowls and set them on the table.

“Have you ever been to a store, Marie?” Finch asks, pulling out her chair.

“Of course. Many times.” Marie frowns and glances in my direction. “Have you?”

“Once, I think. I was a baby, so I don’t remember.”

“Finch,” I say, seeing that Marie is about to ask another question, “let’s take a break on the interview and eat.”

Finch makes her bear face and slides into her seat.

“I remember these bowls,” Marie says, running her finger along the rim of hers.

“Did you live here with Jake?” Finch asks.

“When I was little, yes. I don’t remember much, honestly. But I do remember the bowls for some reason. Smells wonderful,” Marie says, taking a deep breath of the steam. “I’m famished.”

Finch stares at Marie. “You look like Jake,” she says.

“You think so?”

“Only prettier.”