Girl in Snow(50)

There’s a catch, Detective Williams says, distracted from his game of Tetris by the slow exodus of mourners from the funeral home.

And what’s that? Russ asks.

We can’t call him a suspect, Detective Williams says, but we still have to look productive. Make a bit of a stink. The chief has made it clear, we have to look like we’re doing something.

It’s a funeral, Russ says.

It’s over, Detective Williams says, gesturing to the people as they file out.

Ines is inside with the other mourners, wearing a black cotton dress she bought at a garage sale. She did her hair all curly and nice, bunched at the nape of her neck. Russ sighs. Regrets it. He is bigger on the inhale.



Russ has not seen Cynthia in years. Only a glimpse, a few summers ago, as she pushed a bright-red cart through the Target on Elm Street. Cynthia browsed the cereal aisle, flipping boxes upside down to look for price tags. Russ had the perverse urge to approach her, but instead he bought shaving cream and a box of Oreos for Ines. Double Stuf.

He drove home. Stopped at the light on Elm Street, Russ thought of Cynthia’s hands—how delicate they’d looked as she pulled her beat-up purse farther up her shoulder and placed an off-brand jar of pasta sauce in the cart. Had they always been so fragile? You’d think Russ would remember a detail like this. But after so many nights around tables—eating and drinking, Russ sliding accidentally into the lava core of Lee and Cynthia’s marriage—Russ can still recall her smell. Hand-sewn bags of lavender and rice, which she’d heat in the microwave and rest across the hump of her neck.

Now, Cynthia walks out of Maplewood Memorial. She wears an oversized ski coat. Pastel purple, browned at the sleeves from years of wear, with a collage of ski tickets dangling from the zipper. How does Cynthia look: a wilted daisy.

And it’s too late. Russ has seen the boy. Cameron is in that awful crux, the period of teenage disaster you never believe you’ll grow out of. He’s too long, sandy hair hanging in greasy clumps. Oily skin, that curved beak of a nose. Greenish-hazel eyes, too close together. Russ looks away, but already his heart fights some battle—to hate or protect, to hold or to hurt? How does Cameron look: just like his father.



When Cynthia was eight months pregnant with Cameron, Russ and Lee went out to Dixie’s Tavern. A freezing night, between Christmas and New Year’s.

I told Cynthia I was on duty tonight, Lee said, after they’d ordered two beers with a plate of hot wings to share.

She wouldn’t approve? Russ joked, clinking his frosty glass against Lee’s. A cloud of foam dribbled down the side and onto the sticky table.

She’s pregnant, Lee said. No one is allowed to have fun.

At Dixie’s Tavern, Lee wore a hooded blue sweat shirt with the Denver Broncos logo blaring off the chest, a fuming, angry horse. Lee was swallowed up by the hoodie, a men’s medium; beneath it, Russ imagined the waistband of Lee’s pants, bunched up at the hips, fabric pulled in by a thick leather belt set at its tightest notch. Lee had shaved that day, and his jaw was smooth. No stubble. Just a few pimples around his mouth and two razor-edged cuts at the chin where Lee had nicked himself. Russ imagined blood flowering through a single square of toilet paper, pressed tight to Lee’s jaw-skin.

Lee picked a steaming-hot wing from the top of the basket and held it carefully with his pointer fingers and thumbs, like a full husked corn still on the cob. He ripped into it, pungent orange sauce gathering on his lips as he carefully pulled meat from bones with crooked teeth.

Soon, those greasy orange fingers would be gripped in a baby’s chokehold grasp. Russ didn’t know whether to laugh or to tell Lee to wipe himself clean. He handed Lee a napkin across the table.

Four weeks left, right? Russ said, picking up a drumstick.

Four weeks, Lee repeated.

You nervous? Russ asked.

You kidding? Lee said. You try having a kid. Nervous is the wrong word—I’ve got four weeks to get my shit together.

You’ll be fine, Russ said. He gulped at his beer, choked, coughed. Took a bone off the plate and licked it white-clean.

That night in the shower, Russ looked down to find his hairy arms bent in the shape of a cradle, wishing for a miracle, squirming life—something of Lee’s he could nurture and grow.



There he is, Detective Williams says, and Russ physically starts. He has forgotten his surroundings: car, parking lot, funeral.

Detective Williams is watching the doors. Ugly, hungry gaze. All wolf.

We got him, Detective Williams says. You ready?

They get out of the car and Russ stays a few steps behind Detective Williams, who swaggers toward the entrance of the funeral home, so confident that Russ wonders if Detective Williams looks this way always. When he pulls on navy socks in the morning. When he’s on hold with the credit-card company. When he’s eaten too many French fries.

Detective Williams makes his deliberate way through the crowd. The people stare and whisper, Russ trailing hesitantly behind.

Excuse me, sir, Detective Williams says, as the crowd mutters in the sun. We’d like you to come with us to the station. We’ve got a few questions for you.

What? Cynthia asks, panic like a sheet flung over her face. Are you arresting him?

No arrest, ma’am. Just a few questions.

Her gaze a spotlight.

Russ, please, Cynthia begs, come on. This is ridiculous.