These Silent Woods: A Novel(48)

I keep on shoveling the path. “Know what?”

“Oh, come now, Cooper. Don’t be coy. I mean does she know who you are?”

“We met once, a long time ago. She knows Jake and I served in the Middle East together.”

“And the rest of it?”

“Why do you care?”

He lobs the snowball at a tree nearby. “It’s a simple question, Cooper.”

“Jake told her I lost Cindy and I’m staying here until I get my footing.”

“Get your footing.” He grunts. “That’s one way of putting it.”

I toss a shovel of snow at Scotland’s feet.

“You gonna tell her?” he asks.

“No, I’m not gonna tell her. I don’t even know her.”

“But you want to. Know her better.”

“She’ll be gone as soon as the snow melts.”

“Secrets, secrets,” he clucks, shaking his head.

Finch bounds out of the house, her jacket unzipped and flapping at her sides. Boots but no hat or gloves. “Scotland!” She runs to him, arms open. “We had a snowball fight. We rode the sled.”

He kneels down and hugs her. “I saw that, little bird. It sure looked fun.” He glances at me. “Your daddy sent me a hand signal.”

“You should’ve come down.”

“Well,” he says, casting a meaningful look in my direction, “I wasn’t invited. I didn’t want to crash the party.”

“You’re never invited,” Finch says. “But you’re always welcome. And you always know just the right time to come, somehow. You always know just when we need you.”

Marie steps onto the porch, all bundled up. She trudges through the snow and extends her hand. “Hi there,” she says. “I’m Marie.”

“Scotland, your neighbor. I knew your family.”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

I refrain from explaining that when Scotland says he knew them, what he means is that he spied on them, watched their every move through a spotting scope.

“You were small,” he says. “Anyway, you’re back. Snowed in, it seems. And a wonderful place to be stuck for a while, if I do say so myself.”

She doesn’t answer, instead gesturing for Finch to come closer. She pulls the hat over Finch’s head, then slides the pink gloves onto her hands.

Finch reaches out and takes Scotland’s hand. “Come on,” she says. “I want you to try out my sled.”

He unstraps his snowshoes and follows her to the little hill at the edge of the yard. She plops into the sled and gestures for him to climb in. Which he does. Sits right down behind her and tucks his legs up onto hers and off they go, whooshing through the snow on one of the runs we pushed out earlier. They dip out of sight and I can hear them laughing.

“Are you all right?” Marie asks.

“What? Sure.” The path is cleared but I keep on shoveling. “Why?”

She shrugs.

I gesture toward Scotland. “He sort of puts me on edge.”

“He seems nice.”

“Yes,” I say, heaving a shovel load of snow. “He is nice.”

She squints. “So what’s the problem?”

“Nothing.” Of course I can’t tell her about the day he waltzed into the yard with a crow on his shoulder and an AK-47 strapped to his back and his stack of carefully selected newspapers, a litany of my many offenses. “It’s just he shows up here, all the time.”

“He’s probably lonely.”

“Maybe.”

Finch and Scotland emerge, the tips of their hats, then their faces, shoulders, body.

“You’re up, Marie!” Finch calls.

Marie tramps through the snow and climbs on the sled behind Finch. A different picture altogether, seeing her with Finch, instead of Scotland.

“Haven’t been on a sled for decades,” Scotland says. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve.

“You all right?”

“Cold.” He reaches into his pocket and slides out a skull. “Give this to Finch, would you? Gotta get on home.” He hands me a white skull, small enough that it fits in my palm. “Wood rat,” he says. He slides back into his snowshoes, straps them down, and trundles off into the woods.





TWENTY-THREE




The snow has continued, three or four more inches that have arrived in waves, here and there, and meanwhile, Marie has met the chickens, gathered the eggs. She’s chopped wood and kept the fire going. The second night, she made us grilled cheese for supper. Each evening, at dusk, we roll up a towel and press it against the door to keep the snow from sliding under. We lock the doors, I prop the shovel. And though I try and hold back, though I know it will almost certainly lead to disappointment, I feel myself slipping down a trail of what if?

After dinner on the third night, Marie asks if she can see Finch’s notebook, and although I thought she’d be tickled by this request, she throws a sideways glance at me and says, “Only if we go up to the loft.” She’s still mad about not going to the valley, I guess.

“I’ll do the dishes,” I say. “You go have some girl time.”

The two of them climb the ladder and as I pour hot water into the washbasin from the kettle, I can hear them settling in upstairs, sliding the plastic storage bins and crinkling the bags of items.