This Is How It Really Sounds
Page 38
He could make out some skis leaning up against someone’s porch railing, beside a snowboard and a sled. He walked toward the house. Some of the children were watching him: they said Hi, Mr. Harrington, and he said hello to them.
He walked up the wooden stairs of the porch and knocked on the door, not even knowing what he would say, and he heard the footsteps crossing the floor toward him, saw the light go on in the hallway and a woman approaching through the tiny glass window at eye level. She opened the door and smiled at him. She was just as he’d pictured her: blond, in a white sweater with reindeer across her breasts, almost stocky, but in a pleasing way, her face open and luminous as she saw him. “Thank God you’re back! I’ve been worried about you! Why didn’t you answer your phone?” She collapsed into him and he held her, feeling her breasts against his chest, but even more, her warmth, her relief, the knowledge that she belonged to him and he belonged to her.
He came into the room. Everything was exactly where it should be. The couch, the pillows on the couch, the wood piled up in the wrought-iron cradle by the stove. The goldfish, her African violet, the painting by his sister-in-law, the cooling rack covered with warm cookies. This was it. This was the life, just as he’d imagined it.
“What happened? Is everything okay?”
He looked into her beautiful face as he put his hands on her hips. “Everything turned out okay.”
“Tell me what happened! Did you get to them before they tried to do that chute?”
“Oh, I made sure they didn’t do anything stupid. You can bet on that.”
She hugged him, smiling. “You’re my hero!”
“Yeah … Well … You’d better wait till you hear the whole story.” He’d tell her later, but for now, he just wanted to quietly, secretly rejoice in being alive, in front of the fire. “Where’s Lizbeth?”
“She had a late rehearsal. She’s on her way now. What about Jarrod? You told him I’m expecting him, didn’t you?”
“He’ll be home soon,” he answered. “He had to pick up something from TJ’s.”
His wife went out to the porch to get more wood and he shuffled over to the stovetop. She’d made chicken and dumplings; he could smell it. The cast-iron Dutch oven was sitting on the stove with a towel wrapped around the lid. It was bubbling over and a tiny stream of liquid was going into the burner, hissing. He looked inside, saw the dumplings had risen. He turned the dial to OFF.
Yeah, there was going to be a conversation tonight, but right now he was going to sit back down in front of this fire. In about ten minutes, or maybe at dinner, he was going to tell his wife what happened and he’d do his best to make it sound like no big deal, but she’d see through it and it was going to be sharp. His daughter would be upset, and Jarrod probably wouldn’t say much of anything, because they’d already said it all on the mountain.
In a minute he’d get up and take an aspirin for his shoulder, but that would be a long minute from now, in which he’d pull open the door of the stove and the orange heat would well up over his wrists and his face. There’d be a brightening of the embers, a pop from the fresh log, a tiny spark flying out, and he’d close the door and sit back, thinking of that chute, how it had almost killed him in his stupidity and his longing, but also recalling the entire run in all its minuteness, from the deep, soft powder at the top to that long, quiet drop at the end and how the whole thing had just been perfect, like now, sitting here, still alive, warm, aching, valued: perfect. He knew, as he never had, that he was going to get old, he was going to ski slower, that all the things that happened to other people were going to happen to him. But it was okay. That was a long time from now. More moments than he could ever count. It was like that song, he thought. He didn’t know the name. The one about the man who climbs the mountain and comes home and sits in front of his stove. He comes home and he thinks of all the faraway places he’ll never go and the fortunes he’ll never have, then he thinks about the perfect snow falling outside his window and the perfect snow falling on the ridge. That man and his wife and his children and the fire. That song. This is how it really sounds.
About the Author
Stuart Archer Cohen lives in Juneau, Alaska, with his wife and two sons. He owns Invisible World, an international company importing wool, silk, alpaca, and cashmere from Asia and South America. His previous three novels, Invisible World, 17 Stone Angels, and The Army of the Republic, have been translated into ten languages and optioned variously for film by Tom Cruise and Oliver Stone. An avid snowboarder, Eaglecrest is his home mountain. You can sign up for email updates here.
Also by Stuart Archer Cohen
The Army of the Republic
Invisible World
17 Stone Angels
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
I. Harry Goes to Hollywood
II. Fugitive in Shanghai
1. Fugitive in Shanghai
2. The Afterlives
III. Kickin’ It with The Man
1. The House at Wilksbury
2. Thanks for Your Support
3. Tiger Claws a Tree, A Precious Duck Flaps Its Wings
4. Wreckage
5. The House in Columbus
6. Kickin’ It
IV. Cathay Hotel
1. The Buried City
2. Green-Screen Universe
V. Return of the Noise
1. The House near Monthey
2. Return of the Noise
3. Red Dragon
4. Market Forces
5. The Dream of the Red Chamber
6. The Elephant Hunt
7. Jersey Girl
8. Blue Winter Light
9. Zombie Apocalypse
10. Super-Hot Mystery Babe
11. Alaska Coastal Airlines
VI. The Unnamed Line in the Distant North
About the Author
Also by Stuart Archer Cohen
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THIS IS HOW IT REALLY SOUNDS. Copyright © 2015 by Stuart Archer Cohen. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photograph © Evgeny Murtola/Shutterstock.com
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-04882-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-4997-6 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466849976
First Edition: April 2015