A thump.
A whack-whack.
She eased toward the sound, wondering which kitchen utensil could be used as a weapon. What was even available? A bamboo mixing spoon? A saucepan?
Should she get one of the guns?
Shaw stumbled in, bringing with him a spray of snow and a burst of cold.
Her panic deflated, but not before the worst thought ever assaulted her relief: This is how families are shattered by fatal mistakes. If she’d gotten the gun; if, in her fear, she’d seen a blur and not her husband…she’d never have been able to forgive herself.
He panted and propped the snowshoes against the wall, where slush dribbled off them. Orla crossed her arms over her chest, full-on angry. Despite the imagined catastrophe, she was certain that whatever had delayed him for so many hours was his own fault. She had the luxury of such condemning thoughts after seeing that he was, beyond his exhaustion, all right.
“Where have you been?”
He collapsed on the one kitchen chair that wasn’t in the living room with the folding table. After unzipping his coat, he just sat there, depleted of energy, his body slumped.
“Get me some water?”
Orla filled a glass and handed it to him. Her outrage withered. Whatever he’d endured—though it hadn’t resulted in broken bones—hadn’t been easy. Or fun. He gulped down the water.
“More?” she asked.
He shook his head and handed back the glass. With effort, he hoisted one ankle up to his knee and started untying his boot.
“What happened?” Something wasn’t right. And of all of them, Shaw was the one who’d greeted the wild North Country with zeal. Now he looked defeated. “Did you get lost?”
He uttered a bark, half laugh, half cry. “I didn’t think I was gonna find my way back.”
“Baby.” Orla went to him and he wrapped his arms around her waist. And wept. His tears made something crackle within her; simultaneously, the basement furnace’s internal fire bloomed to life. Was it uneasy too? Afraid? She’d never deny her husband his manly right to cry, but what had so shaken him? She wanted to ask him if they were safe but instead held him until he quieted, then got on her knees and undid his other boot. Lifted off his hat. Eased him out of his day pack. She left the boots on the doormat, so it would soak up the melting snow, and moved the snowshoes onto it too, leaning them against the closed door.
“Do you want something warm? Coffee? Tea?”
“I’m too hot,” he said, slipping out of his coat, tugging at the neck of his sweater.
She pulled it off over his head; the T-shirt he wore beneath it was soaked through with sweat.
“Papa?”
Eleanor Queen stood in the threshold between the two rooms, watching. Cautious. Orla wondered how long she’d been there. Had she heard that he’d been lost? Had she seen him cry? Shaw’s state was unlike him; neither of them tended toward the overwrought. And for the first time she realized she had nothing to picture when her husband was out there, alone. In the city, she knew all of his favorite places, could imagine him in his element when they weren’t physically together. But here…
She shuddered, glad she hadn’t thought of it sooner, the nothingness, the vacuum he’d disappeared into the moment he left the yard.
“I’m okay, Bean.” He used his nothing-to-worry-about father voice and held out his hand to her.
Orla smoothed back his sweaty hair, ashamed she hadn’t run to greet him, to comfort him, the moment he’d come through the door. She stood there with an arm around his shoulder, smiling at Eleanor Queen so she wouldn’t be so hesitant.
“Papa’s fine. Had a long day in the woods.”
Eleanor Queen kept her eyes on her father. She approached with the same vigilance she usually reserved for dogs; she didn’t trust them even when they were sitting quietly, always afraid they would start barking or jumping. When she was within reach, Shaw reeled her in and gave her a kiss on the head. But she wouldn’t let him keep her in his embrace. “Did it try to eat you?” she asked, pulling back.
“Did what try to…what?”
“We had a little adventure of our own,” Orla said. “A little blizzard. Out of nowhere. But everybody’s fine now.”
A perplexed look lingered on Shaw’s face. “It snowed here?”
“Briefly.”
“It didn’t snow where you were?” Eleanor Queen asked.
“No…no.” He tried to laugh it off. “Man, I knew we’d get some crazy weather here, but it’s not like it was when I was a kid.”
With one hand, Orla massaged the tight muscle between Shaw’s shoulder and neck. He looked up at her, giving her a conspiratorial raise of his eyebrows. It was a gesture they both understood and had used before, a silent request to postpone further discussion until they were alone, when neither of the children might overhear.
The house was so warm—too warm—but Orla shivered. She willed time to slow down, afraid of what Shaw would tell her after the kids were asleep. His words might confirm a scenario she wasn’t sure she could gracefully handle—that maybe he didn’t know how to live here either.
8
Supper was a moody affair, the family’s usual chatter replaced by exaggerated slurps and chewing noises—or so it seemed to Orla. Eleanor Queen stared at her plate, poking fork holes in her noodles. Tycho let out an exuberant—annoying—Aaaahh! every time he gulped his milk. Shaw’s fork clanged against his plate so much—what was he even cutting?—that Orla started to believe he was intentionally trying to get on her last nerve.
“What movie do you guys want to watch tonight?” Orla asked, hoping to break the weird tension.
“I’m probably going to skip the movie.” All eyes turned at Shaw’s uncharacteristic announcement. He must have seen the question on their faces. “I’ve got work to—”
“You love movies.”
Orla wanted to kiss her daughter for sounding so accusatory; those were exactly the words and tone Orla might have used, especially if she’d wanted to pick a fight.
“Yes, my little Bean, it’s undeniable. But I have an idea brewing, and it’s time for me to start sketching.”
“Did the trees tell you something?” Eleanor Queen asked, a hint of haunted awe in her voice.
Orla gave Shaw a withering glare. He knew better than to make light of it this time.
“No—nothing I could understand, anyway. I had to think up some stuff all on my own.”
“Oh.” She returned to piercing her noodles, disappointment evident in her heavily drooped head.
“Okay.” Orla stood, quickly gathered up plates. “This weirdness has to end. You”—to Shaw—“get to your studio and do your thing. We”—to the kids—“are going to pick out the best movie ever.”
Tycho skipped out of the room. Shaw and Orla exchanged glowers but waited until Eleanor Queen slipped away before speaking again.
“You are not helping,” Orla whispered as they rinsed off the plates.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Act like you care that this isn’t easy for the rest of us.”
“You mean for you.”